“Uncle Giles,” said Margaret, with an exclamation of pain, “surely you know me?”
“Eh? let her stand—in the light—in the light; why, why, why—Meg: it’s Meg,—that’s Meg.” She kissed him, and he made an effort to turn his feeble head, and with his large moist lips he gave a tremulous kiss in the air. “I’m—I’m glad to see you, Meg. You were the first to—tell me—to tell me: I’ll be always grateful to you—for that.”
“For what, dear uncle? It is I who owe everything to you. Oh, Uncle Giles, if I could only tell you how much and how often I think of it! you were always kind, always kind; and dear Aunt Piercey; you gave me my home, the only home I ever had.”
“Eh! eh! What is she saying, my dear? You’ll—you’ll look after Meg—never let her come to want. She was the first to tell me. The greatest news that has come—to Greyshott. You remember, Meg—and Osy, bless him, how he cheered! There’s—there’s something for Osy. He cheered like a little trump, and he gave—he gave my boy his only wedding present, the—the only one. Dunning, where is my purse? Osy must have a tip—two tips for that.”
“Dear papa,” cried Patty, “don’t disturb yourself; oh, don’t disturb yourself! I’ll see to it.”
“My—my purse, Dunning!” The purse was procured while they all stood by, and the old man fumbling, got with difficulty, one after another, two sovereigns, which fell out of his trembling fingers upon the bed. “One for—for cheering; and one for—for the other thing. Give ’em to Osy, Meg, bless him; and my blessing. When It comes and all’s right, that’ll be a friend for Osy—always a friend, better than an old man.”
“Dear papa,” cried Patty, pushing forward again, “here is some one else to see you—Colonel Piercey, dear, don’t you remember? Colonel Piercey—Gerald—that once paid you a long visit; I know you’ll remember if you try. Here,” she said, seizing his arm, pulling him forward, “stand in the light that he may see you.”
She was vibrating with excitement like a creature on wires. The touch of her hand on Gerald’s arm was like an electric cord; and to be pushed forward thus, and accounted for as if he had been an absolute stranger, to be brought with difficulty to the mind of the dying man, was to Gerald Piercey, as may well be supposed, an insupportable sensation. He drew back, saying hastily, “I cannot disturb him. I will not have him disturbed for me—let him alone, let him alone.”
“Eh? what? who’s that? somebody else? Gerald?” said Sir Giles. He held out his hand vaguely into the air, not seeing where his attention was called, the large old limp grey hand, with so little volition or power left in it. “Ah, Gerald, come to see the end of the old man? that’s kind! that’s kind! My poor wife and I used to think if our first boy had lived, don’t you know, he might have been a man like you. Well, Gerald, I’ve nothing to give you, but my blessing—but my blessing. You won’t mind if your nose is put out of joint, you know, as the old folks say. And you’ll stand by It, Gerald, a—a good fellow like you.”
“Dear papa, I think they’ll go now; it’s late, and you ought to go to sleep.”