It was one o’clock before the party dispersed; and as Major Jervis clapped his brother-in-law on the shoulder, with a hearty good night, he added—
“Who knows, Pollitt, but that I may be persuaded by your eloquence to go home with you, after all?”
“My father is very ill,” said Mark, as he entered into his uncle’s room at eight o’clock the next morning. “He wants to see you. I have been with him since six o’clock; and, Uncle Dan, I’m afraid that this is the end.”
Yes, there was no doubt about that, thought Mr. Pollitt; death was surely written on the countenance that was turned to him. Last night had been the final flicker before the flame of life went out.
The invalid was propped up in a chair by a window looking towards the snows; but his face was ghastly, his breathing laboured.
“I’m glad you are here, Dan; glad we met once more.” And he made a movement as if he would offer his wasted, helpless-looking hand. “You and Mark wanted me to go home,” murmured the grey lips; “and I am going—sooner than you thought.” He turned his dull eyes and fixed them intently on his son. “God bless you, Mark,” he whispered almost inarticulately. These were his last words.
When Mr. Burgess arrived, an hour later, he was dead.
“Died of a failure of the heart’s action, brought on by some overpowering excitement;” but, as far as he could judge, “under any circumstances he could not have outlived a week.” Such was the missionary’s verdict.
“Ah, sahib!” cried Mahomed, with up-raised hands and eyes, “I knew how it would be; there was the warning, the never-failing warning at twelve o’clock last night—the voice.”