And on the journey he did
his very best to put out of his memory the large, lonely, gray "Seat,"
with its solemn, mysterious chamber of suffering, and its wraiths and
memories and fearful fighting away of death.
But on the whole, the hope which Stephen had given him of the squire's
final recovery was a too flattering one. There was, perhaps, no
immediate danger of death, but there was still less prospect of entire
recovery. He had begun to remember a little, to speak a word or two, to
use his hands in the weak, uncertain way of a young child; but in the
main he lay like a giant, bound by invisible and invincible bonds;
speechless, motionless, seeking through his large, pathetic eyes the
help and comfort of those who bent over him. He had quite lost the fine,
firm contour of his face, his ruddy color was all gone; indeed, the
country expression of "face of clay," best of all words described the
colorless, still countenance amid the white pillows in the darkened
room.
As the spring came on he gained strength and intelligence, and one
lovely day his men lifted him to a couch by the window. The lattices
were flung wide open, that he might see the trees tossing about their
young leaves, and the grass like grass in paradise, and hear the bees
humming among the apple-blooms, and the sheep bleating on the fells.
The earth was full of the beauty and the tranquillity of God. The squire
looked long at the familiar sights; looked till his lips trembled, and
the tears rolled heavily down his gray face.
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