As a _Dea ex machinâ_, Mrs. Purcell had been successful far beyond the thanks of those whom she sought to serve.
Meanwhile Trall had picked up his health in no small degree, and with it a courage long foreign to his timid nature. But, lest he should revert to his old habits, Mallow feared to let him out of sight. He kept him always within the grounds of the Manor. There he pottered about, from day to day, and the servants understood that he was a decayed gentleman pensioner of their mistress. Jeremiah, collecting his rags of gentility, supported the character well enough. He never alluded in any way to his stormy life of the past. His mind taking a religious turn, he dismissed his former state as one of sin, and not to be referred to; and he spent hours reading the Bible in preparation for his summons to another existence. And, seemingly, that call was not very far away. The man's once bulky frame had shrunk and dwindled greatly, so that his clothes hung loosely upon him now.
After the burning of the document, Laurence called at the Vicarage to tell Mr. Brock of what he had done. But this time the deaf spinster was successful, and he obtained no admission to the Vicarage. Mr. Brock sent out a message that he was much engaged, and could see no one for a week at least. Surprised somewhat, Mallow took himself off, and on the road up to the Manor met little Mr. Timson, the doctor, pounding along on his broken-kneed mare. At Mallow's halloo, he reined up--no easy task with his hard-mouthed veteran.
"The Vicar?" asked Mallow, gazing into Timson's red face--red with pulling; "how is he getting along?"
Timson was a pessimist, with a high average of deaths amongst his patients. He shook his flaxen locks dolefully. "Very bad, Mr. Mallow; I don't suppose he'll see the winter through. His heart is weak--very weak. Nasty murmur there--mitral valve wrong; any sudden shock--in fact, emotion of any kind--and he's done for," said Timson, solemnly.
"But under normal conditions, doctor, he'll pull through, won't he?"
"Oh, may last for a time; but he's bound to go--bound to go. The leg is obstinate, too. If he'd only rest, there might be a chance; but he goes on writing, writing."
"Some sort of diary, I should think--pages and pages of it. To make matters worse, he uses a cipher. Very bad for him that, you know--very bad. By the way," added the little man, "I hear poor old Drabble is taken."