Matthew Wilson was even less moved by the report of his eldest son's condition. But there is no need to dwell upon this painful side of human nature. It is enough to say again, that where grasping covetousness and close-fisted penuriousness get possession of a human soul, all natural affections become in time so blunted as to leave the unhappy entertainer like one "past feeling, twice dead, and plucked up by the roots." ¹
¹ The narrator writes cautiously and guardedly here, and the picture he has sketched is but a faint copy of more than one original.
If the parents of the dying man were thus indifferent to the claims of natural affection, it is no great wonder that Mrs. George Wilson fretted exceedingly at the trouble to which she had unexpectedly been put by the perverseness of her husband's brother, in having brought himself to death's door in the place and manner described. Why should she be having the worry of a dying man in her house? she wanted to know. One way and another she had plenty of plague on her hands without that additional grievance. She said this, in other words, to Elizabeth, who made no reply, but with strong restraint turned to her brother's side to receive comfort from his dying words.
For Walter had regained consciousness, as we have seen; and, in the intervals of such distressing paroxysms of weakness and painful labouring for breath as were almost equally distressing to witness and to bear, he was able to point his sister to the only true hope and resting-place of the weary and heavy-laden.
During the two or three or more days which intervened between the departure of John Tincroft and his return, the only alleviation, from the outer world, of Elizabeth's trouble, and almost the only help she obtained in her anxious watching, was in the sympathy of Tom Grigson.
It was not much that this active man of business knew of, and it was not much, if the truth be known, that he cared for Walter Wilson; but he cared a good deal for his friend John Tincroft, and he manifested his love for John by caring for John's friends.
And if I were disposed to write a sermon on the diffusiveness of charity, I might find an illustration here—showing how the influence extends from heart to heart, till it embraces a whole circle of rightly-constituted minds in one bond of brotherhood. But I am not a preacher, and shall only advert to the results of this sympathetic, mysterious linking together of one human being with another. It came to pass, then, that Tom Grigson found himself, day after day, attracted to High Beech, and to the bedside of Walter Wilson, bringing with him such creature comforts as the ample resources of the Manor House could furnish, both for the necessities of the patient and the strengthening sustenance of the nurse.
The third day from the departure of John Tincroft brought down the London lawyer to the bedside of his client, and to the consultation that followed were admitted the squire from the Manor House and his brother. What passed in that solemn conclave was a profound secret to all around, but it terminated in Mr. Fawley (the lawyer, and an old friend of ours in a former history ¹) being invited to stay at the Manor House, instead of trusting to the uncertain hospitalities of the White Hart, which invitation was frankly accepted.
¹ See "George Burley's Experiences of Life."
The news that a gentleman from London had been to see Walter Wilson, and that he was staying at the Manor House, was duly conveyed to Low Beech Farm; but the intelligence excited only the suspicion of old Matthew, who was partially acquainted with the worst side of human nature, and knew what was what, as he said.