For many days James Courtenay hung between life and death; night and day he was watched by skilful physicians, but they could do very little more than let the disease run its course. At length a change for the better appeared; the unhappy boy fell into a long sleep, and when he opened his eyes his disease was gone. But it had left him in a truly pitiable state. It was a sad sight to see the once robust boy now very little better than a skeleton; to hear the once loud voice now no stronger than a mere whisper; and instead of the mass of brown curly hair, to behold nothing but linen rags which swathed the shaven head.
But all this Squire Courtenay did not so much mind; his son's life was spared, and he made no doubt but that care and attention would soon fatten him up again, and the curly locks would grow as luxuriantly as they did before. Old Aggie, too, was full of joy; the boy that she had nursed so tenderly, and for whom she had had such long anxiety, was not cut off in the midst of his sins, and he might perhaps have his heart changed and grow up to be a good man. And what an opportunity was this for trying to impress his mind! Old Aggie was determined that it should not be lost, and she hoped that the young squire might yet prove a blessing, and not a curse, to those amongst whom he lived.
There were not wanting many upon Squire Courtenay's estate who would have been very glad if the young squire had never recovered. They had tasted a little of his bad character, and they feared that if he grew up to inherit the property, he would prove a tyrannical landlord to them. But amongst these was not to be reckoned old Leonard Dobbin. True, he had suffered terribly—indeed more than any one else—from James Courtenay's evil ways; but he did not on that account wish him dead—far from it. It was old Leonard's great fear lest the young squire should die in his sins, and no one asked more earnestly about the invalid than this good old man.
As it was necessary that the sick boy should be kept as quiet as possible, no one went near his room except old Aggie and those whose services could not be dispensed with. Old Aggie alone was allowed to talk to the invalid, and a long time would have elapsed before she could venture to speak of the circumstances which had brought about this dreadful illness, had not the young squire himself entered on the subject.
"Aggie," said he one morning, after he had lain a long time quite still, "I have been dreaming a beautiful dream."
This was quite delightful to the old nurse, who for many long days had heard of nothing but visions of the most frightful kind.
"I saw a rose bush—"
"Hush, hush, Master James," said Aggie, terrified lest the dreadful subject should come uppermost again, and once more bring on the delirium and a relapse of the fever.
"No, no, Aggie, I cannot hush; it was a beautiful dream, and it has done me more good than all the doctor's medicine. I saw a rose bush—a moss-rose—and it had one bud upon it, and sitting under the bud was little Jacob Dobbin. O Aggie, it was the same Jacob that used to be down at the cottage, for I knew his face; but he was beautiful, instead of sickly-looking; and instead of being all ragged, he was dressed in something like silver. I wanted to run away from him, but he looked so kindly at me that I could not stir; and at last he beckoned to me, and I stood quite close to him; and only he looked so softly at me, I must have been dazzled by the light on his face and his silvery clothes.
"I did not feel as though I dared to speak to him; but at last he spoke to me, and his voice was as soft as a flute, and he said, 'All the roses on earth fade and wither, but nothing fades or withers in the happy place where I now live; and oh, do not be anxious to possess the withering, fading flowers, but walk on the road that leads to my happy home, where everything is bright for ever and ever.'