In the morning his father and the near relatives arrived. The women cried bitterly. The aged peer looked on in stony grief--drinking in his son's scarred faced and glancing, with despair, from time to time, at the clock.
No, it had been checked; the tick disturbed his lordship, but there was an hour-glass on the table.
When the sand had run down at the conclusion of the first hour, no one reversed the instrument. But Lady Margaret Sempton, the Earl's sister, sent a whispered message to the Bishop of Hadley, who was waiting, much altered by sorrow and anxiety, in the ante-room. Reckage had asked to see him. He had always liked the good old man, and the rest withdrew during their short interview.
Meanwhile carriage after carriage drove up to the door; caller after caller appeared with cards, notes, and inquiries; name after name was inscribed in the visitors' book; telegrams came from the Royal family, from all parts of the country and the Continent.
"My poor boy. I didn't know he had so many friends," said his father. "God forgive me, I used to think he wasted his time on fads."
And odd people came also. Trainers, jockeys, and horse-dealers rubbed shoulders on the doorsteps with collectors of old furniture, missionaries, electioneering agents, ladies of the chorus, of the _corps de ballet_, shabby-genteel individuals of both sexes out of work, and the like; each had his degree of regret and an anecdote.
"He was always very kind to me," said this one, that one, and the other.
Bradwyn, noting some of these unusual visitors, observed that Reckage had a knack of pleasing the lower classes and half-educated persons generally. He heard a Bible-reader say to the footman: "_Take ye heed, watch and pray; for ye know not when the time is!_" and he shuddered at this exhibition of bad taste. Lord Garrow had been unremitting in his personal inquiries, but Sara did not come till she received the following from Orange--
"He is conscious, and he asks to see you."
She reached the room as the Bishop of Hadley was coming out; tears were in his eyes and he did not notice the young lady who glided past him as lightly as a shadow. Poor Reckage recognised her step, however, and pulled the sheet half over his face lest she should be startled at its harsh disfigurements. She threw off her hat and veil and fell on her knees by the side of his bed.