"Ever truly yours, dear George,
"Isaac St. John."
George St. John folded the letter again, and sat with it on his knee. He was beginning to think--with that unmistakable conviction that amounts to a prevision--that his cousin would be called upon to accept the charge. Perhaps at no very distant period. Pym was getting cross and snappish: a sure and certain sign to one who knew him as well as George St. John did, that he thought him ill: had he been improving, the surgeon would have been gay as a lark. But it needed not Pym or any one else to confirm the fact of his increasing illness: the signs were within himself.
He was glad that Mr. St. John had accepted the charge: though he had felt almost sure that he would do so, for Isaac St. John lived only to do good to others. A man, as personal joint guardian to his children, could not be proposed; if they were left, as it was only right they should be left, under the guardianship of his wife. There had been moments in this last month or two when, remembering those violent fits of passion, a doubt of her perfect fitness for the office would intrude itself upon him; but he felt that he could not ignore her claims; there was not sufficient pretext for separating the mother from the child.
As he sat, revolving these and many thoughts in his mind, he became conscious that the sounds outside had changed their character. The gay laughter was turning into a murmur of alarm, the joyous voices to hushed cries. He held his breath to listen, and in that moment a wild burst of terror rent the air. With one bound, as it almost seemed, Mr. St. John was out and amongst them.
The crowd was gathering round the lake, and his heart flew to his children. But he caught sight of his wife standing against a tree, holding George to her side against the folds of her beautiful dress. That she was agitated with some great emotion, there could be no doubt: her breath was laboured, her face white as death.
"What is the matter? What has happened?" cried Mr. St. John, halting for a moment his fleet footsteps.
"They say--that--Benja's--drowned," she answered, hesitating between every word.
He did not wait to hear the conclusion: he bounded on to the brink of the lake, throwing off his coat as he ran, ready to plunge in after his beloved child. But one had been before him: and the first object Mr. Carleton saw as the crowd parted for him, was the dog Brave, swimming to shore with Benja.
"Good dog! Brave! Brave! Come on, then, Brave! Good old dog! Save your playfellow! Save the heir of Alnwick!"