‘Tell Carpenter to put the horse in,’ John suggested.  ’I expect he’s waiting about in the kitchen.’

‘No,’ said Leonora, ’I’ll pin my skirt up and walk.  I shall be half way there before he’s ready to start.’

When Leonora had departed, John redoubled his activity as a nurse.  ‘There’s no object in changing the cloths as often as that,’ said Rose.  But his suspense forbade him to keep still.  Rose annoyed him excessively, and the nervous energy which should have helped towards self-control was expended in concealing that annoyance.  He felt as though he should go mad unless something decisive happened very soon.  To his surprise, just after the hall clock (which was always kept half-an-hour fast) had sounded three through the dark passages of the apprehensive house, Rose left the room.  He was alone with what remained of Uncle Meshach.  He moved the blanket, and touched the cloth which lay on Meshach’s heart.  ‘Not too hot, that,’ he said aloud.  Taking the cloth he walked to the fire, where was a large saucepan full of nearly boiling water.  He picked up the lid of the saucepan, dropped it, crossed over to the washstand with a brusque movement, and plunged the cloth into the cold water of the ewer.  Holding it there, he turned and gazed in a sort of abstract meditation at Uncle Meshach, who steadily ignored him.  He was possessed by a genuine feeling of righteous indignation against his uncle....  He drew the cloth from the ewer, squeezed it a little, and approached the bed again.  And as he stood over Meshach with the cloth in his hand, he saw his wife in the doorway.  He knew in an instant that his own face had frightened her and prevented her from saying what she was about to say.

‘How you startled me, Nora!’ he exclaimed, with his surpassing genius for escaping from an apparently fatal situation.

She ran up to the bed.  ‘Don’t keep uncle uncovered like that,’ she said; ‘put it on.’  And she took the cloth from his hand.  ‘Why,’ she cried, ‘it’s like ice!  What on earth are you doing?  Where’s Rose?’

‘I was just taking it off,’ he replied.  ‘What about aunt?’

‘I met the girls down the road,’ she said.  ‘Your aunt is dead.’

* * * * *

A few minutes later Uncle Meshach’s rigid frame suffered a convulsion; the whole surface of his skin sweated abundantly; his eyes wavered, closed, and opened again; his mouth made the motion of swallowing.  He had come back from unconsciousness.  He was no longer an enigma, wrapped in supercilious and inflexible calm; but a sick, shrivelled little man, so pitiably prostrate that his condition drew the sympathy out of Leonora with a sharp violent pain, as very cold metal burns the fingers.  He could not even whisper; he could only look.  Soon afterwards Dr. Hawley returned, explaining that the anxiety of a husband about to be a father had called him too soon by several hours.  The doctor, who had been informed of Aunt Hannah’s death as he entered the house, said at once, on seeing him, that Uncle Meshach had had a marvellous escape.  Then, when he had succoured the patient further, he turned rather formidably to Leonora.