"But suddenly, after no Christmas festivities (for he would hear of none, for the sake of your dear mother), he was found on the morning of the last day in the year bolt upright in his study chair, and fully dressed, with two pistols, loaded and cocked, on the table, no sign of life in his face or pulse, his body stiff yet limp, like a sand-bag tightly stuffed. The man who found him described it better than I can. ’Poor master, whichever way I put him, there he stop, like a French dog doing tricks.’’ "How terrible!" "Yes, but it was true. At first they thought it was catalepsy only; but when that passed off, paralysis remained. I wanted to send for you at once." Here she met, for she could not help it, but did not answer, my gaze; and I knew it was a lie. "However, I was over-ruled; and your poor uncle lay bed-ridden, but in no actual danger, until this horrid low fever came. He must have a frame of iron to have borne up as he has. The doctor says this fever is partly from the prostration of the nerves." "Who is the doctor?" I felt almost as if I could love my uncle. "A very eminent man. His name is Churchyard." "That is not our old medical man. Where does this gentleman come from?" "Cheltenham, I believe." "Surely, you must know that, if he is an eminent man; living there yourself!" I saw that she had brought him. "Well," she answered sharply, "it matters little where he comes from, and I have not verified his residence. I fear all the doctors in Europe could not save your poor dear uncle." And here (from habit when death was thought of) she fell into the hypocritical vein once more--"Ah, how true it is! The thing that will most avail him now, when his poor sinful frame is perishing, and the old man with all its works--" "Thank you. I know all that. Which room does my uncle occupy?" "Surely, you never would think of disturbing him at midnight!" "Does death look what o’clock it is? If he is really dying, I must see him at once." She seemed resolved to prevent me. I was determined to do it. It is needless to tell all her stratagems, and needless to say (unless I have failed to depict myself) that they proved utterly vain. I was only surprised that she did not come with me. CHAPTER XVII. How vast the rooms appeared to me, how endless the main passages, after the dimensions long familiar at Tossil’s Barton, and Mrs. Shelfer’s. I even feared to lose the way, where my childish feet had measured every step. First I hurried to my own snug room, or rooms--for I had parlour and bedroom adjoining--in the western wing, where mother used to live. Everything there was in beautiful order, a lamp and a good fire lighted; and Matilda Jenkins met me at the door.