The old servant lifted herself slowly, and with bent head and crouching body crept out of the room without turning her face toward her master. The superstition of the negroes about the eyes of a dying man kept hers close to the floor--she did not want Richard to look at her.
Dr. Wallace detected the movement--he knew its cause--and passed out of the sick chamber to where Oliver stood with Miss Clendenning.
"Better go down, Oliver, and see that the hot water is sent up right away," he said. "Poor old Hannah seems to have lost her head."
"Has there been any further change, Doctor!"
Oliver asked, as he started for the stairs.
"No, not since you went. He is holding his own.
His hands feel cold, that is all." To Miss Lavinia he said: "It is only a question of hours," and went back into the room.
Oliver hurried after Hannah. He intended to send Malachi up with the hot water and then persuade the old woman to go to bed. When he reached the lower hall it was empty; so were the parlors and the dining-room. At the kitchen-door he met Hannah.
She had filled the pitcher and had turned to carry it upstairs. Oliver stopped her.
"Where is Malachi, aunty?"
Hannah pointed through the open door to Richard's little shop in the back yard and hurried on.
Oliver walked quickly through the damp, brick-paved yard, now filled with the sombre shadows of the night, and pushed open the green door. The place was dark except for a slant of moonlight which had struggled through the window-pane and was illumining the motor where it rested in its customary place under the sash.
"Malachi, are you here?"
A sob was the only answer.
Oliver stepped inside. The old man was on his knees, his head and arms lying flat on Richard's work-bench. Oliver bent down and laid his hand on the old servant's head.
"Mally!"
"I hear ye, Marse Ollie, an' I hearn Hannah. I tell you same as I tol' her--ain't no use fetchin' no water; ain't no use no mo' for no doctor, ain't no use, ain't no use. I ain't never goin' to say no mo' to him, 'Chairs all ready, Marse Richard.' I ain't never goin' to wait on him no mo', Come close to me, Marse Ollie; get down an' let me tell ye, son."
He had lifted his head now, and was looking up into Oliver's eyes, the tears streaming down his face.
"He freed me; he gimme a home. He ain't neber done nothin' but love me an' take care o' me.
When I bin sick he come in an' he set by me. 'You got a fever, I think, Malachi,' he say. 'Go to bed dis minute. Cold, is you? Git dat blanket out'n my room an' put it on yo' bed. Don't let me hab to tell ye dat agin, Malachi.' 'Marse Richard,' I'd say to him, 'I ain't got no coat fit to wear.' Dat was in de ol' days, when you warn't nuffin but a chile, Marse Ollie. 'Who says so, Malachi,' he say. 'I say so, Marse Richard.' 'Lemme see,' he'd say. 'Dat's so, dat ain't fit fer nobody to wear. Go upstairs to my closet, Malachi, an' git dat coat I was a-wearin' yisterday. I reckon I kin git on widout it."
Malachi had his head in his hands now, his body swaying from side to side. Oliver stood silent.
"When he come home de udder day an' I lif' him in de bed, he say, 'Don't you strain yo'se'f, Malachi.
'Member, you ain't spry as you was.' Oh, Gawd!
Oh, Gawd! What's Malachi gwine to do?"
Oliver sat down beside him. There was nothing to say. The old servant's grief was only his own.
"Ebery night, Marse Ollie, sence he bin sick, I git so lonesome dat I wait till de house git still an' den I git out'n de bed and crope down-stairs an' listen at de bedroom door. Den I hear de mistis say:
'In pain, dear?' and he say, 'No, Sallie.' An' den I crope up agin an' go to bed kind o' comforted. I was down agin las' night--mos' mawnin'--a-listenin', an' de mistis say: 'Kin I do sumpin' to ease de pain, dear?' an' he don't answer, only groan, and den I hear de bed creak, an' dat SHORT BREF COME.
Pat's the sign! I knows it. In de mawnin' he'll be gone. Can't fool Malachi; I knows de signs."
A gentle tap at the front door on the street sounded through the stillness. Oliver had left all the intervening doors between the dining-room and the shop open in his search for Malachi.
The old servant, with the lifelong habit upon him, started up to answer the summons.
"No, Mally, stay here," said Oliver. "I'll go.
Some neighbor, perhaps, wanting to know how father is."
Oliver walked rapidly through the yard, tiptoed through the hall, and carefully turned the knob.
Amos Cobb stepped in.
"I saw the light, Oliver," he said, in a low tone, "and I knew you were up. I have an important telegram from New York in answer to one I sent this morning from my office here. Would it be possible for me to see your father? I know it is very late, but the matter is most urgent."
"I'm afraid not, Mr. Cobb. He is very low."
"Not serious?" Amos exclaimed, in alarm.
"Doctor Wallace thinks it is."
"You don't tell me so! I had no idea he was so ill!"
"Nor did we, sir; a change for the worse set in this evening."
