“No; he is alive still. But, if he should not come in to see you to-morrow-morning”—
“I shall go unto him; he shall not return unto me,” murmured Elizabeth, as her eyelids fell, and a few tears dropped through the lashes. “Tell me the rest, will you?”
“He has been seized with paralysis, I think; he cannot speak or move, but seems still conscious. I do not know how it will end.”
“One way—only one way; I feared this long. My grandfather died so. Agatha”—calling after her, for she was stealing away, she could not bear it—“Agatha, you will take care of him?”
“I will as his own daughter.”
“And, if possible”—here Elizabeth's voice faltered a little—“give my love to my dear father.”
Agatha fled away. She hid herself in the recess close by “Anne's window,” as it was called, and for a minute or two cried violently. It did her good. With those tears all the selfishness, anger, and pain flowed out of her heart, leaving it purer and more peaceful than it had been for a long time. It was not a foolish, miserable girl, but a brave, tenderhearted, sensible woman, who entered the door of the sick-chamber where the poor old man lay.
No one was there but the coachman who had carried his master up-stairs. Many servants hovered about the door, but none dared enter. Either they were afraid of the Squire—afraid even now, or else the motionless figure that lay within the bed-curtains was too like death. Old John sat beside it, with tears running down his cheeks.
“Oh, Mrs. Harper, look at th' Master. He be all alive in's mind. He do want bad to speak to we. Look at 'un, Missus!”
“Give me your place, John. I will try to understand him. Father!”—She faltered a little over the word, but felt it was the right word, now. The old man moved his head towards her with a feeble smile. The expression of his face was clearer and more natural, only for that terribly painful inarticulate murmur, which no one could comprehend.