Russell sat with me about an hour, and then, as he said he felt very comfortable, I walked home with him to the door of his lodgings, where I wished him good-night, and returned.
I had intended to have paid him an early visit the next morning; but somehow I was lazier than usual, and had scarcely bolted my commons in time to get to lecture. This over, I was returning to my rooms, when my scout met me.
“Oh, sir,” said he, “Mr Smith has just been here, and wanted to see you, he said, particular.”
Mr Smith? Of all the gentlemen of that name in Oxford, I thought I had not the honour of a personal acquaintance with one.
“Mr Russell’s Mr Smith, sir,” explained John: “the little gentleman as used to come to his rooms so often.”
I walked up the staircase, ruminating within myself what possible business “poor Smith” could have with me, of whom he had usually appeared to entertain a degree of dread. Something to do with Russell, probably. And I had half resolved to take the opportunity to call upon him, and try to make out who and what he was, and how he and Russell came to be so intimately acquainted. I had scarcely stuck old Herodotus back into his place on the shelf, however, when there came a gentle tap at the door, and the little Bible-clerk made his appearance. All diffidence and shyness had wholly vanished from his manner. There was an earnest expression in his countenance which struck me even before he spoke. I had scarcely time to utter the most commonplace civility, when, without attempt at explanation or apology, he broke out with--“Oh, Mr Hawthorne, have you seen Russell this morning?”
“No,” said I, thinking he might possibly have heard some false report of the late accident--“but he was in my rooms last night, and none the worse for his wetting.”
“Oh, yes, yes! I know that; but pray, come down and see him now--he is very, very ill, I fear.”
“You don’t mean it? What on earth is the matter?”
“Oh! he has been in a high fever all last night! and they say he is worse this morning--Dr Wilson and Mr Lane are both with him--and poor Miss Russell!--he does not know her--not know his sister; and oh, Mr Hawthorne, he must be _very_ ill; and they won’t let me go to him!” And poor Smith threw himself into a chair, and fairly burst into tears.