the last-mentioned interview between lord caterham and his mother, though productive of good in a certain way--for lady beauport, however bravely she succeeded in bearing herself at the time, was in reality not a little frightened at her son's determination--had a visibly bad effect on caterham's health. the excitement had been too much for him. the physician had enjoined perfect rest, and an absence of all mental effort, in the same way in which they prescribe wine and nourishing food to the pauper, or turkish baths to the cripple on the outskirts of salisbury plain. perfect rest and absence of all mental effort were utterly impossible to caterham, whose mind was on the rack, who knew that he had pitted himself against time for the accomplishment of his heart's desire, and who felt that he must either fulfil his earnest intention, or give up it and life simultaneously. life was so thin and faint and feeble within him, that he needed all of it he could command to bear him up merely through "the fever called living,"--to keep him together sufficiently to get through the ordinary quiet routine of his ever-dull day. when there was an exceptional occasion--such as the interview with his mother, for instance, where he had gone through a vast amount of excitement--it left him exhausted, powerless, incapable of action or even of thought, to an extent that those accustomed only to ordinary people could never have imagined.

the next day he was too ill to leave his bed; but that made little difference to the rest of the household. lord beauport was away in wales looking after some mines on one of his estates, which had suddenly promised to be specially productive. lady beauport, detained in town for the due carrying out of her plans with respect to lionel, sent down her usual message of inquiry by timpson, her maid, who communicated with stephens, and gave the reply to her mistress. lady beauport repeated the message, "very unwell indeed, eh?" and adding, "this weather is so horribly depressing," proceeded with her toilette. miss maurice sent grapes and flowers and some new perfume to the invalid; and--it revived him more than any thing else--a little hurried note, bidding him not give way to depression, but rouse sufficiently to get into his easy-chair by the morrow, and she would spend all the day with him, and read to him, and play to him whatever he wanted.

he had strength enough to raise that little note to his lips so soon as he heard the door shut behind the outgoing stephens; to kiss it over and over again, and to place it beneath his pillow ere he sunk into such imitation of rest as was vouchsafed to him. a want of sleep was one of the worst symptoms of his malady, and the doctors had all agreed that if they could only superinduce something like natural sleep, it might aid greatly in repairing the little strength which had been given to him originally, and which was so gradually and imperceptibly, and yet so surely, wearing away. but that seemed to be impossible. when he was first assisted to bed he was in a sufficiently drowsy state, partly from the fatigue of the day, partly from the effect of the wine, of which the doctors insisted on his taking a quantity which would have been nothing to an ordinary man, but was much to one feeble in frame, and unable to take any exercise to carry off its strength. then, after a short slumber--heavy, stertorous, and disturbed--he would wake, bright and staring, without the smallest sign of sleep in his head or in his eye. in vain would he toss from side to side, and try all the known recipes for somnolence--none were of the slightest avail. he could not sleep, he could not compose himself in the least degree, he could not empty his mind as it were; and the mind must be, or at all events must seem, empty before sleep will take possession of it. lord caterham's mind in the dead silence of the night was even more active than it was in the daytime. before him rose up all the difficulties which he had to surmount, the dangers which he had to avoid, the hopes and fears and triumphs and vexations which made up the sum of his bitter life. they were not many now,--they never had been diffuse at any time; so little had caterham been a citizen of the world, that all his aspirations had lain within a very small compass, and now they centred in one person--annie maurice. to provide for her safety when he was not there to look after it in person; to leave such records as would show what action he had taken in her behalf, and on what grounds that action had been undertaken; to arm some competent and willing person so thoroughly to bestir himself at the necessary juncture as to prevent the chance of the conspiracy against annie's future being carried into effect:--these were the night-thoughts which haunted caterham's couch, and rendered him sleepless.

sleeplessness had its usual effect. the following day he was quite worn out in mind and body,--felt it, knew it, could not deny the fact when it was suggested to him mildly by stephens, more firmly by his doctors,--but yet persevered in his intention of getting up. he was sure he should be so much better out of bed; he was certain that a change--were it only to his easy-chair--would do him so much good. he could be very positive--"obstinate" was the phrase by which the doctors distinguished it, "arbitrary" was stephen's phrase--when he chose; and so they let him have his way, wondering why he preferred to leave the calm seclusion of his bed. they little knew that the contents of that little note which the valet had seen protruding from the corner of his master's pillow when he went in to call him in the morning had worked that charm; they did not know that she had promised to spend the day with him and read and play to him. but he did; and had he died for it, he could not have denied himself that afternoon of delight.

