“Dying, quotha!” returned the young man, with a foolish laugh; “methinks I have heard that tale somewhat too often to be scared by it now, sweet sister!” and he patted her shoulder with a gesture from which she instinctively recoiled.

“Tom, have you no heart?  He will not last the night through.  Got you not our messages, sent hours ago?  How can you show yourself so careless—­so cruel?  But tarry no longer now you are here.  He has asked for you twice.  Take care lest you dally too long!”

Something in Rachel’s face and in her manner of speaking seemed to make an impression upon the young roisterer.  Tom was not drunk, although he had been spending the day with comrades who seasoned every sentence with an oath, and flavoured every pastime with strong drink.  A man with a weaker head might have been overcome by the libations in which he had indulged, but Tom was a seasoned vessel by that time, and he could stand a good deal.

He was in a noisy and reckless mood, but he had the command of his faculties.  He saw that his sister was speaking with conviction, and he prepared to do her bidding.

At the same time, Tom was not seriously alarmed about his father.  The Squire’s long illness had bred in him a sort of disbelief in any fatal termination.  He had made up his mind that women and doctors were all fools together, and frightened themselves for nothing.  He had resolved against letting himself be scared by their long faces and doleful prognostications, and had gone on in his wonted courses with reckless bravado.  He was not altogether an undutiful son.  He had some affection for both father and mother.  But his affection was not strong enough to keep him from following out his own wishes.  He had long been a sort of leader amongst the young men of the place and neighbourhood, and he enjoyed the reputation he held of being a daring young blade, not far inferior in prowess and recklessness to those young bloods about town, reports of whose doings sometimes reached the wilds of Essex, stirring up Tom Tufton’s ambition to follow in their wake.

He always declared that he meant no harm, and did no harm, to any.  The natives of the place were certainly proud of him, even if they sometimes fell to rating and crying shame upon him.  He knew his popularity; he knew that he had a fine figure and a handsome face; he knew that he had the sort of address which carried him through his scrapes and adventures with flying colours.  He found the world a pleasant place, and saw no reason why he should not enjoy himself in his own way whilst he was young.  Some day he would marry and sober down, and live as his fathers had done before him; but, meantime, he meant to have his fling.

There were other Tuftons who had done the like before him, as his father knew to his cost.  Several times had the estate been sadly impoverished by the demands made upon it by some of the wild younger brothers, who had bequeathed (as it seemed) their characteristics to this young scion, Tom.  The Squire himself had been living with great economy, that he might pay off a mortgage which had been contracted by his own father, in order to save the honour of the family, which had been imperilled by the extravagance of his brother.