He bent and asked Sir Douglas if there was anything he specially wanted; but the rigid lips did not move—only the eyes seemed to plead more than before. The earl’s presence appeared to give him pleasure, for, if Lord Court moved, the thin, trembling hand went out toward him, and Murray construed this into a wish for his friend to remain.
An hour passed without change, and the earl was thinking of sending a message to Margery, explanatory of his long absence, when the door opened, and the sick man’s face suddenly altered. He made a feeble attempt to rise, his hands moved restlessly to and fro, and his lips parted to speak, as a young man bent over his couch. It was Stuart Crosbie.
“Cousin,” he said, hurriedly, with real pain on his face and in his voice, “my dear cousin, oh, why did you not send for me before?” Then, turning to the servant, he added: “Murray, you should have let me know! Six weeks ill, and I thought him in Australia! It has distressed me more than I can say.”
“Sir Douglas would not let me write, sir,” replied Murray, as he put the brandy to the invalid’s lips. “Lord Court came in to-day, and he’s the first person as has been.”
“It was a shock to me, too, Mr. Crosbie,” remarked the earl. “Gerant and I have been old friends for years. I am heartily glad you have come.”
“You are very kind,” said Stuart, putting out his hand; “but cannot he have something to give him strength?” Then, turning to the invalid, he added: “You want to speak to me, cousin?”
He knelt down by the bedside as he spoke, and looked eagerly into the sick man’s face.
“Sir Douglas has tried to speak, but he cannot, Mr. Stuart—yet.”
“Hush!” interrupted Stuart, putting up his hand—the pale lips were moving.
“You—will—not forget——”