so he was dressed, and wheeled into his sitting-room, and placed by his desk and among his books. he had twice nearly fainted during the process and stephens, who knew his every look, and was as regardful of his master's health as the just appreciation of a highly-paid place could make him, had urged lord caterham to desist and return to his bed. but caterham was obstinate; and the toilette was performed and the sitting-room gained, and then he desired that miss maurice might be told he was anxious to see her.

she came in an instant. ah, how radiant and fresh she looked as she entered the room! since the end of the season, she had so far assumed her heiress position as to have a carriage of her own and a saddle-horse; and instead of accompanying lady beauport in her set round of "airing," annie had taken long drives into country regions, where she had alighted and walked in the fresh air, duly followed by the carriage; or on horseback, and attended by her groom, had galloped off to hampstead and highgate and willesden and ealing in the early morning, long before lady beauport had thought of unclosing her eyes. it was this glorious exercise, this enjoyment of heaven's light and air and sun, that had given the rose to annie's cheeks and the brilliance to her eyes. she was freckled here and there; and there was a bit of a brown mark on her forehead, showing exactly how much was left unshaded by her hat. these were things which would have distressed most well-regulated belgravian damsels; but they troubled annie not one whit; and as she stood close by his chair, with her bright eyes and her pushed-off brown hair, and the big teeth gleaming in her fresh wholesome mouth, caterham thought he had never seen her look more charming, and felt that the distance between her, brimming over with health, and him, gradually succumbing to disease, was greater than ever.

annie maurice was a little shocked when she first glanced at caterham. the few days which had intervened since she had been to his room had made a great difference in his appearance. his colour had not left him--on the contrary, it had rather increased--but there was a tight look about the skin, a dull glassiness in his eyes, and a pinched appearance in the other features, which were unmistakable. of course she took no notice of this: but coming in, greeted him in her usual affectionate manner. nor was there any perceptible difference in his voice as he said:

"you see i have kept you to your word, annie. you promised, if i were in my easy-chair, that you would play and read to me; and here i am."

"and here i am to do your bidding, arthur! and too delighted to do it, and to see you sufficiently well to be here. you're not trying too much, are you, arthur?"

"in what, annie?"

"in sitting up and coming into this room. are you strong enough to leave your bed?"

"ah, i am so weary and wretched alone, annie. i long so for companionship, for--" he checked himself and said, "for some one to talk, to read, to keep me company in all the long hours of the day. i'm not very bright just now, and even i have been stronger--which seems almost ridiculous--but i could keep away no longer, knowing you would come to lighten my dreariness."

though his voice was lower and more faint than usual, there was an impassioned tone in it which she had never heard before, and which jarred ever so slightly on her ear. so she rose from her seat, and laughingly saying that she would go at once and perform part of her engagement, sat down at the piano, and played and sang such favourite pieces of his as he had often been in the habit of asking for. they were simple ballads,--some of moore's melodies, handel's "harmonious blacksmith," and some of mendelssohn's _lieder ohne w?rte_,--all calm, soft, soothing music, such as caterham loved; and when annie had been playing for some time he said:

"you don't know how i love to hear you, annie! you're getting tired now, child."

"not in the least degree, arthur. i could go on singing all day, if it amused you."

"it does more than amuse me, annie. i cannot describe to you the feeling that comes over me in listening to your singing; nothing else has such a calm, holy, sanctifying influence on me. listening to you, all the petty annoyances, the carking cares of this world fade away, and--"

he ceased speaking suddenly; and annie looking round, saw the tears on his cheek. she was about to run to him, but he motioned her to keep her seat, and said: "annie dear, you recollect a hymn that i heard you sing one night when you first came here?--one sunday night when they were out, and you and i sat alone in the twilight in the drawing-room? ah, i scarcely knew you then, but that hymn made a great impression on me."

"you mean--

'abide with me! fast falls the eventide

the darkness deepens: lord, with me abide!'"

"yes, that is it. how lovely it is!--both words and music, i think."

"yes, it is lovely. it was written by a mr. lyte, when he was--"

she checked herself, but he finished the sentence for her,--"when he was dying. yes; i recollect your telling me so that night. sing it for me, dear."

she turned to the piano at once, and in an instant the rich deep tones of her voice were ringing through the room. annie maurice sang ballads sweetly, but she sang hymns magnificently. there was not the slightest attempt at ornamentation or _bravura_ in her performance, but she threw her whole soul into her singing; and the result was rich and solemn melody. as she sang, she seemed to embody the spirit of the composer, and her voice vibrated and shook with the fervour which animated her.

half leaning on his stick, half reclining in his chair, caterham watched her in rapt delight; then when she had finished, and ere the thrilling music of her voice had died away, he said: "thanks, dear--again a thousand thanks! now, once more a request, annie. i shall not worry you much more, my child."

