along with me – leave the women-folk behind – master's down – the lightning has struck him – I'm afeart he's dead!"
"My father!" said Paul, and stood for a moment with a bewildered look. "Go on, Reuben, I'll follow." Paul picked up his hat and was gone in an instant.
Mrs. Ritson had been stooping over the griddle when Reuben entered. She heard what he said, and rose up with a face of death-like pallor. But she said nothing, and sunk helplessly into a chair. Then Greta stepped up to her and kissed her.
"Mother – dear mother!" she said, and Mrs. Ritson dropped her head on the girl's breast.
Hugh had been sitting over some papers in his own room off the first landing. He overheard the announcement, and came into the hall.
"Your father has been struck by the lightning," said Greta.
"They will fetch him home," said Hugh.
At the next moment there was the sound from without of burdened footsteps. They were bearing the injured man. Through the back of the house they carried him to his room.
"That is for my sake," said Mrs. Ritson, raising her tear-stained face to listen.
Paul entered. His ruddy cheeks had grown ashy white. His eyes, that had blinked with pleasure a minute ago, now stared wide with fear.
"Is he alive?"
"Yes."
"Thank God! oh, thank God forever and ever! Let me go in to him."
"He is unconscious – he breathes – but no more."
Mrs. Ritson, with Paul and Greta, went into the room in which they had placed the stricken man. He lay across the bed in his clothes, just as he had fallen. They bathed his forehead and applied leeches to his temples. He breathed heavily, but gave no sign of consciousness.
Paul sat at his father's side with his face buried in his hands. He was recalling his boyish days, when his father would lift him in his arms and throw him on the bare back of the pony that he gave him on his thirteenth birthday. Could it be possible that the end was at hand!
He got up and led Greta out of the room.
"This house of mourning is no place for you," he said; "the storm is over: you must leave us; Natt can put the mare into the trap and drive you home."
"I will not go," said Greta; "this shall be my home to-night. Don't send me away from you, Paul. You are in trouble, and my place is here."
"You could do no good, and might take some harm."
Mrs. Ritson came out.
"Where is Mr. Bonnithorne?" she asked. "He was to be here at eight. Your father might recover consciousness."
"The lawyer could do nothing to help him."
"If he is to leave us, may it please God to give him one little hour of consciousness."
"Yes, knowing us again – giving us a farewell word."
"There is another reason – a more terrible reason!"
"You are thinking of the will. Let that go by. Come, mother – and Greta, too – come, let us go back."
Half an hour later the house was as still as the chamber of death. With hushed voices and noiseless steps the women-servants moved to and from the room where lay the dying man. The farming men sat together in an outer kitchen, and talked in whispers.
The storm had passed away; the stars struggled one by one through a rack of flying cloud, and a silver fringe of moonlight sometimes fretted the black patches of the sky.
Hugh Ritson sat alone in the old hall, that was now desolate enough. His face rested on his hand, and his elbow on his knee. There was a strange light in his eyes. It was not sorrow, and it was not pain; it was anxiety, uncertainty, perturbation. Again and again he started up from a deep reverie, and then a half-smothered cry escaped him. He walked a few paces to and fro, and sat down once more.
A servant crossed the hall on tiptoe. Hugh raised his head.
"How is your patient now?" he said, quietly.
"Just breathing, sir; still quite unconscious."
Hugh got up uneasily. A mirror hung on the wall in front of him, and he stood and looked vacantly into it. His thoughts wandered, and when a gleam of consciousness returned the first object that he saw was the reflection of his own face. It was full of light and expression. Perhaps it wore a ghostly smile. He turned away from the sight impatiently.
Sitting down again he tried to compose himself. Point by point he revolved the situation. He thought of what the lawyer had said of his deserted wife and lost son of Lowther. Then, taking out of an inner pocket the medallion that Mr. Bonnithorne had lent him, he looked at it long and earnestly.
The inspection seemed to afford a grim satisfaction. There could be no doubt now of the ghostly smile that played upon his face.
There was a tall antique clock in the corner of the hall. It struck eight. The slow beats of the bell echoed chillily in the hushed apartment. The hour awakened the consciousness of the brooding man. At eight o'clock Mr. Bonnithorne was appointed to be there to make the will.
Hugh Ritson touched gently a hand-bell that stood on the table. A servant entered.
"Send Natt to me," said Hugh.
A moment later the stableman shambled into the hall. He was a thick-set young fellow with a short neck and a full face, and eyelids that hung deep over a pair of cunning eyes. At first sight one would have said that the rascal was only half awake; at the second glance, that he was never asleep.
Hugh received him with a show of cordiality.
"Ah, Natt, come here – closer."
The man walked across. Hugh dropped his voice.
"Go down to Little Town and find Mr. Bonnithorne. You may meet him on the way. If not, he will be at the Flying Horse. Tell him I sent you to say that Adam Fallow lies dying at Bigrigg, and must see him at once. You understand?"
The man lifted his slumberous eyelids. A suspicious twinkle lurked beneath them. He glanced around, then down at his big, grimy boots, measured with one uplifted hand the altitude of the bump on the top of his bullet head, and muttered, "I understand."
Hugh's face darkened.
"Silence!" he said, sternly; and then he met Natt's upward glance with a faint smile. "When you come back, get yourself out of the way – do you hear?"
The heavy eyelids went up once more. "I hear."
"Then be off!"
The fellow was shuffling away.
"Natt," said Hugh, following him a step, "you fancied that new whip of mine; take it. You'll find it in the porch."
A smile crossed Natt's face from ear to ear. He stumbled out.
Hugh Ritson returned to the hearth. That haunting mirror caught the light of his eyes again and showed that he too was smiling. At the same instant there came
