Herbert was unhappy too about Mrs. Hornblower’s trouble.  Harry had been one of the slighter cases, and was still in his room, a good deal subdued by the illness, and by the attention the lodger had shown him; for Herbert had spent many hours, when he had been supposed to be resting, in relieving Mrs. Hornblower, and she was now in a flood of gratitude, only longing to do everything for him herself.  Had he not, as she declared, saved her son, body and soul?

The most welcome sight was Julius, who came down in dismay as soon as he could leave the Hall.  “I am so glad,” said the patient; “I want to talk things over while my head is clearer than it ever may be again.”

“Don’t begin by desponding.  These fevers are much less severe now than six weeks ago.”

“Yes; but they always go the hardest with the great big strong young fellows.  I’ve buried twelve young men out of the whole forty-five.”

“Poor lads, I doubt if their life had been such a preparation as yours.”

“Don’t talk of my life.  A stewardship I never set myself to contemplate, and so utterly failed in.  I’ve got nothing to carry to my God but broken vows and a wasted year.”

“Nothing can be brought but repentance.”

“Yes, but look at others who have tried, felt their duties, and cared for souls; while I thought only of my vows as a restraint, and tried how much pleasure I could get in spite of them.  A pretty story of all the ministry I shall ever have.”

“These last weeks!”

“Common humanity—­nonsense!  I should always have done as much; besides, I was crippled everywhere, not merely by want of power as a priest, but by having made myself such a shallow, thoughtless ass.  But that was not what I wanted to say.  It was about Gadley and his confession.”

“O, Herbert!  I am afraid I was very unkind that night.  I did not think of anything but our own trouble, nor see how much it had cost you.”

“Of course not—­nonsense.  You had enough to think of yourself, and I was only ashamed of having bored you.”

“And when I think of the state of that room, I am afraid it was then you took in the poison.”

“Don’t say afraid.  If it was for Jenny, I shall have done some good in the world.  But the thing is—­is it good?  Will it clear Douglas?  I suppose what he said to you was under seal of confession?”

“Scarcely so, technically; but when a man unburthens himself on his death-bed, and then, so far from consenting, shows terror and dismay at the notion of his words being taken down as evidence, it seems to me hardly right or honourable to make use of them—­though it would right a great wrong.  But what did you get from him?”