"arthur,"--and in an instant she was by his side,--"if you speak like that, i declare i will not sing to you."

"o yes, you will, annie dear!---o yes, you will. you know as well as i do that--well, then"--obedient to a forefinger uplifted in warning--"i'll say no more on that point. but i want you now to sing me the old-fashioned evening hymn. ive a very ancient love for dear old bishop ken, and i don't like to think of his being set aside for any modern hymnologist,--even for such a specimen as that you have just sung. sing me 'glory to thee,' annie,--that is, if you are old-fashioned enough to know it."

she smiled, and sang. when she ceased, finding that he remained speechless and motionless, she went up to him, fearing that he had fainted. he was lying back in his chair perfectly quiet, with his eyes closed. when she touched him, he opened them dreamily, saying, "'that i may dread the grave as little as my bed.' yes, yes!--ah, annie dear, you've finished!--and to think that you, a modern young lady, should be able to sing old bishop ken without book! where did you learn him?"

"when i was a very little child,--at the priory, arthur. geoffrey ludlow--as ive told you, i think--used to come out to us every sunday; and in the evening after dinner, before i went to bed, he used to ask for his little wife to sing to him. and then poor papa used to tell me to sit on geoff's knee, and i used to sing the evening hymn."

"ay," said caterham in an absent manner, "geoffrey ludlow's little wife! geoffrey ludlow's little wife!--ay, ay! 'that so i may, rise glorious at thine awful day!' in thy mercy, in thy mercy!" and saying this, he fainted away.

that evening algy barford, at lord dropmore's in lincolnshire, on his return from shooting, found a telegram on his dressing-room table. it was from annie maurice, and begged his immediate return to town.

lord caterham was better the next day. though still very weak, he insisted on being dressed and wheeled into his sitting-room. once there, he had his despatch-box placed before him, and the writing-materials put ready to his hand. of late he had occasionally been in the habit of employing an amanuensis. annie maurice had frequently written from his dictation; and when she had been engaged, a son of the old housekeeper, who was employed at a law-stationer's, and who wrote a hand which was almost illegible from its very clearness, had sometimes been pressed into the service. but now lord caterham preferred writing for himself. annie had sent to beg him to rest; and in reply he had scrawled two lines, saying that he was ever so much better, and that he had something to do which must be done, and which when done would leave him much happier and easier in mind. so they left him to himself; and stephens, looking in from time to time, as was his wont, reported to the servants'-hall that his master was "at it as hard as ever--still a-writin'!" they wondered what could thus occupy him, those curious domestics. they knew exactly the state in which he was, the feeble hold that he had on life;--what do they not know, those london servants?--and they thought that he was making his will, and speculated freely among themselves as to what would be the amount of stephens's inheritance; and whether it would be a sum of money "down," or an annuity; and whether stephens would invest it after the usual fashion of their kind--in a public-house, or whether, from excessive gentility, he was not "a cut above that." lord caterham would not hold out much longer, they opined; and then mr. lionel would come in for his title; and who mr. lionel was--inquired about by the new servants, and the description of mr. lionel by the old servants--and mysterious hints as to how, in the matter of mr. lionel, there had been a "screw loose" and a "peg out;" how he was a "regular out-and-out fast lot," and had had to "cut it;"--all this occasioned plenty of talk in the servants'-hall, and made the dreary autumn-day pass quite pleasantly. and still the sick man sat at his desk, plying his pen, with but rare intervals of rest--intervals during which he would clasp his poor aching head, and lift his shrivelled attenuated hands in earnest silent prayer.

