more."
Mrs. Ritson was strongly agitated. Her eyes, red with weeping, were aflame with expression.
"Paul, he is conscious," she cried in a voice that her anxiety could not subdue. "He is trying to speak. Where is the lawyer?"
Hugh had been moving toward the outer door.
"Conscious!" he repeated, and returned to the hearth.
"Send for Mr. Bonnithorne at once!" said Mrs. Ritson, addressing Hugh.
Her manner was feverish. Hugh touched the bell. When the servant appeared, he said:
"Tell Natt to run to the village for Mr. Bonnithorne."
Paul had walked to the door of the inner room. His hand was on the handle, when the door opened and Greta came out. She stepped up to Mrs. Ritson and tried to quiet her agitation.
The servant returned.
"I can't find Natt," she said. "He is not in the house."
"You'll find him in the stable," said Hugh, composedly.
The servant went out hurriedly.
Paul returned to the middle of the room.
"I'll go myself," he said, and plucked his hat from the settle, but Mrs. Ritson rose to prevent him.
"No, no, Paul," she said in a tremulous voice, "you must never leave his side."
Paul glanced at his brother with a perplexed look. The calmness of Hugh's manner disturbed him.
The servant reappeared.
"Natt is not in the stable, sir."
Paul's face was growing crimson. Mrs. Ritson turned to Hugh.
"Hugh, my dear son, do you go for the lawyer."
A faint smile that lurked at the corners of Hugh's mouth gave way to a look of injury.
"Mother, my place, also, is here. How can you ask me to leave my father's side at a moment like this?"
Greta had been looking fixedly at Hugh.
"I'll go," she said, resolutely.
"Impossible," said Paul. "It is now dark – the roads are wet and lonely."
"I'll go, nevertheless," said Greta, firmly.
"God bless you, my darling, and love you and keep you forever!" said Paul. Wrapping a cloak about her shoulders, he whispered: "My brave girl – that's the stuff of which an English woman may be made."
He opened the door and walked out with her across the court-yard. The night was now clear and calm; the stars burned; the trees whispered; the distant ghylls, swollen by the rain, roared loud through the thin air; a bird on the bough of a fir-tree whistled and chirped. The storm was gone; only its wreckage lay in the still room within.
"A safe journey to you, dear girl, and a speedy return," whispered Paul, and in another moment Greta had vanished in the dark.
When he returned to the hall, his brother was passing into the room where the sick man lay. Paul was about to follow when his mother, who was walking aimlessly to and fro in yet more violent agitation than before, called on him to remain. He turned about and stepped up to her, observing as he did so that Hugh had paused on the threshold, and was regarding them with a steadfast look.
Mrs. Ritson took Paul's hand with a nervous grasp. Her eyes, that bore the marks of recent tears, had the light of wild excitement.
"God be praised that he is conscious at last!" she said.
Paul shook his head as if in censure of his mother's feelings.
"Let him die in peace," he said; "let his soul pass quietly to its rest. Don't vex it now with thoughts of the cares it leaves behind."
Mrs. Ritson let go his hand, and dropped into a chair. A slight shudder passed over her. Paul looked down with a puzzled expression. Then there was a low sobbing. He leaned over his mother and smoothed her hair tenderly.
"Come, let us go in," he said in a broken voice.
Mrs. Ritson rose from her seat and went down on her knees. Her eyes, still wet, but no longer weeping, were raised to heaven.
"Almighty Father, give me strength!" she said beneath her breath, and then more quietly she rose to her feet.
Paul regarded her with increasing perturbation. Something even more serious than he yet knew of was amiss. Hardly knowing why, his heart sunk still deeper.
"What are we doing?" he said, scarcely realizing his own words.
Mrs. Ritson threw herself on his neck.
"Did I not say there was a terrible reason why your father should make a will?"
Paul's voice seemed to die within him.
"What is it, mother?" he asked feebly, not yet gathering the meaning of his fears.
"God knows, I never dreamed it would be my lips that must tell you," said Mrs. Ritson. "Paul, my son, my darling son, you think me a good mother and a pure woman. I am neither. I must confess all – now – and to you. Oh, how your love will turn from me!"
Paul's face turned pale. His eyes gazed into his mother's eyes with a fixed look. The clock ticked audibly. Not another sound broke the silence. At last Paul spoke.
"Speak, mother," he said; "is it something about my father?"
Mrs. Ritson's face fell on to her son's breast. A strong shudder ran over her shoulders, and she sobbed aloud.
"You are not your father's heir," she said; "you were born before we married… But you will try not to hate me, … your own mother… You will try, will you not?"
Paul's great frame shook visibly. He tried to speak. His tongue cleaved to his mouth.
"Do you mean that I am – a bastard?" he said in a hoarse whisper.
The word seemed to sting his mother like a poisoned arrow. She clung yet closer about his neck.
"Pity me and love me still, though I have wronged you before God and man. I whom the world thought so pure – I am but a whited sepulcher – a dishonored woman dishonoring her dearest son!"
The door opened gently, and Hugh Ritson stood in the door-way. Neither his brother nor his mother realized his presence. He remained a moment, and then withdrew, leaving the door ajar.
Beneath the two whom he left behind, the world at that moment reeled.
Paul stood with great, wide eyes, that had never tear to soften them, gazing vacantly into the weeping eyes before him. His lips quivered, but he did not speak.
"Paul, speak to me – speak to me – only speak – only let me hear your voice! See, I am at your feet – your mother kneels to you – forgive her as God has forgiven her!"
And loosing her grasp, she flung herself on the ground before him, and covered her face with her hands.
Paul
