“Then why keep me out?” said Richard.
The eyes of the dying man opened, and Richard received his last look. Sir Wilton gave one sigh, and death was past. Whether life was come, God only, and those who watched on the other side, knew. Lady Ann came in.
“The good baronet is gone!” said the physician.
She turned away. Her eyes glided over Richard as if she had never before seen him. He went up to the bed, and she walked from the room. When Richard came out, he found Wingfold where he had left him, and got into the pony-carriage beside him. The parson drove off.
“His tale is told,” said Richard, in a choking voice. “He did not speak, and I cannot tell whether he knew me, but I had his last look, and that is something. I would have been a good son to him if he had let me—at least I would have tried to be.”
He sat silent, thinking what he might have done for him. Perhaps he would not have died if he had been with him, he thought.
“It is best,” said Wingfold. “We cannot say anything would be best, but we must say everything is best.”
“I think I understand you,” said Richard. “But oh how I would have loved him if he would have let me!”
“And how you will love him!” said Wingfold, “for he will love you. They are getting him ready to let you now. I think he is loving you in the darkness. He had begun to love you long before he went. But he was the slave of the nature he had enfeebled and corrupted. I hope endlessly for him—though God only knows how long it may take, even after the change is begun, to bring men like him back to their true selves.—But surely, Richard,” he cried, bethinking himself, and pulling up his ponies, “your right place is at Mortgrange—at least so long as what is left of your father is lying in the house!”
“Yes, no doubt I and I did think whether I ought not to assert myself, and remain until my father's will was read; but I concluded it better to avoid the possibility of anything unpleasant. I cannot of course yield my right to be chief mourner. I think my father would not wish me to do so.”