An attack of rheumatic fever in the summer had left him
little better than a cripple. He crawled abroad still when he was able,
and _would_ do so, in spite of what Mr. Hillary said; would lie about the
damp ground in a lawless, gipsying sort of manner; but by the time winter
came all that was over, and Mr. Pike's career, as foretold by the
surgeon, was drawing rapidly to a close. Mrs. Gum was his good Samaritan,
as she had been in the fever some years before, going in and out and
attending to him; and in a reasonable way Pike wanted for nothing.
"How long can I last?" he abruptly asked the doctor one morning. "Needn't
fear to say. _She_'s the only one that will take on; I shan't."
He alluded to Mrs. Gum, who had just gone out. The surgeon considered.
"Two or three days."
"As much as that?"
"I think so."
"Oh!" said Pike. "When it comes to the last day I should like to see Lord
Hartledon."
"Why the last day?"
The man's pinched features broke into a smile; pleasant and fair features
once, with a gentle look upon them. The black wig and whiskers lay near
him; but the real hair, light and scanty, was pushed back from the damp
brow.
"No use, then, to think of giving me up: no time left for it."
"I question if Lord Hartledon would give you up were you in rude health.
I'm sure he would not," added Mr. Hillary, endorsing his opinion rather
emphatically.
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