And then John Dent broke into such a paroxysm of despair, that one by one his comforters quitted the cottage. They, strong bold men, who feared none of the evils of life, became feeble as children before the awful face of Death.
One only remained—the old huntsman who had given the last counsel to the wretched father. This man, whom Olive knew, was beckoned by her to Margery's room to see what could be done.
“I'll fetch Mr. Gwynne to manage John, poor fellow! The devil's got un, sure enough; and it'll tak' a parson to drive't away. But ourn be a queer gentleman. When I get to Harbury, what mun I say!”
“Say that I am here—that I entreat him to come at once,” cried Olive, feeling her strength sinking before this painful scene, from which in common charity she could not turn aside. She came once more to look at John Dent, who had crouched down before the hearth, with the stiff form of the poor dead boy extended on his knees, gazing at it with a sort of vacant, hopeless misery. Then she went back to the old woman, and tried to speak of comfort and of prayer.
It was not far to Harbury, but, in less time than Olive had expected, Harold Gwynne appeared.
“Miss Rothesay, you sent for me!”
“I did—I did. Oh, thank Heaven that you are come,” eagerly cried Olive, clasping his two hands. He regarded her with a surprised and troubled look, and took them away.
“What do you wish me to do!”
“What a minister of God is able—nay, bound to do—to speak comfort in this house of misery.”
The poor old woman echoed the same entreaty—