“What do you think of his condition?” she asked me, after the second day was over. I could see by her own grave face that she had already formed her own conclusions.
“He cannot recover,” I answered. “His constitution, shattered by the plague and by his incessant exertions, has received too severe a shock in this shipwreck. He is doomed.”
“So I think. The change is but temporary. He will not last out three days more, I fancy.”
“He has rallied wonderfully to-day,” I said; “but ’tis a passing rally; a flicker—no more. If you wish to do anything, now is the moment. If you delay, you will be too late.”
“I will go in and see him,” Hilda answered. “I have said nothing more to him, but I think he is moved. I think he means to keep his promise. He has shown a strange tenderness to me these last few days. I almost believe he is at last remorseful, and ready to undo the evil which he has done.”
She stole softly into the sick room. I followed her on tip-toe, and stood near the door behind the screen which shut off the draught from the patient. Sebastian stretched his arms out to her. “Ah, Maisie, my child,” he cried, addressing her by the name she had borne in her childhood—both were her own—“don’t leave me any more! Stay with me always, Maisie! I can’t get on without you.”
“But you hated once to see me!”
“Because I have so wronged you.”
“And now? Will you do nothing to repair the wrong?”
“My child, I can never undo that wrong. It is irreparable, for the past can never be recalled; but I will try my best to minimise it. Call Cumberledge in. I am quite sensible now, quite conscious. You will be my witness, Cumberledge, that my pulse is normal and that my brain is clear. I will confess it all. Maisie, your constancy and your firmness have conquered me. And your devotion to your father. If only I had had a daughter like you, my girl, one whom I could have loved and trusted, I might have been a better man. I might even have done better work for science—though on that side, at least, I have little with which to reproach myself.”
Hilda bent over him. “Hubert and I are here,” she said, slowly, in a strangely calm voice; “but that is not enough. I want a public, an attested, confession. It must be given before witnesses, and signed and sworn to. Somebody might throw doubt upon my word and Hubert’s.”
Sebastian shrank back. “Given before witnesses, and signed and sworn to! Maisie, is this humiliation necessary; do you exact it?”
Hilda was inexorable. “You know yourself how you are situated. You have only a day or two to live,” she said, in an impressive voice. “You must do it at once, or never. You have postponed it all your life. Now, at this last moment, you must make up for it. Will you die with an act of injustice unconfessed on your conscience?”
He paused and struggled. “I could—if it were not for you,” he answered.
“Then do it for me,” Hilda cried. “Do it for me! I ask it of you not as a favour, but as a right. I demand it!” She stood, white, stern, inexorable, by his couch, and laid her hand upon his shoulder.
He paused once more. Then he murmured feebly, in a querulous tone, “What witnesses? Whom do you wish to be present?”
Hilda spoke clearly and distinctly. She had thought it all out with herself beforehand. “Such witnesses as will carry absolute conviction to the mind of all the world; irreproachable, disinterested witnesses; official witnesses. In the first place, a commissioner of oaths. Then a Plymouth doctor, to show that you are in a fit state of mind to make a confession. Next, Mr. Horace Mayfield, who defended my father. Lastly, Dr. Blake Crawford, who watched the case on your behalf at the trial.”