She flung herself down on her knees beside the bed. He stared at her, but his ramblings went off the next moment to something else. Then there was a pause, and he sank back. Lady Oldfield took the opportunity to send up a fervent prayer. He caught the half-whispered words, and sat up. He looked for the moment so collected, so much himself, that his mother’s lips parted with joyful astonishment, and she gasped,—
“He knows us—his reason is restored!”
The next moment she saw her sad mistake.
“How funny!” cried the poor patient; “there’s our old parson praying. Poor old parson!—he tried to make me a teetotaller. It wouldn’t do, Jacob. Ah, Jacob, never mind me. You’re a jolly good fellow, but you don’t understand things. Give us a song. What shall it be? ‘Three jolly potboys drinking at the “Dragon.”’ What’s amiss? I’m quite well—never was better in my life. How d’ye do, captain?”
These last words he addressed to his father, who was gazing at him in blank misery.
And was it to be always so? Was he to pass out of the world into eternity thus—thrilling the hearts of those who heard him with bitterest agony? No; there came a change. Another day, the remedies had begun to tell on the patient. The fever gradually left him. The fire had faded from his eye, the hectic from his cheek. And now father and mother, one on either side, bent over him. Lady Oldfield read from the blessed Book the parable of the Prodigal Son. She thought that Frank heard her, for there was on his face a look of mingled surprise, pleasure, and bewilderment. Then no one spoke for a while. Nothing was heard but the ticking of Lady Oldfield’s watch, which stood in its case on the dressing-table. Again the poor mother opened the same precious Gospel of Saint Luke, and read out calmly and clearly the parable of the Pharisee and the Publican. Then she knelt by the bed and prayed that her boy might come with the publican’s deep contrition to his God, trusting in the merits of his Saviour. There was a whispered sound from those feeble lips. She could just distinguish the words, “To me a sinner.” They were all, but she blessed God for them. An hour later, and the doctor came. There was no hope in his eye, as he felt the pulse.
“What report?” murmured Sir Thomas. The doctor shook his head.
“Oh, tell me—is he dying?” asked the poor mother.
“He is sinking fast,” was the reply.
“Can nothing restore him?”