“I’m going for the doctor now, Mr. Biron,” he called out without entering. “I’ve come up to ask if there’s anything I can get for you before I go.”
“Come in, Elshaw, come in!” cried Theodore, in a voice full of tremulous eagerness. “I want to speak to you.”
Bram obeyed the summons, and found himself for the first time in Mr. Biron’s bedroom, which was the most luxurious room in the house. A bright fire burned in the grate, this being a luxury Theodore always indulged in during the winter; the bed and the windows were hung with handsome tapestry, and there were book-shelves, tables, arm-chairs, everything that a profound study of the art of making oneself comfortable could suggest to the fastidious Theodore.
He himself was sitting, wrapped in a cozy dressing-gown, with his feet on a hassock by the fire. But he looked even more wretched than he had done in his drenched clothes downstairs. There was an unhealthy flush in his face, a feverish glitter in his eyes.
Bram saw something in his face which he had never seen there before, something which suggested that the man had discovered a conscience, and that it was giving him uneasiness.
“Sit down,” said he, pointing to a seat on the other side of the fireplace. Bram wanted to go for the doctor, but the little man was so peremptory that he thought it best to obey. “Elshaw, I think I’m going to die.”
He uttered the words, as was natural in such a man, as if the whole world must be struck into awe by the news. Bram inclined his head in respectful attention, clasping his hands and looking at the fire. He could not make light of this presentiment, which, indeed, he saw reason to think was a well-founded one. Mr. Biron’s never robust frame had been shaken sorely by his own excesses in the first place, by erysipelas and consequent complications, and it was evident that the experiences of this night had tried him very severely. He was still shivering in a sort of ague: his eyes were glassy, his skin was dry. He stood as much in need of a doctor’s aid as did his daughter.
But still Bram waited, struck by the man’s manner, and feeling that at such a moment there was something portentous in his wish to speak. Mr. Biron had something on his mind, on his conscience, of which he wanted to unburden himself.
“Elshaw,” he went on after a long pause, “I’ve been to blame over this—this matter of Claire and—and her cousin Chris.” He stared into Bram’s face as if the young man had been his confessor, and rubbed his little white hands quickly the one over the other while he spoke. “I did it for the best, as I’m sure you will believe; I thought he was an honorable man, who would marry her and make her happy. You believe that, don’t you?”