“Conyers!” exclaimed Vivian.
There was no answer, nor did the miserable man appear in the slightest degree to be sensible of Vivian’s presence.
“My good John!”
The man raised his head from his resting-place, and turned to the spot whence the voice proceeded. There was such an unnatural fire in his eyes, that Vivian’s spirit almost quailed. His alarm was not decreased, when he perceived that the master of the cottage did not recognize him. The fearful stare was, however, short, and again the sufferer’s face was hid.
The wife was advancing, but Vivian waved his hand to her to withdraw, and she accordingly fell into the background; but her fixed eye did not leave her husband for a second.
“John Conyers, it is your friend, Mr. Vivian Grey, who is here,” said Vivian.
“Grey!” moaned the husbandman; “Grey! who is he?”
“Your friend, John Conyers. Do you quite forget me?” said Vivian advancing, and with a tone which Vivian Grey could alone assume.
“I think I have seen you, and you were kind,” and the face was again hid.
“And always will be kind, John. I have come to comfort you. I thought that a friend’s voice would do you good. Come, cheer up, my man!” and Vivian dared to touch him. His hand was not repulsed. “Do you remember what good service you did me when I rode white-footed Moll? Why, I was much worse off then than you are now: and yet, you see, a friend came and saved me. You must not give way so, my good fellow. After all, a little management will set everything right,” and he took the husbandman’s sturdy hand.