made him seem almost restless during his conversation with Wilford.
"And your own children, doctor, are they well? Little sunny-headed things, how well I remember them, and the romps there used to be with them on the lawn at the back of your house. How I used to frighten them with telling them there were really live lions in Grilling Park, who would be sure to pounce upon them and eat them up, some day, at two mouthfuls. They declared it wasn't true, and yet they were always frightened, and took such tight hold of my hand. Such pretty children, too!"
"Thank you," said the doctor, looking very happy and pleased; "they are very well. But as for children! Time has been going on with you, and he hasn't been stopping with other people. I'm sure Vi wouldn't let you call her a child, and I don't think Madge would either; or perhaps I ought to say, rather, that I am sure Madge wouldn't, and I have grave doubts about Vi, for I believe it is always the youngest who are the most peremptory on these matters; and little Madge is now—let me see—she must be just fifteen—at least I think so; but you know that fathers never can remember their children's ages. But here I am talking, and keeping you from eating, and you must be as hungry as a hunter—quite faint, I should say rather, for want of food. You look very white. Always so? No, surely not; it must be the cold. The Grange is a dreadfully cold place. Gets worse and worse, I think, every winter. Perhaps it is that I feel it more and more, from growing older. Come close to the fire, and try and eat something, do. No, I wouldn't drink all that wine without eating something, if I were you. That's a very strong sherry—a good, sound wine; but I think some of this Madeira would be better for you. I'm not at all sure that the best thing you could do wouldn't be to go and get between the sheets at once, and try and have a good night's rest."
"I don't like his looks at all," he muttered to himself. Just then the housekeeper entered, making a profound curtsey to Mr. Wilford. He did not appear to notice her: he was gazing sternly into the fire, profoundly abstracted. She approached softly, and said something in a low voice to the doctor.
"Very well," he said, "I'll see to it:" and she left the room. The doctor's manner changed. He abandoned the light, pleasant tone in which he had until then been speaking. He looked very serious now. He placed his hand upon Wilford's shoulder.
"Your father will see you," he said. Wilford rose up, trembling.
"One moment," said the doctor, staying him as he moved towards the door. "I will go in with you. But I should caution you: Mr. Hadfield is very weak, yet at times he is almost violent; his strength seems to return to him for the occasion, and he permits himself to be strangely moved and excited. These paroxysms, for so I may almost call them—are very bad for him. You know something of his temper, of old. Age and illness have not bettered it. Be temperate with him, my dear boy. Don't irritate him. Say as little as possible. For your own sake, as well as his, don't offend him again—don't do that. Be careful, my dear boy. God prosper you."
The doctor shook hands with him affectionately.
"He is my father," said Wilford, in a husky voice. "I will remember that now, though I forgot it before. How my heart beats! Let us go to his room."
They ascended the staircase, and stopped before the door of a room on the first floor—the room in which old Mr. Hadfield, of the Grange, lay dying.
It was but dimly lighted by the fire burning rather low in the grate and a lamp on the table at the side of the invalid's bed, but placed so that his eyes should not be offended by its glare, and so that the shadow of the curtains should fall upon his face. Between the bed and the fire-place Stephen Hadfield was seated on a low chair with a large book in his hands, open at a particular place, as though he had been reading to his father.
The housekeeper was at the door to admit the visitors; another woman who had been acting as nurse was bending drowsily over the fire. The room was very large, with carved ceiling and heavy cornices. Every now and then, as a flame flickered in the grate, you could trace the dim outlines of a large allegorical painting, much dimmed and clouded by years, amongst the raised ornaments of the ceiling. But the colours were not very strong now, the drawing in places was quite undefinable, and much of the gilding of the portions in relief was very dull and black.
On a high, carved, four-post bedstead, with heavy, dull crimson hangings, old Mr. Hadfield was stretched at length, breathing heavily. He had been a tall man you could see at once, and handsome, too; his son Wilford's resemblance to him was remarkable; but he looked very gaunt and grim and grisly now, he was so wasted by age and illness. He had the fierce black eyes of Wilford, and falling on his forehead the same thick hair, save that it was perfectly white in his case. His cheeks were dreadfully sunken, while there was something unnatural about the brilliancy of his eyes, flashing from such hollow sockets. He stared steadily at his son, scrutinising him as he entered with the doctor. The poor old man was painfully weak, it could be seen at a glance; once he tried to raise himself up in the bed, but he sank back after an ineffectual effort. Wilford for the first few moments, unaccustomed to the low light of the room, could not clearly perceive his father, shadowed by the curtains of the bed. As yet, neither had spoken. The room was very still; you could hear the tickings of the watch in the pocket over the old man's head, above even his heavy breathing—above the trembling of the embers on the hearth—above the gasping which Wilford experienced consequent upon the terribly quick beating of his heart. He was about to address his father, but the doctor's hand on his arm checked him. The eyes of the old man turned from his first to his second son.
