The marquis was dumb. He had actually begun once more to buoy himself up with earthly hopes.
Dreading a recall of his commission, Malcolm slipped from the room, sent Mrs Courthope to take his place, and sped to the schoolmaster. The moment Mr Graham heard the marquis’s message, he rose without a word, and led the way from the cottage. Hardly a sentence passed between them as they went, for they were on a solemn errand.
“Mr Graham’s here, my lord,” said Malcolm.
“Where? Not in the room?” returned the marquis.
“Waitin’ at the door, my lord.”
“Bah! You needn’t have been so ready. Have you told the sexton to get a new spade? But you may let him in. And leave him alone with me.”
Mr Graham walked gently up to the bedside.
“Sit down, sir,” said the marquis courteously—pleased with the calm, self-possessed, unobtrusive bearing of the man. “They tell me I’m dying, Mr Graham.”
“I’m sorry it seems to trouble you, my lord.”
“What! wouldn’t it trouble you then?”