In vain they urged him to be calm; his reasoning powers seemed to have deserted him.
‘He must not die; he shall not die!’ he repeated; until Colonel Lindsay, laying his hand upon his shoulder, whispered: ‘There is hope. Do not despair. My old friend, remember how much yet remains to be done for him. The active cause of mischief is at last removed.’ He produced a small piece of the blade of a knife, at the sight of which the Squire shuddered. ‘Humanly speaking, you owe his life twice over to Nathan Boltz. As to the perpetrator of the outrage, he will be dealt with according to his deserts; at present, we have no clue to his whereabouts.’
This speech of the Colonel’s was intended to answer two purposes—to give the Squire time to recover himself, and to arrest any remarks which might fall from the medical men, who were to remain all night at the Hall. It had the desired effect; they saw that private family affairs were connected with this murderous attack and remained silent, only insisting that Nathan (whom Bertram had faintly recognised) should remain with him. The Squire sent for him, and in the presence of all his family, grasped him by the hand and begged him to stay. How he overcame all his scruples, how he placed himself in the position of a debtor, was made plain to all who heard him; and Gertrude felt her heart throb almost to pain as she sat by listening to the words of her father, the proudest of the Peregrine race.
Therefore it was that Nathan took his place in the sick-room, surrounded by every luxury which appertains to wealth. It was a strange position; but he entered upon it with his usual large-hearted earnestness, believing he was fulfilling his promise to the mother of the sick man.
In the meantime, Patricia was undergoing a torment of fear and suspense. A week had elapsed, Oliver had not returned, and no inquiry had as yet been made concerning him. She dared not question any one, and though many an eye was bent upon her in a half-pitying manner, she would not for worlds betray her wretchedness. She asked not to be confirmed in her miserable doubts and horrible fears, for she felt certain her lover was somehow concerned in her brother’s illness. Yet why this change in her father? She could not understand; and pondering day by day, became pale and ill, restless and depressed.
Christmas-day came and went much in the same way as other days. There were no decorations in the church, and no sound of the sweet loud bells of Linden Tower, for Bertram lay hovering between life and death, and all bell-ringing was suspended on his account. Another week passed on; wearily dragged the hours; when at the close of a dark day of rain and wind, a messenger arrived with a note for Patricia, which caused her heart to throb and her pulse to rebound with agonising pain. The writer of the dirty ill-spelt letter begged her to go at once to a farm-house ten miles distant, where Oliver Peregrine lay dying. Now Patricia knew she must put away her mask for ever. With eager haste she ran with the summons to her father, and the utter wretchedness in her face made him full of pity for her.
‘Jenkyns shall bring the carriage for you, my darling, immediately. I know the spot; close to the stone quarries—a dangerous place. Be brave, Patricia. But you must not go alone; Colonel Lindsay will accompany you.’
She made no reply; her white lips moved, but no sound came forth. After a vain attempt to speak, she left the room, and shortly after was handed by Colonel Lindsay into the carriage. Their drive was accomplished in silence. Patricia’s agonising suspense was too great for speech; and her gallant companion felt too much to attempt commonplaces.
When they arrived at the farm, Patricia descended from the carriage, and entered the house alone. In an inner room a woman was busy making a clearance of such articles as she could stuff away in corners and behind chairs, while a faint moaning told that the unhappy man occupied the apartment.
‘I found the gentleman lying at the bottom of a quarry,’ said the man who lived on the farm. ‘It’s a fortnight back, sir, that going round the place as late as ten o’clock, I heard as it were close to me some one groaning as if in dreadful pain. It was some time before I could find out where the noise came from. At last my wife and me together got down to the bottom of the quarry, and managed between us to drag him to the top. He was wonderful bad, but refused to tell his name or let a doctor be fetched, and only let my boy run with the note because he felt he was dying. We have done what we could, sir; but you see we don’t know many folks about here, or we might have helped him more.’