“’Twas not just a temperate letter, I’m fearing. For your fever had run four days, and there seemed no change save the worst change. Oh, well,” Strangwayes laughed, “I wrote him that his cursed ugly pride had never brought anything to you but disgrace and pain, and now he had killed you he should leave you to me. I told him his blundering stupidity in sending the watch would have wrecked your honor, had they come ten minutes earlier, and now it had wrecked your life. And I told him he had been no father to you while you lived, and he should not play that part in your death. I said if he came hither I would bar the door in his face. Truth, I must have been near mad to write so uncivilly, but—I had been watching with you three nights, and I was worried for you, lad. So he did not come. And you do not wish him to?”
“No, never,” Hugh said, then lay silent so long that Strangwayes, slipping his arm from beneath his head, had risen, when Hugh broke out, “Dick, you must have sent him a message the day of the duel.”
“Hm,” said Strangwayes, heading for the fireplace.
“You promised me—”
“Only not to speak to him,” the other put in hastily. “I did not. I wrote him a letter there in the bakeshop, and sent it by a stray trooper. Dear lad, I was trained for a lawyer. How could I resist a quibble? You’re going to forgive me, Hugh.”
“’Tis a very little fault in you, Dick,” Hugh answered. “Though if another had done it—”
“Well, I’ll never attempt to incline Captain Gwyeth to his duty again, rest assured,” Strangwayes ended their talk earnestly.
So, while he still had barely strength to lift his head from off the pillow, Hugh came to full knowledge of how his affairs stood. He was glad to be told the worst, not be played with like a child, yet the realization of the desperate state to which the word and the blow at the Oxford ordinary had reduced, not only his own fortunes, but those of his friend, made his slow convalescence doubly hard to bear. Day followed day, all alike, save that on some the fire was heaped high for warmth, while on others, more frequently as time passed, the narrow window was flung wide open, and a breath of spring-like air sweeping in made confinement all the less endurable. Then Hugh fretted miserably, till he looked at Dick, and thought what it must mean to a man to be pent up in a sick room while he had all his limbs and strength at his command. For Strangwayes never left him, save for a half-hour or so at night, when he used to slip out by the back way and tramp about the bowling green, to bring in with him so fine a breeziness that Hugh used to lie awake for his coming. At first Strangwayes did not quit the chamber even for his rest, but, wrapping his cloak about him, stretched himself across the hearth, till Hugh, with gaining strength, assured him he could fare well enough without constant watching, and begged him to get a room and a bed. After that Hugh passed long, sleepless hours of the night in loneliness, while through the little window he watched the varying shades of the sky and the stars that had so many times looked back at him.
During the day the chief diversions were to eat, and to note how many minutes more he contrived to sit up than on the preceding day. In the intervals he and Dick played cards, till the pack was wofully thumbed, or chess, which Hugh found easier, for he need only lie on his back and look sidewise at the board. Later Dick unearthed the whole library of the “Sceptre,” a fat “Palmerin of England,” whose “gallant history” he patiently read aloud to Hugh, who did not find the story enlivening, but got to appreciate Dick’s sarcastic comments. Still better he liked to hear his friend talk, half nonsense, half truth, of the things he had seen and done when he served in the Low Countries and made his stay in Paris. “How should you like to go thither yourself?” Strangwayes asked abruptly one March morning, when for the second time Hugh was sitting up in a chair.
“With you?” the boy asked quickly.