Stephen Davenant need not have been so uneasy; Jack was not plotting against him, nor was the old man making a will in the Savage’s favor.
Jack stood beside the bed, waiting for one of the attacks of faintness to pass, looking down regretfully at the haggard, death-marked face, recalling the past kindnesses he had received from the old man, and remorsefully remembering their many quarrels and eventful separation.
“Bad lot” as he was, no thought of lucre crossed the Savage’s mind; he forgot even Stephen and the cowardly trick he had played him, and remembered only that he was looking his last on the old man, who, after his kind, had been good, and so far as his nature would allow it, generous to him.
At last old Ralph opened his eyes.
“Here at last,” he said; and by an effort of the resolute will, he made himself heard distinctly, though every word cost him a breath.
“I’m sorry I’m so late,” he said; and his voice was husky. “I didn’t know——”
The old man looked at him shrewdly.
“So Stephen didn’t send? It was just like him. A good stroke.”
“Yes, he sent,” said Jack; “but——”
The old man waved his hand to show that he understood.