He spoke in a whisper and no one heard what he said, though all noted the pallor of his face and the heavy rings about his eyes, and when the next day it was rumored in town that he was very sick, no one was surprised. It was brain fever, induced by the strain upon his mental powers, and the cold he had taken that night when, unknown to any one, he had gone to the farm-house through the storm, and returned again.
For three weeks he lay at the very gates of death, watched and cared for as few boys have ever been cared for and watched, for he was the idol of hearts which would break if he were to die. The farm-house was shut up, and Hannah took her post as chief nurse to the boy she loved so much, and whose condition puzzled her a little. Once, in the first days of his illness, when, after an absence of an hour or so, she re-entered the room, where his father was keeping watch, he lifted his bright, fever-stricken eyes to her face, and asked:
"Who was the man?"
"What man?" Hannah and her brother asked, simultaneously, a great fear in the heart of each lest the other had betrayed what Grey was not to know.
"Have you told him?" Burton whispered to his sister, who answered:
"You know I have not." Then, turning to Grey, who was still looking at her, she said to him again: "What man?"
For a moment the wild, bright eyes regarded her fixedly; then there seemed to come over the boy a gleam of reason, and he replied:
"I don"t know."
After that he never mentioned the man again, or in any way alluded to the secret weighing so heavily upon the two who watched him so constantly--Hannah and his father. Not a word ever pa.s.sed between them either on the subject, so anxious were they for the life of the lad, who in his delirium talked constantly of the past, of Europe, and the ship, and the mountains he had climbed, and whose names were on his Alpenstock. Again he was at Carnarvon, going over the old castle, and again at Melrose, fighting on the fourth of July with Neil McPherson, who had said his mother was not a lady. Then there were quieter moods, when he talked of and to little Bessie McPherson, whom he had never seen, but who came to him in his delirium, and, with her sunny blue eyes and golden hair, hovered around his bed, while he questioned her of the little room high up in the hotel, where she went without her dinner so often, while her heartless mother dined luxuriantly.
"Send for her and bring her here, where she can have enough to eat. Why don"t you send for Bessie?" he would say to them; and once he said it to Miss McPherson, who was standing by his bedside, and who replied:
"I have sent for her; she is coming."
"All right!" he answered. "Stuff her when she comes. Give her all the mince pie she can eat, and all the griddle cakes. She never saw any at home."
After that he was more quiet; but every morning and evening he asked, "Has Bessie come?" and when told, "Not yet," he would reply, "Send her to me when she comes; I want to see her."
And so the time went on until the fever spent itself, and there came a morning when Grey awoke to perfect consciousness of the present and a vague remembrance of the past. They told him how long he had been sick, and how anxious they had been.
"Did I talk much?" he asked his Aunt Lucy, when she was alone with him.
"Yes, most of the time," she replied, and over his face there flitted a shadow of fear lest he had talked of things he ought not.
"What did I say?" he asked; and she told him as nearly as she could remember.
"And Aunt Hannah was here all the time? Where is she now?" he inquired; and Lucy replied:
She went home last night, for the first time in two weeks. She had to go, as the snow had drifted under the eaves, and the house was leaking badly."
"Is she there alone?" Grey asked, with a shudder, as he thought of that hidden grave under the floor.
"No, Sam is there, and I sent Sarah with her," was Lucy"s answer, and after a moment Grey continued:
"Wasn"t Mr. Sanford here once; in the room, I mean?"
"Yes, many times," Lucy replied. "He prayed for you here two or three times, and in the church every Sunday."
"Send for him. I want to see him. Send now," Grey said, adding, as he saw the expression of joy on his aunt"s face, and guessed what was in her mind. "Don"t think I"m awful good, or going to join the church. It is not that, but I want to see the minister before Aunt Hannah comes back."
Fortunately Mr. Sanford was at that very moment below. He had stopped on his way to the post-office to inquire for Grey, at whose side he soon stood, holding the pale hand in his, and looking inquiringly into the eager face of the boy who had asked to see him alone, and who said to him as he had to his Aunt Lucy;
"Don"t think I am good, or going to join the church, for I am not, I thank you for praying for me. I guess it helped me pull through, and I am going to pray myself by and by, but I don"t want you to talk to me about that now. I want to ask you something. Grandpa never joined the church, and at the funeral you said he was good, that he was safe; did you mean it?"
Grey"s eyes were fixed earnestly upon the rector, who answered, unhesitatingly:
"I wish I were as sure of heaven as he. I know he is safe."
"You _are_ sure?" Grey rejoined, flushing a little, for now he was nearing the real object of his interview with the rector, "You are sure, and Aunt Hannah is sure. She ought to know. You believe her a good woman?"
