Pleasant to him were those long forenoons in the library, with no company save that of Andry Luce, who kept his accounts, looked after his rents, and to whom he dictated his correspondence. Pleasant it was, with the help of Andry's sturdy arm, to stroll slowly about the grounds, watching the gardeners and laborers at their work, chatting with his bailiff, and giving his orders about this or the other.
Not less pleasant was it, when the fit took him, to have himself driven in his old shandrydan to one or other of his outlying properties, some of which lay many miles away, and satisfy himself that everything was going on as it should do, which meant so far as the interests of his own pocket were concerned.
But when the weather was bad, and he could not get out of doors, he had other occupations wherewith to engage his time. He was an ardent numismatist, and was very proud of his collection of coins and medals, to which he kept adding from time to time as opportunity served. He was also something of a bibliophile, and possessed a small but rather choice collection of rare books and illuminated MSS. He would gloat over these treasures as a miser gloats over his gold, and he derived the most intense satisfaction from the belief (which on no account would he have had disturbed) that his collections contained two or three absolutely unique specimens in the way of coins such as no other cabinet could match.
And so some months passed away, and no such person as young Evan Cortelyon might have been in existence for any mention of him between uncle and niece.
Then, as the winter crept springward, the Squire became unpleasantly conscious that his physical powers were slowly, almost imperceptibly, declining. For some little time he succeeded in persuading himself that it was a mere temporary faiblesse from which he was suffering, due probably, in a great measure, to the moist oppressiveness of an unhealthy season, which was carrying off numbers of younger people than he. But when, at length, the weather vane on the stables veered from southwest to northeast, and stuck there day after day, as if it would never move again, bringing with it dry, sunny morns, and crisp, bracing nights, he was obliged to seek for some other excuse for his growing weakness. Not yet, however, would he give in and summon Dr. Banks. Although the son on whom he had at one time built such hopes was dead and gone, not for years had existence been sweeter to him than it was just then, and yet, to all seeming, it was gradually but surely slipping away from him. He felt as if a great wrong were being done him. What was Providence about?
At length his weakness so far increased that he reluctantly authorized Andry to summon Dr. Banks, who had attended him, off and on, from the date of his accident, and in the course of years had extracted more guineas from his purse than the Squire cared to reckon up.
"You have been very remiss, Mr. Cortelyon, very remiss indeed," said the fussy little rural practitioner when he had completed his brief examination, and had listened to the Squire's recital of his symptoms. "You ought to have sent for me six weeks ago, if not earlier than that. There has been a serious lowering of the vital forces, and, at your time of life----"
"At my time of life! Damme! what d'ye mean? You don't mean to call me an old man, and I not seventy-three till next birthday! Zounds! I'm only just in my prime. Banks, you're an ass! It will be time enough for you to begin to hint at my age--only to hint at it, mind you--a dozen years hence."
Dr. Banks did his best, but his best in this instance proved of no avail. The diminution of strength still went slowly on. At length the Squire became too weak to go out of doors, even for a drive, and then after a time the day came when he was unable to leave his bedroom.
At Dr. Banks's request, that well-known physician, Dr. Mills, of Lanchester, was called into consultation, but all he could do, after making one or two minor suggestions, was to accord his full approval to the treatment already adopted by his colleague.