A November day was drawing to its close, and a November chill was in the fierce gusts that shook the limbs of the forest trees outside, as Hugh Maitland lay dying in the old stone cottage. For several minutes he had gazed upon the face of his son, thinking deeply. By and by he spoke:
“Percy!” The boy started and looked up. Then he arose and would have advanced to the bedside, but his father waved him back.
“No, no. Sit down, my boy; I have something to say to you. Now,” when the youth was again seated, “I wish you to answer me. Have I not, so far as I could, so far as it was in me to do, been a kind and loving father to you?”
“Oh, my father!” cried the son, extending his clasped hands towards the bed. “You have been all that an earthly parent could be. I know you have loved me well and truly. Since I can remember your whole heart has been mine; and you know, you know, father, that I have loved you in return.”
“Aye, my boy, I do know it; and I tell you truly, your love has been a blessing to me.” He paused here, and closed his eyes as though to rest.
He had spoken with difficulty, for he had become very weak, and the speaking fatigued him. Presently he looked up and spoke again. His tones were low and wavering, but with a depth that plainly told of former power and compass; and he spoke distinctly.
“Percy, I have two requests to make; two promises I ask from you in return. It is understood on all hands—your mother understands, and Donald Rodney understands and through him every man of the crew will gain knowledge—that you are, henceforth and forever, free from any connection whatever with the contraband traffic. You shall never be asked to go outside in our vessel; nor shall you be asked to help land any item of our contraband goods—Hush! Don’t thank me yet. Wait until you have heard my requests.
“My dear boy, I shall not live to see another day. I am bleeding internally. Ah! I know the signs. The end is nearer than you think. I am going—going to leave your mother alone, if you forsake her. My first petition is this: Until you have reached the age of one-and-twenty you will make the old cot your home, and give to your mother your presence and your care. Surely, you will not refuse me this. Margery has been a faithful wife to me, and I shall feel death robbed of much of its terror in the knowledge that she is not to be left alone.”
Percy saw very plainly the hand of his mother in this. He knew, as though he had heard her, that she had put that request into his father’s mouth, and had urged him to press it strongly.
But, under any circumstances, he would not have refused. He had a deep—a heartfelt—desire to be near the castle; and in what other way could he so surely attain that end?