"Really, sis, I should be ashamed to get well again after this," he had said playfully; "and what is the use of having regiments of physicians? I am sure my case is delightfully simple! I know perfectly well what's the matter. They vary a little as to 'how long' they will give me, according to whether they are of the hopeful or the gloomy school; and some of them have very small respect for my intellect, and pretend I may live years; and so, perhaps, I might, if I weren't dying; and some of them have inconvenient consciences, and feel bound to tell the truth; but it makes no difference. 'Not all the king's horses and all the king's men will ever set this Humpty Dumpty up again.'"
"You give way too easily!" Mrs. Russelthorpe cried, with an impatience born of sharp anxiety. She would not think that that hurried flight had nearly killed him.
"You'll get over this fresh chill you caught at that horrible damp rectory. It was high time you left. I shall write to Dr. Renshawe at once. These old-fashioned practitioners are of no use; they don't open their eyes to the new lights!"
"Poor sis! you must be feeling very hopeless, when you go in for the new lights. Let it alone, and let's enjoy our last weeks together in peace. No? Well, as you like. If it comforts you to have all the quacks in England fighting over me, why shouldn't you?" He smiled while he spoke. Perhaps he had always given way too easily; though not in the manner she meant. "But one can't start a new system on one's death-bed," he said to himself; and his thoughts wandered dreamily off to other subjects. A huge china bowl, full of late roses, stood on the sofa by his side. He lay drinking in their beauty. Probably he would not see many more roses; and, while there was no bitterness in the reflection,—Mr. Deane's was too sweet a nature to be bitter,—it yet added to his always keen appreciation of colour. His naturally intense enjoyment of the finer pleasures of the senses had been apt to be dashed by an almost morbid recollection of the many "better men than he," who had no chance of satisfying themselves. Like Meg, he could not enjoy his cream for the thought of those who needed bread. But now that life was ebbing fast, he delighted in any small gratification that came in his way, in a manner that surprised and almost annoyed his sister.
"My work is done," he told her. "Rather badly, no doubt; but—anyhow—done. I need only 'play' now. Other people may ride atilt against all the problems one bruises head and heart over. Good luck go with them, and more power to their elbows! But I shall bother about nothing now. Don't put that shade of pink against those crimson roses, sis; you set my teeth on edge."
So he lay; outwardly serene at any rate. If at the bottom of his heart were any regrets for the life cut short, not much past its prime, this was his own secret. He knew how to die like a gentleman. On that same principle of "enjoying the last days together," he spoke no more of Meg, though he thought of her often and tenderly; but there may yet be changes on the cards when Death is looking over a man's shoulder. He speaks rashly who predicts "peace" while he is yet in the land of the living!
Mrs. Russelthorpe stood on the drawing-room landing, and George Sauls faced her. He had already twice refused to take "No" for an answer to his demand—it could scarcely be called request—to see Mr. Deane.
The bare idea of giving way before his impertinent assurance was preposterous. Mrs. Russelthorpe assured him at last that she had neither leisure nor inclination to receive visitors.
"Naturally!" said Mr. Sauls. "I should not dream of intruding on you, if it were not that I must see Mr. Deane. There is something I mean to tell him." He leaned one arm on the banisters; and there was no trace of nervousness in his expression, though she was doing her best to freeze him. Something in George Sauls' look made Mrs. Russelthorpe feel that this was no sham fight. She had no idea of defeat—she had seldom been defeated.
"You can write your communication," she said. "Mr. Deane is equal to reading his letters."