Mr. Sanford could not understand the breathless eagerness with which Grey awaited his reply, which came quickly, decidedly:
"Your Aunt Hannah! Yes, she is the best, the truest, the purest woman who ever lived. She is a martyr, a saint, an angel. I never knew one like her."
"Thank you," Grey said, with a look of intense relief in his eyes. "You have made me very happy. I wanted to feel sure, about grandpa; and now, please go. I am very tired; some time I will see you again."
So the rector left him, feeling a little disappointed with the result of his interview. He had hoped that Grey wished to speak with him of himself, and of his new resolves for the future, when, in fact, it was only a wish to be rea.s.sured of his grandfather"s safety, which the boy possibly doubted a little because he had never united himself with the church. That Hannah had anything to do with it the rector never suspected and did not dream of the great gladness in Grey"s heart as he kept repeating to himself:
"She is good, even if she did know. She is a saint, a martyr, an angel; and I distrusted her; but all my life hereafter I will devote to her by way of atonement."
It was late in the afternoon when Hannah returned to Grey"s Park, and went up to see her nephew, of whose improved condition she had heard.
"Oh, auntie," he cried, when he saw her. "I am so glad to have you back;" and Hannah did not guess that the boy had her back in more ways than one, but she kissed him, and cried over him, and told him how her heart had ached when she feared she might lose him, and how desolate the world would be without him, while he told her how much he loved her, and how he meant to care for her when he was a man, and take her to Europe, and everywhere.
"And you will grow young again," he said. "You have never had any youth, I guess. How old are you, auntie?"
She told him she was forty-six, and making a little mental subtraction he thought:
"Fifteen when it happened. No, she has had no youth, no girlhood;" but to her he said: "You do not look so old, and you are very pretty still; not exactly like Aunt Lucy or mother. You are different from them both, though more like Aunt Lucy, whose face is the sweetest I ever saw except yours, which looks as if Christ had put His hand hard upon it and left His impress there."
There were great tears upon the face where Christ had laid His hands so hard, and Grey kissed them away, and then asked about the old house, and said he was coming to spend the day with her just as soon as possible, and the night, too, adding, in a sudden burst of bravery and enthusiasm:
"And I"ll sleep in grandpa"s room, if you wish it, I am not afraid because he died in there."
"No, no," Hannah said, and her cheek paled a little. "It is not necessary for you to sleep there. No one will ever do that again. I shall always keep it as he left it."
Grey knew what she meant, but made no comment, and as he seemed very tired Hannah soon left him to rest.
Naturally strong and full of vigor, Grey"s recovery was rapid, and in ten days from the time the fever left him, his father drove him to the farm-house, where Hannah was expecting him, with the south room made as cheerful as possible, and a most tempting lunch spread for him upon a little round table before the fire. Mr. Jerrold was going to Boston that afternoon, and so Grey was left alone with his aunt, as he wished to be, for he meant to tell her that he, too, shared her secret, and after his father had gone and his lunch was over, he burst out suddenly:
"Auntie, there is something I must tell you. I can"t keep it any longer.
I was here the night grandpa died. I was in the kitchen, and heard about--about that under the floor!"
"Grey!" Hannah gasped, as her work dropped from her nerveless hands, which shook violently.
"Yes," Grey went on. "I wanted to come with father, but he said no, and so I went to my room but could not go to bed, for I knew grandpa was dying, and I wished to see him, and I stole out the back way, and came across the fields and into the kitchen, where I stood warming myself by the stove and heard you all talking in the next room. I did not mean to listen, but I could not help it, and I heard grandpa say: "Thirty-one years ago, to-night, I killed a man in the kitchen yonder, and buried him under the floor, under my bed, and have slept over him ever since."
You see I remember his very words, they affected me so much, I thought the floor came up and struck me in the face, and that my throat would burst with the lump which almost strangled me. I did not hear any more, for I ran from the house into the open air where I could breathe, and went back to Grey"s Park, and up to my room without being missed at all.
I thought I should die, and that was what made me sick, and why I did not come here till the funeral and why I did not want to see grandpa. I was so disappointed, so shocked, and afraid he was not in heaven, till I heard what Mr. Sanford said, and, auntie, I must tell you all, I thought dreadful things of you, too, because you knew. I thought you were what they said "_Old "Scape Gallows_" was, an accomplice."
"Oh, Grey, my boy, no, no," Hannah cried aghast. "This is worse than death, and from _you_. I cannot bear it."
In an instant Grey was kneeling at her side, imploring her forgiveness and telling her he did not think this of her now.