“Come, come, auntie; don’t make me more vain than I am. I’m bad enough as it is, and—and—I’m very weary.”
The poor youth’s head fell back on the pillow, and he sighed deeply as his nurse brought him some strengthening food. He needed it much, for he was reduced to a mere shadow of his former self.
His fine eyes had become quite awful in their size and solemnity. His once ruddy cheeks were hollow. His well-formed nose had become pinched, and his garments hung on, rather than clothed, a huge skeleton.
During all Jeff’s illness Captain Millet was unremitting in his attentions, insomuch that a certain careworn expression began to take up its settled abode on his countenance. But this was not altogether owing to sympathy with his friend, it was partly the consequence of his financial affairs.
Having lost his situation, as he had expected, he found it difficult to procure another, and was under the necessity of living on the small capital which he had accumulated in the course of laborious years. Had his own subsistence been all his care, he would have had little trouble; but Rose had to be supported and educated, his sister had to be assisted, his charities had to be kept up, and now Jeff Benson had to be maintained, and his doctor paid. The worst of it all was, that he could not talk on the subject to any of the three, which, to a sympathetic soul, was uncommonly hard—but unavoidable.
“Yes, quite unavoidable,” he muttered to himself one evening, when alone in his lodging. “They think I’m a rich old fellow, but I daren’t say a word. If I did, Jeff would refuse to eat another bite, an’ that would kill him. If I told Rosebud, it could do no good, and would only make her miserable. If I told Molly, I—I really don’t know what she’d do. She’d founder, I think. No, I must go on sailin’ under false colours. It’s a comfort, anyhow, to know that the funds will last some little time yet, even at the present rate of expenditure; but it’s perplexin’—very.”
He shook his head, wrinkled his brows, and then, rising, took a well-worn pocket-Bible from a shelf, and sought consolation therein.
Some time after that Captain Millet was seated in the same room, about the same hour, meditating on the same subject, with a few additional wrinkles on his brow, when he received a letter.
“From Hong Kong,” he muttered, opening it, and putting on his glasses.
The changes in his expressive face as he read were striking, and might have been instructive. Sadness first—then surprise—then blazing astonishment—then a pursing of the mouth and a prolonged whistle, followed by an expressive slap on the thigh. Then, crumpling the letter into his pocket he put on his glazed hat, sallied forth, and took the way to his sister’s cottage.