“My promise?” finished Stuart, gently. “No; everything you wish shall be done.”
Sir Douglas fixed his eyes on Lord Court, and a faint sound came from his lips. The earl bent his head the better to hear.
“I cannot hear,” he murmured sadly to Stuart.
“Give me the brandy, Murray,” said Stuart. “Come, that is right; we shall have you well and hearty soon, cousin,” he added to the sick man. “Do not distress yourself; I will do all I promised.”
Sir Douglas looked at him earnestly, as if his dark eyes would read his inmost heart. Then a change came over his face, and he smiled faintly. His head was raised for a minute from the pillow, and a whisper fell on their anxious ears:
“Gladys—wife—it—has—come—to—Margery—little—Mar—gery—thank—Heaven!”
The voice died away, a convulsive tremor seized the heavy eyelids, which closed slowly over the dark eyes, glazed with a film now, the head sank back, and with a sigh the spirit of Douglas Gerant fled from its earthly abode.
Stuart knelt on, while hot tears were stealing down his cheeks. A solemn trust was confided to his care—of what nature he knew now. The ne’er-do-well, the wandering nature, the truant from home, had not been alone all his life. The name of “wife” passed from his lips as death closed his eyes. Some tale of sadness, of disappointment, was to come, and with it was linked a name that had destroyed Stuart’s joy and youth—the name of “Margery.”
A strange thrill ran through the young man’s frame when at last he rose from his knees. There was now a bond of sympathy stronger than had ever existed in life between himself and his dead cousin.