"It has seemed to me at times as though--as though you were all in a conspiracy to keep me away," returned Ella, dreamily. "I have said so to Mrs. Carlyon."
"All who?" asked Aaron.
"You--and Dr. Jago--and your nephew," replied Ella, fearlessly. "I was sent away by my uncle for the winter--for the dark days. They have long been over, yet still I was not allowed to return. Aaron, I cannot understand it."
"Maybe he wanted to grow still better before you saw him," cried the old man, shuffling in his chair. "He was always headstrong; you know that, Miss Ella; he wouldn't be driven by living creature. If one tried to make him turn one way, he'd turn the other. No chance, Miss Ella, if he didn't want you to come home, that we could make him send for you."
"Was he conscious when he died?--who talked with him last?"
"I did," answered the old man promptly. "He had been as cheerful as could be all day; less mopy than usual. At six o'clock he said he'd go to bed, feeling tired; and did go. At nine o'clock I took in his beef-tea, and stood by while he drank it; after that, I made up the fire. Then he talked with me for ten minutes or so about one thing and another. He hoped we were going to have a fine hot summer: hot weather always suited him best. Then he said that his lassie--meaning you, Miss Ella--would be on her way home by this time, and how glad he should be to see your bonnie face again. Next, he said that he had been thinking of having the garden done up, and should get some pretty furniture from London put in your rooms, and that he would have more company at the Hall, and try to make the old place a bit more cheerful for you."
"As if I was not always the happiest when he and I were by ourselves!" said Ella, hardly able to speak for her tears.
"Then I gave him a glass of port wine," resumed Aaron--"you won't have forgotten that he liked a glass the last thing at bedtime--and he took it up to the last. After that, I lighted the one wax candle that he always kept burning all night. He would have the candle put so that as he laid in bed he could see the likeness of that beautiful young lady, which has hung over his bedroom chimney-piece as long as I can remember: who she was, he never told me. Then he held out his hand to me, as he always did at night of late--except maybe at any odd time when he was a bit put out. 'Goodnight, old friend,' he said; 'I shan't want anything more till morning.' They were the last words anyone heard him speak."
Ella turned and buried her face in the padded arm-chair.
"I had just got out of the room, and was shutting the door behind me," continued Aaron, "when I thought I heard a queer sort of noise. I couldn't make out whether it was a groan or a cry, or what it was. However, I went back into the room. The Squire seemed lying just as I had left him, but he didn't speak. Not feeling satisfied, I took up the candle and looked at his face. There I saw something that made my heart quake as it had never quaked before. I called Hubert; and five minutes later his horse was in the dog-cart, and he was off to fetch the Doctor. It wasn't long before Dr. Jago was here, but the moment he clapped eyes on the Squire he saw there was no hope. My poor dear master couldn't speak, but we seemed to see in his eyes that he knew us. By-and-by he appeared to go to sleep. We could only watch by his bedside: and he died just as the clocks were striking twelve."