'Bad abed,' said one of the watermen.
'Inflammation of the lungs,' said the other.
'Got wet, fishing,' the first chimed in.
Margery could gather no more. An ideal admiration rather than any
positive passion existed in her breast for the Baron: she had of
late seen too little of him to allow any incipient views of him as a
lover to grow to formidable dimensions. It was an extremely romantic
feeling, delicate as an aroma, capable of quickening to an active
principle, or dying to 'a painless sympathy,' as the case might be.
This news of his illness, coupled with the mysterious chalking on the
gate, troubled her, and revived his image much. She took to walking
up and down the garden-paths, looking into the hearts of flowers, and
not thinking what they were. His last request had been that she was
not to go to him if be should send for her; and now she asked
herself, was the name on the gate a hint to enable her to go without
infringing the letter of her promise? Thus unexpectedly had Jim's
manoeuvre operated.
Ten days passed. All she could hear of the Baron were the same
words, 'Bad abed,' till one afternoon, after a gallop of the
physician to the Lodge, the tidings spread like lightning that the
Baron was dying.
Margery distressed herself with the question whether she might be
permitted to visit him and say her prayers at his bedside; but she
feared to venture; and thus eight-and-forty hours slipped away, and
the Baron still lived.
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