“You don’t know what a deep schemer that young man has been, Marian,” he said, “and how I have laughed in my sleeve at his manoeuvres.”

The dull November day dragged itself slowly through, Marian never leaving her post by the sick-bed.  Jacob Nowell spent those slow hours in fitful sleep and frequent intervals of wakefulness, in which he would talk to Marian, however she might urge him to remember the doctor’s injunctions that he should be kept perfectly quiet.  It seemed indeed to matter very little whether he obeyed the doctor or not, since the end was inevitable.

One of the curates of the parish came in the course of the day, and read and prayed beside the old man’s bed, Jacob Nowell joining in the prayers in a half-mechanical way.  For many years of his life he had neglected all religious duties.  It was years since he had been inside a church; perhaps he had not been once since the death of his wife, who had persuaded him to go with her sometimes to the evening service, when he had generally scandalised her by falling asleep during the delivery of the sermon.  All that the curate told him now about the necessity that he should make his peace with his God, and prepare himself for a world to come, had a far-off sound to him.  He thought more about the silver downstairs, and what it was likely to realize in the auction-room.  Even in this supreme hour his conscience did not trouble him much about the doubtful modes by which some of the plate he had dealt in had reached his hands.  If he had not bought the things, some other dealer would have bought them.  That is the easy-going way in which he would have argued the question, had he been called upon to argue it at all.

Mr. Fenton came in the evening to see the old man, and stood for a little time by the bedside watching him as he slept, and talking in a low voice to Marian.  He asked her how long she was going to remain in Queen Anne’s Court, and found her ideas very vague upon that subject.

“If the end is so near as the doctor says, it would be cruel to leave my grandfather till all is over,” she said.

“I wonder that your husband has not come to you, if he is in London,” Gilbert remarked to her presently.  He found himself very often wondering about her husband’s proceedings, in no indulgent mood.

“He may not be in London,” she answered, seeming a little vexed by the observation.  “I am quite sure that he will do whatever is best.”

“But if he should not come to you, and if your grandfather should die while you are alone here, I trust you will send for me and let me give you any help you may require.  You can scarcely stay in this house after the poor old man’s death.”

“I shall go back to Hampshire immediately; if I am not wanted here for anything—­to make arrangements for the funeral.  O, how hard it seems to speak of that while he is still living!”

“You need give yourself no trouble on that account.  I will see to all that, if there is no more proper person to do so.”