Mr Colebatch, reduced to his last resources, hit on what he considered a first-rate stratagem. He privately informed Annie, that he would insist on his whole establishment of servants, with Mrs Buddle, the housekeeper, at their head, learning elocution; so as to employ Mr Wray again, in a duty he was used to perform. ‘None of those infernal Tidbury people will learn,’ said the kind old Squire; ‘so my servants shall make a class for him, with Mrs Buddle at the top, to keep them in order. Set him teaching in his own way; and he must come round — he must from force of habit!’ But he did not. They told him a class of new pupils was waiting for him; he just answered he was very glad to hear it; and forgot all about the matter the moment afterwards.
The doctor endeavoured to help them. He tried stimulants, and tried sedatives; he tried keeping his patient in bed, and tried keeping him up; he tried blistering, and tried cupping; and then he gave over; saying that Mr Wray must certainly have something on his mind, and that physic and regimen were of no use. One word of comfort, however, the doctor still had to speak. The physical strength of the old man had failed him very little, as yet. He was always ready to be got out of bed, and dressed; and seemed glad when he was seated in his chair. This was a good sign; but there was no telling how long it might last.
It had lasted a whole week — a long, blank melancholy winter’s week! And now, Christmas Day was fast coming; coming for the first time as a day of mourning, to the little family who, in spite of poverty and all poverty’s hardening disasters, had hitherto enjoyed it happily and lovingly together, as the blessed holiday of the whole year! Ah! how doubly heavy-hearted poor Annie felt, as she entered her bedroom for the night, and remembered that that day fortnight would be Christmas Day!
She was beginning to look wan and thin already. It is not joy only, that shows soonest and plainest in the young: grief — alas that it should be so — shares, in this world, the same privilege: and Annie now looked, as she felt, sick at heart. That day had brought no change: she had left the old man for the night, and left him no better. He had passed hours again, in trying to restore the mask; still instinctively exhibiting from time to time some fondness and attention towards his grandchild — but just as hopelessly vacant to every other influence as ever.
Annie listlessly sat down on the one chair in her small bedroom, thinking (it was her only thought now,) of what new plan could be adopted to rouse her grandfather on the morrow; and still mourning over the broken mask, as the one fatal obstacle to every effort she could try. Thus she sat for some minutes, languid and dreamy — when, suddenly, a startling and a wonderful change came over her, worked from within. She bounded up from her chair, as dead-pale and as dead-still as if she had been struck to stone. Then, a moment after, her face flushed crimson, she clasped her hands violently together, and drew her breath quick. And then, the paleness came once more — she trembled all over — and knelt down by the bedside, hiding her face in her hands.
When she rose again, the tears were rolling fast over her cheeks. She poured out some water, and washed them away. A strange expression of firmness — a glow of enthusiasm, beautiful in its brightness and purity — overspread her face, as she took up her candle, and left the room.
She went to the very top of the house, where the carpenter slept; and knocked at his door.
‘Are you not gone to bed yet, Martin?’ — she whispered — (the old joke of calling him ‘Julius Caesar’ was all over now!)
He opened the door in astonishment, saying he had only that moment got upstairs.
‘Come down to the drawing-room, Martin,’ she said; looking brightly at him — almost wildly, as he thought. ‘Come quick! I must speak to you at once.’
He followed her downstairs. When they got into the drawing-room, she carefully closed the door; and then said: —
‘A thought has come to me, Martin, that I must tell you. It came to me just now, when I was alone in my room; and I believe God sent it!’
She beckoned to him to sit by her side; and then began to whisper in his ear — quickly, eagerly, without pause.
His face began to turn pale at first, as hers had done, while he listened. Then it flushed, then grew firm like hers, but in a far stronger degree. When she had finished speaking, he only said, it was a terrible risk every way — repeating ‘every way’ with strong emphasis; but that she wished it; and therefore it should be done.
As they rose to separate, she said tenderly and gravely: —
‘You have always been very good to me, Martin: be good, and be a brother to me more than ever now — for now I am trusting you with all I have to trust.’
Years afterwards when they were married, and when their children were growing up around them, he remembered Annie’s last look, and Annie’s last words, as they parted that night.
IX
The next morning, when the old man was ready to get out of bed and be dressed, it was not the honest carpenter who came to help him as usual, but a stranger — the landlady’s brother. He never noticed this change. What thoughts he had left, were all preoccupied. The evening before, from an affectionate wish to humour him in the caprice which had become the one leading idea of his life, Annie had bought for him a bottle of cement. And now, he went on murmuring to himself, all the while he was being dressed, about the certainty of his succeeding at last in piecing together the broken fragments of the mask, with the aid of this cement. It was only the glue, he said, that had made him fail hitherto; with cement to aid him, he was quite certain of success.
The landlady and her brother helped him down into the drawing-room. Nobody was there; but on the table, where the breakfast things were laid, was placed a small note. He looked round inquisitively when he first saw that the apartment was empty. Then, the only voice within him that was not silenced — the voice of his heart — spoke, and told him that Annie ought to have been in the room to meet him as usual.
‘Where is she?’ he asked eagerly.
‘Don’t leave me alone with him, James,’ whispered the landlady to her brother, ‘there’s bad news to tell him.’
‘Where is she?’ he reiterated; and his eye got a wild look, as he asked the question for the second time.
‘Pray, compose yourself, sir; and read that letter,’ said the landlady, in soothing tones; ‘Miss Annie’s quite safe, and wants you to read this.’ She handed him the letter.
He struck it away; so fiercely that she started back in terror. Then he cried out violently for the third time:
‘Where is she?’
‘Tell him,’ whispered the landlady’s brother, ‘tell him at once, or you’ll make him worse.’
‘Gone, sir,’ said the woman — ’gone away; but only for three days. The last words she said were, tell my grandfather I shall be back in three days; and give him that letter with my dearest love. Oh, don’t look so, sir — don’t look so! She’s sure to be back.’
He was muttering ‘gone’ several times to himself, with a fearful expression of vacancy in his eyes. Suddenly, he signed to have the letter picked up from the ground; tore it open the moment it was given to him; and began to try to read the contents.
The letter was short, and written in very blotted unsteady characters. It ran thus: —
‘Dearest Grandfather, — I never left you before in my life; and I only go now to try and serve you, and do you good. In
