What would have happened next there is no saying, but at that moment the door opened, and Mrs Maplestone appeared on the threshold. Uncle Godfrey was in pain. He wished to go to bed. Would Tony come and give him an arm? Retribution sure and swift fell upon the Squire. All night long he tossed in pain, and in the early morn the doctor was summoned, who delivered himself of a gloomy verdict: Serious. One bad attack following hard on the top of another. The patient had been warned, and the patient had transgressed. The patient's heart was not in a condition to stand these repeated strains. The patient must have a nurse. Must be kept quiet. The patient must be safeguarded against irritation and strain. Excitement at this juncture might have serious effects. Then the doctor drove away, and the patient, who was to be kept quiet, proceeded to work himself into a condition of fuss and antagonism against every separate member of the household, and in especial against Antony, his heir. It was Antony's fault that he was laid low; the contrariety of Antony which had ruined his health; and now he lay at death's door (he was at death's door; he _chose_ to lie at death's door! It was his own business, he supposed, at whose door he should lie?); now, even at this last moment, Antony delayed, prevaricated, shilly-shallied, talked calmly of waiting a couple of years! It was not the girl's fault. The girl was willing enough. She was making a pretence of unwillingness. All girls made a pretence. Let Antony stand up to her like a man, and she would give in; be glad to give in. Summon Antony! Summon the girl! Let them be brought before him. Let this matter be settled once for all! Trembling, Mrs Maplestone obeyed his orders. Trembling, Juliet obeyed, and stood beside the patient's bed. Antony was not trembling, but his cheek was pale. Crimson cheeked, bright of eye, the patient made his pronouncement: He had waited long enough; he could wait no longer; within the next few days he intended to die--probably to-morrow, or the day after; but before he died he wished to see his heir married to the woman of his choice. Send instantly for a priest! "My dear uncle," Antony protested, "the thing's impossible. Even if-- even if--There are preliminaries. Banns. Licences. It is a case of weeks; of _several_ weeks--" But the Squire knew better. There were such things as special licences. When money was no object, when life and death hung in the balance, mountains had been, mountains could again be, removed. With a shaking hand he beckoned Juliet to his side, and levied a shocking question: "Girl, do you wish to kill me?" "You don't understand, you don't understand!" wailed the unhappy girl. "Dear Mr Maplestone, try to be quiet; try not to worry about us. Only get better, and then--then--"