But when Luke Tulliver had slowly withdrawn
from the room, with a last venomous look at Marian, Jacob Nowell sank
back upon his pillow exhausted by his unwonted animation.
"You don't know what a deep schemer that young man has been, Marian," he
said, "and how I have laughed in my sleeve at his manoeuvres."
The dull November day dragged itself slowly through, Marian never leaving
her post by the sick-bed. Jacob Nowell spent those slow hours in fitful
sleep and frequent intervals of wakefulness, in which he would talk to
Marian, however she might urge him to remember the doctor's injunctions
that he should be kept perfectly quiet. It seemed indeed to matter very
little whether he obeyed the doctor or not, since the end was inevitable.
One of the curates of the parish came in the course of the day, and read
and prayed beside the old man's bed, Jacob Nowell joining in the prayers
in a half-mechanical way. For many years of his life he had neglected all
religious duties. It was years since he had been inside a church; perhaps
he had not been once since the death of his wife, who had persuaded him
to go with her sometimes to the evening service, when he had generally
scandalised her by falling asleep during the delivery of the sermon. All
that the curate told him now about the necessity that he should make his
peace with his God, and prepare himself for a world to come, had a
far-off sound to him.
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