There were to be only Fletcher, Miss Saidie and himself as witnesses, he gathered, Wyndham's parents having held somewhat aloof from the connection--and within three hours at the most it would be over and the bridal pair beginning their long journey.
Looking down from the next landing, he had further assurance of the sincerity of Maria's smile when he saw the lovers meet and embrace within the shadow of the staircase; and the sight stirred within his heart something of that wistful pity with which those who have learned how little emotion counts in life watch the first exuberance of young passion.A bright beginning whatever be the ending, he thought a little sadly, as he turned the handle of the sick-room door.
The boy's fever had risen and he tossed his arms restlessly upon the counterpane."Stand out of my sunshine, grandpa," he said fretfully, as the lawyer sat down by his bedside.
Fletcher shuffled hastily from before the window, and it struck Carraway almost ludicrously that in all the surroundings in which he had ever seen him the man had never appeared so hopelessly out of place--not even when he had watched him at prayer one Sunday in the little country church.
"There, you're in it again," complained the boy in his peevish tones.
Fletcher lifted a cup from the table and brought it over to the bed.
"Maybe you'd like a sip of this beef tea now," he suggested persuasively."It's most time for your medicine, you know, so jest a little taste of this beforehand.""I don't like it, grandpa; it's too salt.""Thar, now, that's jest like Saidie," blurted Fletcher angrily.
"Saidie, you've gone and made his beef tea too salt."Miss Saidie appeared instantly at the door of the adjoining room, and without seeking to diminish the importance of her offense, mildly offered to prepare a fresh bowl of the broth.
"I'm packing Maria's clothes now," she said, "but I'll be through in a jiffy, and then I'll make the soup.I've jest fixed up the parlour for the marriage.Maria insists on having a footstool to kneel on--she ain't satisfied with jest standing with jined hands before the preacher, like her pa and ma did before she was born.""Well, drat Maria's whims," retorted Fletcher impatiently; "they can wait, I reckon, and Will's got to have his tea, so you'd better fetch it.""But I don't want it, grandpa," protested the boy, flushed and troubled."You worry me so, that's all.Please stop fooling with those curtains.I like the sunshine.""A nap is what he needs, I suspect," observed Carraway, touched, in spite of himself, by the lumbering misery of the man.
"Ah, that's it," agreed Fletcher, catching readily at the suggestion."You jest turn right over and take yo' nap, and when you wake up well, I'll give you anything you want.Here, swallow this stuff down quick and you'll sleep easy."He brought the medicine glass to the bedside, and, slipping his great hairy hand under the pillow, gently raised the boy's head.
"I reckon you'd like a brand new saddle when you git up," he remarked in a coaxing voice.
"I'd rather have a squirrel gun, grandpa; I want to go hunting."Fletcher's face clouded.
"I'm afraid you'd git shot, sonny."
With his lips to the glass, Will paused to haggle over the price of his obedience.
"But I want it," he insisted; "and I want a pack of hounds, too, to chase rabbits.""Bless my boots! You ain't going to bring any driveling beasts on the place, air you?""Yes, I am, grandpa.I won't swallow this unless you say I may.""Oh, you hurry up and git well, and then we'll see--we'll see,"was Fletcher's answer."Gulp this stuff right down now and turn over."The boy still hesitated.
"Then I may have the hounds," he said; "that new litter of puppies Tom Spade has, and I'll get Christopher Blake to train 'em for me."The pillow shook under his head, and as he opened his mouth to drink, a few drops of the liquid spilled upon the bedclothes.
"I reckon Zebbadee's a better man for hounds," suggested Fletcher, setting down the glass.
"Oh, Zebbadee's aren't worth a cent--they can't tell a rabbit from a watering-pot.I want Christopher Blake to train 'em, and Iwant to see him about it to-day.Tell him to come, grandpa.""I can't, sonny--I can't; you git your hounds and we'll find a better man.Why, thar's Jim Weatherby; he'll do first rate.""His dogs are setters," fretted Will."I don't want him; I want Christopher Blake--he saved my life, you know.""So he did, so he did," admitted Fletcher; "and he shan't be a loser by that, suh," he added, turning to Carraway."When you go over thar, you can carry my check along for five hundred dollars."The lawyer smiled."Oh, I'll take it," he answered, "and I'll very likely bring it back."The boy looked at Carraway."You tell him to come, sir," he pleaded.His eyes were so like Fletcher's--small, sparkling, changing from blue to brown--that the lawyer's glance lingered upon the other's features, seeking some resemblance in them, also.To his surprise he found absolutely none, the high, blue-veined forehead beneath the chestnut hair, the straight, delicate nose; the sensitive, almost effeminate curve of the mouth, must have descended from the "worthless drab" whom he had beheld in the severe white light of Fletcher's scorn.For the first time it occurred to Carraway that the illumination had been too intense.
"I'll tell him, certainly," he said quietly after a moment; "but I don't promise that he'll come, you understand.""Oh, I won't thank him," cried the boy eagerly."It isn't for that I want him--tell him so.Maria says he hates a fuss.""I'll deliver your message word for word," responded the lawyer.
"Not only that, I'll add my own persuasion to it, though I fear Ihave little influence with your neighbour.""Tell him I beg him to come," insisted the boy, and the urgent voice remained with Carraway throughout the day.
