agent in affording the assistance he wished to render the widow. He saw him, and was satisfied that Dr Jessop was just the person he hoped to find.
“I have had a long round of visits,” said the worthy practitioner, “and would gladly put up my horse at the inn and talk the matter over with you.”
They were soon seated together in the little parlour allotted to Mr Kyffin. His wishes were easily explained. “My interesting patient will, I am sure, feel grateful for the sympathy and assistance of her unknown friend,” said the doctor; “but to be frank with you, Mr Kyffin, I fear she will not enjoy it for many years. I believe that her days are numbered – ”
He stopped suddenly, observing Roger Kyffin’s countenance.
“My dear sir,” he exclaimed, “I was not aware how deeply I was wounding you, and yet, my friend, it is better to know the truth. You may yet prove a friend to her boy, and should she be taken away, the poor child will greatly need one.”
It would be difficult to describe the feelings which agitated Roger Kyffin’s kind heart. He had one consolation. He might, as the doctor suggested, prove a friend and guardian to the orphan boy. The kind doctor called every day to report on the health of his patient. He gladly undertook to do all in his power in carrying out Mr Kyffin’s wishes, and promised not to betray the donor of the money which was to be placed at Mrs Tryon’s disposal.
Roger Kyffin could with difficulty tear himself away from the neighbourhood. He received constant communications from Dr Jessop, who sent him rather more favourable reports of Mrs Tryon. Five years passed by – Mrs Tryon’s mother was dead. She had no wish to leave her little cottage. Where, indeed, could she go? Her only employment was that of watching over her little boy. During this time several changes had taken place in the neighbourhood. Sir Harcourt Tryon died. Though he must have been aware of his grandson’s existence, he had never expressed any wish to see him. At length the mother caught cold. The effect was serious. Dr Jessop became alarmed, and wrote an account of her state to Mr Kyffin. She could no longer take Harry out to walk, and had therefore to send him under charge of a nursemaid.
One day he and his nurse were longer absent than usual. What could have kept them? The young mother went to the garden-gate several times, and looked anxiously along the road. She felt the wind very cold. Again she entered the house. Could she have mistaken the hour? The next time she threw a shawl over her shoulders, but the cold made her cough fearfully. At last she saw a female figure in the distance. It was Susan the nurse, but Harry was not with her. Mrs Tryon had to support herself by the gate till the girl came up.
“Where is Harry? where is my child?” she exclaimed.
“I could not help it, ma’am, I did my best to prevent it,” answered the nurse, crying.
Poor Fanny’s heart sank within her; her knees trembled.
“Prevent what?” she exclaimed; “what has happened? where is my boy?”
“No harm has come to him, ma’am, though there might have been, but it is all right now,” answered Susan. “We were going on, Master Harry skipping and playing in front of me, when I saw a carriage coming along the road very fast. I ran on to catch hold of him, but he darted away just under the horses’ feet. I screamed out, and the coachman pulled up. An old lady was in the carriage, and putting her head out of the window she asked what was the matter? Seeing the little boy, she wanted to know whose child he was. When I told her, she ordered the footman to lift him into the carriage. She looked at his face as if she was reading a book, then she kissed him and sat him down by her side. I begged the lady to let me have him again, as I wanted to come home. ‘No,’ she said, ‘go and tell your mistress that his grandmother has taken him with her, that she is pleased with his looks, and must take him for a short time.’ I knew, ma’am, that you would be vexed, and I begged the lady again and again to let me have him, but she answered that he must go with her, and that it would be better for him in the end.”
Poor Mrs Tryon had been listening with breathless eagerness to this account of the nursemaid’s. Leaning on the girl’s arm, she tottered back to the house, scarcely knowing whether or not she ought to be thankful that the boy had been seen by his grandmother. One thing she knew, she longed to press him to her own bosom. She felt, however, weak and ill. While yet undecided how to act, Dr Jessop’s carriage drove up to the gate. As he entered the house, she was seized with a fit of coughing, followed by excessive weakness. As she was leaning back in the arm-chair, the doctor felt her pulse. As soon as she could speak she told him what had happened. He looked very grave.
“My dear madam,” he said, “I am sorry that her ladyship has carried off the little boy. If you will give me authority, I will drive on and bring him back to you. An old friend of yours has come down to this neighbourhood, and he wishes to see Harry. He has heard that you are ill, and desires to know from your own lips your wishes with regard to your boy.”
“What do you mean, doctor?” asked the dying lady, looking up with an inquiring glance at the doctor’s face. “The child is so young that I should not wish to part from him for some years to come.”
“My dear lady,” said Dr Jessop, solemnly, “the lives of all of us are in God’s hands. You are suffering from a serious complaint. It would be cruel in me not to warn you that you are in considerable danger.”
“Do you mean to say I’m going to die, doctor – that I must part from my boy?” gasped out poor Fanny, in a faint voice.
“I should wish you to be prepared, should it be God’s will to call you away,” answered the doctor, much moved. “If you will give authority to your devoted friend, Mr Roger Kyffin, I am sure he will act the part of a parent to your boy. I expect him here this evening, and as he wishes to see Harry, I will drive over to Lady Tryon and request her ladyship to allow me to bring your boy back to you. Certainly in most cases a child’s grandmother is a proper person to act as guardian, but though I attend Lady Tryon professionally when she is in the country, I am unable to express a satisfactory opinion as to her fitness for the task. I begged my friend Tom Wallis, the solicitor at Lynderton, to ride over here with Mr Kyffin; so that should you wish to place your boy under the legal protection of your old friend, you may be able to do so.”
“Surely his grandmother is a proper person to take charge of Harry; though I have no cause to regard her with affection,” said Fanny, in a faint voice, “yet I could with more confidence consign him to that kind and generous man, Mr Kyffin; I will do therefore as he wishes, only requesting that the boy may be allowed to remain as much as possible during his childhood with his grandmother.”
Poor Fanny! a lingering feeling of pride prompted this resolution. Far better would it have been, in all human probability, for the boy, had she committed him entirely to her faithful friend’s care, and not mentioned Lady Tryon. The doctor knew too well that his patient had not many hours to live. He hurried off to Aylestone Hall, the residence of Lady Tryon. The old lady expressed herself delighted with the child, and was very unwilling to part with him. Indeed, though she was told of her daughter-in-law’s dangerous state, she positively refused to give him up, unless the doctor promised to bring him back again. Harry was accordingly placed in the doctor’s carriage, which drove rapidly back to Mrs Tryon’s cottage.
“I can give you but little hopes,” said the doctor to Roger Kyffin, whom, in company with Mr Wallis, he met at the cottage gate.
Roger Kyffin sighed deeply. The little boy flew towards his mother. She had scarcely strength to bend forward to meet him. The doctor held him while she pressed him to her bosom.
“May he come in?” asked the doctor.
“Yes,” she whispered, “I should be glad to see him before I die; you were right, doctor, and kind to warn me.”
Roger Kyffin entered the room, but his knees trembled, and he could scarcely command his voice. Fanny thanked him for all his kindness; “continue it,” she said, “to this poor child.”
The doctor signed to Mr Wallis to come forward. He had brought writing materials. Fanny expressed her wish to place her child under Roger Kyffin’s guardianship. She signed the paper. She evidently wished to say more, but her voice failed her. It was with