“Let us go to him,” said Richard.

“I fear they will try to prevent you from seeing him.”

“They shall not find it easy.”

They reached Mortgrange and stopped at the gate. Richard walked up to the door.

“How is my father?” he asked.

“Much the same, sir, I believe.”

“Is it true that he wanted to see me?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Is he in his own room?”

“Yes, sir. But I beg your pardon, sir,” said the man. “I have my lady’s orders to admit no one!”

While he spoke Richard passed him and went straight to his father’s room, which was on the ground floor. He opened the door softly and entered. His father lay on the bed, with the Barset doctor and the London surgeon standing over him. The latter looked around, saw him, and came to him.

“I gave orders that no one should be admitted,” he said in a low, stern tone.

“I understand my father wished to see me,” answered Richard.

“He cannot see you.”

“He may come to himself any moment.”

“He will never come to himself,” returned the doctor.

“Then why keep me out?” said Richard.

The eyes of the dying man opened, and Richard received his last look. Sir Wilton gave one sigh, and death was past. Whether life was come, God knew, and those who watched on the other side knew.

Lady Ann came in.

“The good baronet is gone!” said the physician.

She turned away. Her eyes glided over Richard as if she had never seen him before. He went up to the bed, and she walked from the room.

When Richard came out, he found Wingfold where he had left him, and got into the pony-carriage beside him. The parson drove off.

“His tale is told,” said Richard, in a choking voice. “He did not speak and I cannot tell whether he knew me, but I had his last look, and that is something. I would have been a good son to him if he had let me—at least I would have tried to be.”

“It is best,” said Wingfold. “We cannot say anything would be best, but we must say everything is best.”

“I think I understand you,” said Richard. “But, oh, how I would have loved him if he would have let me!”

“And how you will love him!” said Wingfold, “and he will love you. They are getting him ready now. He had begun to love you before he went. But he was the slave of the nature he had enfeebled and corrupted. I hope for him—though God only knows how long it may take, even after the change is begun, to bring men like him back to their true selves. But surely, Richard,” he said, “your right place is at Mortgrange—at least so long as what is left of your father is lying in the house.”

“Yes, no doubt. And I did wonder whether I ought to assert myself and remain until my father’s will was read, but I concluded it best to avoid anything unpleasant.”