“I will call him, if you will let me call Mr. Jonah and others with him.”

“Nobody else, I say.  The young chap.  I shall do as I like.”

“Wait till broad daylight, sir, when every one is stirring.  Or let me call Simmons now, to go and fetch the lawyer?  He can be here in less than two hours.”

“Lawyer?  What do I want with the lawyer?  Nobody shall know—­I say, nobody shall know.  I shall do as I like.”

“Let me call some one else, sir,” said Mary, persuasively.  She did not like her position—­alone with the old man, who seemed to show a strange flaring of nervous energy which enabled him to speak again and again without falling into his usual cough; yet she desired not to push unnecessarily the contradiction which agitated him.  “Let me, pray, call some one else.”

“You let me alone, I say.  Look here, missy.  Take the money.  You’ll never have the chance again.  It’s pretty nigh two hundred—­ there’s more in the box, and nobody knows how much there was.  Take it and do as I tell you.”

Mary, standing by the fire, saw its red light falling on the old man, propped up on his pillows and bed-rest, with his bony hand holding out the key, and the money lying on the quilt before him.  She never forgot that vision of a man wanting to do as he liked at the last.  But the way in which he had put the offer of the money urged her to speak with harder resolution than ever.

“It is of no use, sir.  I will not do it.  Put up your money.  I will not touch your money.  I will do anything else I can to comfort you; but I will not touch your keys or your money.”

“Anything else anything else!” said old Featherstone, with hoarse rage, which, as if in a nightmare, tried to be loud, and yet was only just audible.  “I want nothing else.  You come here—­you come here.”

Mary approached him cautiously, knowing him too well.  She saw him dropping his keys and trying to grasp his stick, while he looked at her like an aged hyena, the muscles of his face getting distorted with the effort of his hand.  She paused at a safe distance.

“Let me give you some cordial,” she said, quietly, “and try to compose yourself.  You will perhaps go to sleep.  And to-morrow by daylight you can do as you like.”

He lifted the stick, in spite of her being beyond his reach, and threw it with a hard effort which was but impotence.  It fell, slipping over the foot of the bed.  Mary let it lie, and retreated to her chair by the fire.  By-and-by she would go to him with the cordial.  Fatigue would make him passive.  It was getting towards the chillest moment of the morning, the fire had got low, and she could see through the chink between the moreen window-curtains the light whitened by the blind.  Having put some wood on the fire and thrown a shawl over her, she sat down, hoping that Mr. Featherstone might now fall asleep.  If she went near him the irritation might be kept up.  He had said nothing after throwing the stick, but she had seen him taking his keys again and laying his right hand on the money.  He did not put it up, however, and she thought that he was dropping off to sleep.