the beauport household was sunk in repose the next morning, when a sharp ring at the bell, again and again repeated, aroused the young lady who as kitchen-maid was on her preferment, and whose dreams of being strangled by the cook for the heaviness of her hand in an omelette were scared by the shrill clanging of the bell which hung immediately over her head. the first notion of "fire" had calmed down into an idea of "sweeps" by the time that she had covered her night-attire with a dingy calico robe known to her as her "gownd;" and she was tottering blindly down stairs before she recollected that no sweeps had been ordered, and thought that it was probably a "runaway." but lured perhaps by a faint idea that it might be the policeman, she descended; and after an enormous amount of unbolting and unchaining, found herself face-to-face with a fresh-coloured, light-bearded, cheery gentleman, who wore a glengarry cap, had a travelling-rug in his hand, was smoking a cigar, and had evidently just alighted from a hansom-cab which was standing at the door, and the driver of which was just visible behind a big portmanteau and a gun-case. the fresh-coloured gentleman was apparently rather startled at the apparition of the kitchen-maid, and exclaimed, apparently involuntarily, "gad!" in a very high key. recovering himself instantly, he asked how lord caterham was. utterly taken aback at discovering that the visitor was not the policeman, the kitchen-maid was floundering about heavily for an answer, when she was more than ever disconcerted at seeing the fresh-coloured gentleman tear off his glengarry-cap and advance up the steps with outsretched hand. these demonstrations were not made in honour of kitchen-maid, but of annie maurice, who had been aroused from her usual light sleep by the ring, and who, guessing at the visitor, had come down in her dressing-gown to see him.

they passed into the dining-room, and then he took her hand and said: "i only got your telegram at dinner-time last night, my dear miss maurice, and came off just as i was. dropmore--deuced civil of him--drove me over to the station himself hard as he could go, by jove! just caught mail-train, and came on from king's cross in a cab. it's about caterham, of course. bad news,--ay, ay, ay! he--poor--i can't say it--he's in danger, he--" and brave old algy stopped, his handsome jolly features all tightened and pinched in his anxiety.

"he is very, very ill, dear mr. barford,--very ill; and i wanted you to see him. i don't know--i can't tell why--but i think he may possibly have something on his mind--something which he would not like to tell me, but which he might feel a relief in confiding to some one else; and as you, i know, are a very dear and valued friend of his, i think we should all like you to be that some one. that was what made me send for you."

"i'm--i'm not a very good hand at eloquence, miss maurice--might put pebbles in my mouth and shout at the sea-shore and all that kind of thing, like the--the celebrated greek person, you know--and wouldn't help me in getting out a word; but though i can't explain, i feel very grateful to you for sending for me, to see--dear old boy!" the knot which had been rising in algy barford's throat during this speech had grown nearly insurmountable by this time, and there were two big tears running down his waistcoat. he tried to pull himself together as he said: "if he has any thing to say, which he would like to say to me--of course--i shall--any thing that would--god bless him, my dear old boy!--good, patient, dear darling old boy, god bless him!" the thought of losing his old friend flashed across him in all its dread heart-wringing dreariness, and algy barford fairly broke down and wept like a child. recovering himself after a moment, he seized annie's hand, and muttering something to the effect that he would be back as soon as he had made himself a little less like an esquimaux, he dashed into the cab and was whirled away.

you would scarcely have thought that algy barford had had what is called sleep, but what really is a mixture of nightmare and cramp in a railway-carriage, had you seen him at eleven o'clock, when he next made his appearance at st. barnabas square, so bright and fresh and radiant was he. he found annie maurice awaiting his arrival, and had with her a short earnest conversation as to caterham's state. from that he learned all. the doctors had a very bad opinion of their patient's state: it was--hum--ha!--yes--you know!--general depression--a want of vitality, which--just now--looking at his normal lack of force, of what we call professionally _vis vita_, might--eh? yes, no doubt, serious result. could not be positively stated whether he would not so far recover--pull through, as it is called--rally, as we say, as to--remain with us yet some time; but in these cases there was always--well, yes, it must be called a risk. this was the decision which the doctors had given to annie, and which she, in other words, imparted to algy barford, who, coupling it with his experience of the guarded manner in which fashionable physicians usually announced their opinions, felt utterly hopeless, and shook his head mournfully. he tried to be himself; to resume his old smile and old confident buoyant way; he told his dear miss maurice that she must hope for the best; that these doctor-fellows, by jove, generally knew nothing; half of them died suddenly themselves, without even having anticipated their own ailments; "physician, heal thyself," and all that sort of thing; that probably caterham wanted a little rousing, dear old boy; which rousing he would go in and give him. but annie marked the drooping head and the sad despondent manner in which he shrugged his shoulders and plunged his hands into his pockets when he thought she had retired--marked also how he strove to throw elasticity into his step and light into his face as he approached the door of caterham's room.

