He was a trifle jealous of Richard’s interference between himself and his aunt, but far too gentlemanly a little fellow to show it; and quite shrewd enough to understand, that if he went to Martha for an hour or two, he would not be much missed. They both followed him with admiring eyes as he left the room; and when he stood a moment in the open door and touched his brow with his hand, as a parting courtesy, neither could help an expression of satisfaction.
“What a handsome lad!” said Richard.
“He is. If he live to take his father’s or my place here, he will be a noble squire of Hallam.”
“Then he is to be your successor?”
“Failing Anthony.”
“Then, Elizabeth dear, he is squire of Hallam already, for Anthony is dead.”
“Dead! Without a word! Without sign of any kind—O, Richard, is it really—death?”
Richard bowed his head, and Elizabeth sat gazing out of the window with vacant introspective vision, trying to call up from the past the dear form that would come no more. She put down her sewing, and Richard drew closer to her side, and comforted her with assurances that he believed, “all was well with the dead.” “I was with him during the last weeks of his sad life,” he said; “I did all that love could suggest to soothe his sufferings. He sleeps well; believe me.”
“I never heard from him after our sorrowful farewell. I looked and hoped for a little until my heart failed me; and I thought he perished at sea.”
“No; God’s mercy spared him until he had proved the vanity of all earthly ambition, and then he gave him rest. When he awoke, I have no doubt that ‘he was satisfied.’”