I turned sharply to her.
“Is that what he wants?”
“Pen or pencil—’tis arl one. When speech goes, we talk wi’ the fingers.”
What a fool I had been! The sign I had struggled in vain for hours to read, this uncanny old beldame had understood at a glance.
I hurried out of the room and returned with paper and pencil. I thrust the latter between the wandering fingers and they closed over it with a quick, weak snap. But they could not retain it, and it slipped from them again upon the coverlet. A moan broke from the lips and the arm beat the clothes feebly.
“Heave en up,” said the old woman. “He’s axing ye to.”
I put my arm under my father’s shoulders and with a strong effort got him into a sitting posture, propped among the pillows. I placed the pencil in his hand again and held the paper in such a position that he could write upon it. He succeeded in making a few hieroglyphic scratches on the white surface and that was all.
“It’s no manner o’ use, Renalt,” said Peggy. “Better lat en alone and drink up your tea.”
“Put it down there and leave us to ourselves.”
The old creature did as she was bidden and shuffled from the room grumbling.