Only I do beg of you, as the only kindness you can do
me now, never to let it be known by any living creature at Clifford Hall.
"Yours till death, WALTER."
Mr. Bartley entered with the telegraph forms, and said to Mary, sharply,
"Where is he?" Mary told him. "Well, write him a telegram. It shall be at
the railway in half an hour, at Marseilles theoretically in one hour,
practically in four."
Mary sat down and wrote her telegram: "Pray come to Clifford Hall. Your
father is dangerously ill."
"Show it to me," said Bartley. And on perusing it: "A woman's telegram.
Don't frighten him too much; leave him the option to come or stay."
He tore it up, and said, "Now write a business telegram, and make sure of
the thing you want."
"Come home directly--your father is dying."
Old Baker started up. "God bless you, sir," says he, "and God bless you,
miss, and make you happy one day. I'll take it myself, as my trap is at
the door." He bustled out, and his carriage drove away at a great rate.
Mr. Bartley went quietly to his study to business without another word,
and Mary leaned back a little exhausted by the scene, but a smile almost
of happiness came and tarried on her sweet face for the first time these
many days; as for old John Baker, he told his tale triumphantly at the
Hall, and not without vanity, for he was proud of his good judgment in
going to Mary Bartley.
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