"Is that Tristram?" exclaimed a breathless voice, and behind her father suddenly appeared Horatia herself. She almost pushed the Rector aside, and seized Tristram by the wrist. "O, thank God, thank God that you have come!" And, the ghost of herself, she fairly dragged him across the hall into the drawing-room and shut the door.
"Tristram, our Lord has sent you! Listen, for you can save Maurice—only pray, pray as you never prayed before! It is the crisis. He will listen to you—I know He will!"
And, as suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone.
* * * * *
The stable clock struck nine. Steps came down the stairs, and voices; the outer door shut.
The Rector appeared at the drawing-room door, mopping his eyes. He beckoned and Tristram, with a sinking heart, followed him out of the room and up the stairs. Half-way up Mr. Grenville put away his handkerchief, and it was then obvious that his tears were tears of joy. He gripped Tristram's arm.
"He will live, my dear boy, he will live, thank God!"
He continued to ascend, and Tristram, hardly knowing why, went after him. They came to the nursery floor. A door was ajar. The Rector stood aside, but Tristram did not enter.
From the threshold he saw, as in a frame, part of the room within, and the little crib against the wall by which Horatia was kneeling, with bowed head. Over her shoulders was a shawl of Chinese silk, blue as lapis-lazuli, studded with the golden eyes of dragons, and glorified, like the shining auburn of her hair, by the mingled light of lamp and fire. For him the picture seemed to hold the love and pain of years, his own and hers, barren and fruitful both, and he did not know that he could look any more....
The child stirred. Horatia rose from her knees, and bending over him began very gently to rearrange a pillow. The change of position gave Tristram to her sight, and so he went softly in and stood by her side, looking down with her at him.