it had been arranged between algy and annie maurice that his was to have the appearance of a chance visit, so that when stephens had announced him, and lord caterham had raised his head in wonder, algy, who had by this time pulled himself together sufficiently, said: "ah, ha caterham!--dear old boy!--thought you had got rid of us all out of town, eh?--and were going to have it all to yourself! not a bit of it, dear boy! these doctor-fellows tell you one can't get on without ozone. don't know what that is--daresay they're right. all i know is, i can't get on without a certain amount of chimney-pot. country, delicious fresh air, turf; heather, peat-bog, stubble, partridge, snipe, grouse--all deuced good! cows and pigs, and that kind of thing; get up early, and go to bed and snore; get red face and double-chin and awful weight--then chimney-pot required. i always know, bless you! too much london season, get my liver as big as strasburg goose's, you know--_foie gras_ and feet nailed to a board, and that kind of thing; too much country, tight waistcoat, red face--awfully british, in point of fact. then, chimney-pot. i'm in that state now; and ive come back to have a week's chimney-pot and blacks and generally cabbage-stalky street--and then i shall go away much better."

"you keep your spirits, algy, wherever you are." the thin faint voice struck on algy barford's ear like a knell. he paused a minute and took a short quick gulp, and then said: "o yes, still the same stock on hand, caterham. i could execute country orders, or supply colonial agencies even, with promptitude and despatch, i think. and you, arthur--how goes it with you?"

"very quietly, algy,--very, very quietly, thank god! ive had no return of my old pain for some time, and the headache seems to have left me."

"well, that's brave! we shall see you in your chair out on the lawn at the hunt-breakfast at homershams again this winter, arthur. we shall--"

"well, i scarcely think that. i mean, not perhaps as you interpret me; but--i scarcely think--however, there's time enough to think of that. let's talk of nearer subjects. i'm so glad you chanced to come to town, algy--so very glad. your coming seems predestined; for it was only yesterday i was wishing i had you here."

"tremendously glad i came, dear old boy! chimney-pot attack fell in handy this time, at all events. what did you want, arthur, old fellow? not got a new leaning towards dogginess, and want me to go up to bill george's? do you recollect that irish deerhound i got for you?"

"i recollect him well--poor old connor. no, not a dog now. i want you to--just raise me a bit, algy, will you?--a little bit: i am scarcely strong enough to--that's it. ah, algy, old fellow, how often in the long years that we have been chums have you lifted this poor wretched frame in your strong arms!"

it was a trial for a man of algy barford's big heart; but he made head against it even then, and said in a voice harder and drier than usual from the struggle, "how often have i brought my bemuddled old brains for you to take them out and pick them to pieces and clean them, and put them back into my head in a state to be of some use to me!--that's the question, dear old boy. how often have you supplied the match to light the tow inside my head--ive got deuced little outside now--and sent me away with some idea of what i ought to do when i was in a deuce of a knot! why, i recollect once when lionel and i--what is it, dear old boy?"

"you remind me--the mention of that name--i want to say something to you algy, which oddly enough had--just reach me that bottle, algy; thanks!--which--"

"rest a minute, dear old boy; rest. you've been exerting yourself too much."

"no; i'm better now--only faint for a minute. what was i saying?--o, about lionel. you recollect a letter which--" his voice was growing again so faint that algy took up the sentence.

"which i brought to you; a letter from lionel, after he had, you know, dear old boy--board ship and that kind of thing?"

"yes, that is the letter i mean. you--you knew its contents, algy?"

"well, arthur, i think i did--i--you know lionel was very fond of me, and--used to be about with him, you know, and that kind of thing--"

"you knew his--his wife?"

"wife, gad, did he say?--jove! knew you were--dear me!--charming person--lady. very beautiful--great friend of lionel's; but not his wife, dear old boy--somebody else's wife."

"somebody else's wife?"

"yes; wonderful story. ive wanted to tell you, and, most extraordinary thing, something always interrupted. friend of yours too; tall woman red hair, violet eyes--wife of painter-man--good god, arthur!"

well might he start; for lord caterham threw his hands wildly above his head, then let them fall helplessly by his side. by the time algy barford had sprung to his chair, and passed his arms around him, the dying man's head had drooped on to his right shoulder, and his eyes were glazing fast.

"arthur! dear arthur! one instant! let me call for help."

"no, algy; leave us so; no one else. only one who could--and she--better not--bless her! better not. take my hand, algy, old friend--tried, trusted, dear old friend--always thoughtful, always affectionate--god bless you--algy! yes, kiss my forehead again. ah, so happy! where the wicked cease from troubling and the--yes, lord, with me abide, with me abide!--the darkness deepens: lord, with me abide!"

and as the last words fell faintly on algy barford's ears, the slight form which was lying in algy barford's arms, and on which the strong man's tears were falling like rain, slipped gradually out of his grasp--dead.