“She need not have given you that trouble.  I am aware of the reason of Mr. Farquhar’s absence.  I entirely disapprove of his conduct.  He is regardless of my wishes; and disobedient to the commands which, as my son-in-law, I thought he would have felt bound to respect.  If there is any more agreeable subject that you can introduce, I shall be glad to hear you, sir.”

“Neither you, nor I, must think of what we like to hear or to say.  You must hear what concerns your son.”

“I have disowned the young man who was my son,” replied he coldly.

“The Dover coach has been overturned,” said Mr. Benson, stimulated into abruptness by the icy sternness of the father.  But, in a flash, he saw what lay below that terrible assumption of indifference.  Mr. Bradshaw glanced up in his face one look of agony—­and then went grey-pale; so livid that Mr. Benson got up to ring the bell in affright, but Mr. Bradshaw motioned to him to sit still.

“Oh!  I have been too sudden, sir—­he is alive, he is alive!” he exclaimed, as he saw the ashy face working in a vain attempt to speak; but the poor lips (so wooden, not a minute ago) went working on and on, as if Mr. Benson’s words did not sink down into the mind, or reach the understanding.  Mr. Benson went hastily for Mrs. Farquhar.

“Oh, Jemima!” said he, “I have done it so badly—­I have been so cruel—­he is very ill, I fear—­bring water, brandy——­” and he returned with all speed into the room.  Mr. Bradshaw—­the great, strong, iron man—­lay back in his chair in a swoon, a fit.

“Fetch my mother, Mary.  Send for the doctor, Elizabeth,” said Jemima, rushing to her father.  She and Mr. Benson did all in their power to restore him.  Mrs. Bradshaw forgot all her vows of estrangement from the dead-like husband, who might never speak to her, or hear her again, and bitterly accused herself for every angry word she had spoken against him during these last few miserable days.

Before the doctor came, Mr. Bradshaw had opened his eyes and partially rallied, although he either did not, or could not speak.  He looked struck down into old age.  His eyes were senseless in their expression, but had the dim glaze of many years of life upon them.  His lower jaw fell from his upper one, giving a look of melancholy depression to the face, although the lips hid the unclosed teeth.  But he answered correctly (in monosyllables, it is true) all the questions which the doctor chose to ask.  And the medical man was not so much impressed with the serious character of the seizure as the family, who knew all the hidden mystery behind, and had seen their father lie for the first time with the precursor aspect of death upon his face.  Rest, watching, and a little medicine, were what the doctor prescribed; it was so slight a prescription, for what had appeared to Mr. Benson so serious an attack, that he wished to follow the medical man out of the room to make further inquiries, and learn the real opinion which