If not actually
in pain, he must still have suffered intolerable discomfort. But he
never complained, and to the last his passion for books never failed.
"We took him any new ones we happened to run across, as you'd take a
sick woman flowers. To the end he read."
"And wrote?" I asked.
"That I can't say," Lessingham replied. "There were things I could not
make out. And I couldn't question him. It didn't seem to be my place,
though I had an idea he'd something on his mind to speak of which would
be a relief. It worried me badly. I felt sure he wanted to tell us, but
couldn't bring himself to the point. He talked of you. He cared for you
more than for any of us; yet--I may be all wrong--it seemed to me he
was glad you weren't here. Once or twice, I thought, he felt almost
afraid you might come back before--before it was all over, you know. It
sounds rather horrible, but I had a feeling he longed to slink off
quietly out of sight--for he did not dread death, I'm certain of that.
What he dreaded was that life had some trick up her sleeve which, if he
delayed too long, might give him away; put him to shame somehow at the
last.
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