Goodenough nodded. "Lawrence Lee was not one,' and—and—" Goodenough's voice sank to a whisper, and his dim eyes closed. "I can say no more. I would have—liked to—tell—the noble turn he did me—and—how—thou, whoever thou art—"
The light grows dim.
Slower and slower, fainter and fainter, rose and fell the dying man's voice upon the silence; until suddenly his eyes opened, and fixing wistfully for a little while upon Ruth's face, wandered from it to the paper under her hand. "Set thy name to it," he said, "for—a living witness."
"'Tis well," he went on, when she had obeyed. "And now, give it me here again under my hand, and thy pen—and hold the light close, for it grows so dark—dark—nay, but I cannot see the place;" and his fast glazing eyes strayed helplessly over the paper.
"Here, dear Master Goodenough," said Ruth, taking the cold hand and gently placing it aright, "here is where I have written my name."
The signatures.
He made a desperate but ineffectual effort to steady the pen on the spot she indicated. "I cannot do it," he said, as the quill dropped loosely in his numbed fingers; "and my mark must suffice. But 'twill serve—'twill serve. Set the paper close—closer;" and then with infinite labour he made the cross mark. "Ruth Rumbold!" he cried, as he moved his hand, and the full light of the lamp fell upon the clear, boldly-marked characters of her signature beneath. "This man—Richard Rumbold's—daughter!" and his eyes fixed upon her in a stare of mingled horror and pity.
She nodded her head slowly up and down. "Did you not know?" she said, meeting his gaze with sad, appealing looks—"did you not know he was my father?"
"Then Heaven help thee, poor child, and comfort thee, for thou hast need of it indeed, poor innocent!"
Then his voice fell away into uneasy inaudible murmurings. His eyes closed again, and presently he seemed to sleep. And so till dawn slowly began to silver the fresh young leaves about the ivy panes, and creep on into the room towards the dark recess, spreading itself gently on the white, still face of the dying man, and the hardly more life-like one of the watcher, there was silence. But just as the song of the birds trilled cheerily forth, he stirred slightly. "Art thou there?" he murmured, feebly stretching out his hand.