"It was that my Phoebe—my sister—oh, my dear sister!—dead so many years ago—sat by me here, as you sit now—and we talked and talked of the old time—and our young Squire, so beautiful, upon his horse.... Oh, but then—but then!..." She checked herself suddenly, and a look of horror came in her face; then went on:—"No, listen! There was an awful thing in the dream—a bad thing—about a letter.... Oh, how can I tell it?..."
Gwen caught at the pause to speak, saying gently but firmly:—"Dear Mrs. Picture, it was no dream, but all true. Believe me, I know. When you are quite well and strong, I will tell you all over again about the letter, and how my dear old father found it all out for you. And I tell you what! You shall come and live here with your sister and daughter, instead of Sapps Court.... Oh no—you shall have Dave and Dolly. They shall come too." This was Gwen's scheme, but it was no older than the mention just made of it. "I can do these things," she added. "Papa lets me do what I choose."
Old Maisie lay back, looking at the beautiful face in a kind of wonderment. The feeling it gave her that she was in the hands of some superior power was the most favourable one possible in a case where fever was the result of mental disquiet. Presently the strain on the face abated, and the wild look in the eyes. The lids drooped, then closed over them. Something like sleep followed, leaving Gwen free to rejoin old Phoebe and Ruth, outside. They were still close at hand.
"Did you hear all that?" said Gwen. It appeared that they had, or the greater part. The account of how the night had passed was postponed, owing to the arrival of Dr. Nash.
"I would sooner give her no drugs of any sort," said he, when he had taken a good look at the patient. "I will leave something for her to take if she doesn't get sleep naturally. Otherwise the choice is between giving her something harmless to make her believe she is taking medicine, and telling her she has nothing whatever the matter with her. I incline to the last. Get her to take food whenever you can. Always have something ready for her whenever's there a chance. I expect you to see to that, Widow Thrale. And, Lady Gwendolen, you are good for her—remember that! You've got to pretend you're God Almighty—do you understand?" It goes without saying that by this time no one else was within hearing.
"I understand perfectly," said Gwen. "That little doze she had just now was because I pledged myself and my father to the reality of the whole thing. She had got to think it was all a dream."
She suppressed, as the sort of thing for London, a thought that came into her head at this moment, that it was the first time the family coronet had been of the slightest use to any living creature! Not here, with the hush of the Feudal System still on the land, and the old church at Chorlton's monotonous belfry calling its flock to celebrate the Third Sunday in Advent. For next Sunday was Christmas Eve, and old Maisie's eighty-first birthday. Next Monday was old Phoebe's, with just the stroke of midnight between them.
Gwen seized the opportunity to get from Dr. Nash a fuller account of his disclosure to old Phoebe. He told her what we know already.
"Only I'm due at the other end of the village," said he, ending up. He looked at his watch. "I've got five minutes.... Yes—it was the small boy's letter that did the job. I had been hammering away at the old lady to get the thin of the wedge in, and I assure you it was useless. Worse than useless! So I gave it up. But I suspect that some shot of mine hit the mark, without my seeing it. Something had made her susceptible. And when the kid's letter came, that did it. I wasn't there."
"Oh—then you only heard...."