Grey placed himself at the side of the vast bedstead. Sir Alexander had
sold off all his personal furniture; he occupied one of the state rooms
and slept in one of the enormous state bedsteads; these bedsteads were
in the deeds he could not alter, and had to go down to the next heir.
The first look the banker cast at the face of the sick man gave him a
shock.
The old baronet had always had a colour in his cheeks; now all the
colour was gone from the cheeks and gathered into the temples and
forehead. The wrinkled forehead was of a dull brick colour. The great
forked dark vein of the forehead stood up out of the dry red skin like
the forked mullion of a gothic window, against whose crimson panes the
west is red. In the temples of the old man the rugged veins were swollen
and knotted, and in the purple hollows between the dark blue knots a
quick feeble pulse fluttered and hurried forward like a frightened
hunted beast. Through the counterpane the thin form showed sharply. The
breathing was quick and unquiet, the eyes staring and fixed upon the
carved oak ceiling. Apparently the delirious paroxysm had passed, and
the patient was suffering from modified collapse.
"He will be better presently, and may recognise you," whispered Mrs.
Grant into Grey's ear. She stood by his side. At the foot stood Maud,
weeping softly, silently. For a while no one moved.
Gradually the breathing of the sick man grew more steady, and the
fluttering pulse in the hollow temples more regular.
"In a few minutes," whispered the widow, "he will be quite collected."
As she had foretold, his eyes descended from the ceiling and began
running over the room and those present, as if trying to recover memory.
At length they were fixed on Grey and did not move from him. Although
the eye was dull and clouded, there was a look of intelligence in it. It
was the eye of a weakened intellect rather than of a disordered one.
"Ah, Grey, is that you?"
"Yes, Sir Alexander. I hope you feel better?"
"I am quite well. I have been greatly troubled about that money, those
Consols. They tell me they have been sold. Is it true that my Consols
have been sold? I ask you in the presence of my daughter, for whom they
were saved, have they been sold?" The sick man's eyes were filmy; but
while they were dull to the perception of surrounding objects, they
seemed to be partly closed against objects of natural vision only that
they might be partly opened to unascertainable forms and figures of
supernatural view.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
The Weird Sisters: A Romance. Volume 1 (of 3) — John Shaqi
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