“You’ve nothing else for him at present?” said my uncle suddenly, and almost fiercely. “I’m not going to have him overtired, Sant.”
The rector said “Hush!” and crossing over to see that the door was tight shut, turned to us with his back against it.
“He’s dying,” he said. “It was a stroke, or fit, and the heart is just doing time for a little. The hope of your forgiveness is all, I do believe, that keeps it going.”
He looked intently at us. None of us spoke.
“He knows the truth now, and in his turn confesses everything,” said the clergyman, clearly. “He understands the terrible mistake he made. His brain clears of its delusions in the searching atmosphere of death. If you can forgive him, forgive the great wrong he designed you, he may be saved for God yet. But there is no time to lose.”
I felt that the blood had left my face, making my head swim and my heart beat suffocatingly. This was a hard relapse upon horror. But had we not learned to hit and be hit and nurse no resentment? I pulled myself together.
“Broughton regulations, sir,” I said, with a rather shaky smile. “Come on, Harry. Let’s go and find Mr. Pilbrow, and bring him, too.”
“Stay,” said our tutor, in a very sweet voice. “I’ve fetched him already. He’s waiting outside now. He will abide by your decision, Richard.”
“Then, let him be my dear boy’s deputy to forgive,” spoke up Uncle Jenico, sharply. “There’s no occasion to submit Richard to this fresh ordeal.”
Mr. Sant looked at me.