She stood by Charles, and laid her hand on his, then glanced from him to his other sister, of whom he had spoken thus.
She looked at this sister, who had loved foolishly, and married unlovingly, and then yielded to the passion that offered a change from the dullness of the world’s prosperity, and she thought of herself, and of what so easily might have been her fate; and no longer scorn and hatred, but a deep and awful pity filled her soul for those who had not been saved as she had, and who had been unable to save themselves.
She did not in the least know what to do, however much she might pity, and had turned to the white-capped peasant who was acting as nurse, when there was a rush up-stairs, and the host who had received them dashed into the room and shouted out something in Italian. Blanche, who understood, screamed aloud, and crying out—
“He says my father has had a fit and is brought in—dead,” rushed down the stairs, while Miss Haredale, half distracted, followed her, and host and nurse flew to join the fray.
Charles had grasped Amethyst’s hand, she thought that he might die at that moment, and dared not leave him. Of what passed in that dreadful hour, when she was left alone with the dying man, she never afterwards spoke. The sun was setting in a fiery glow, and streamed in at the window on to the bed, revealing with the dreadful clearness of a light from heaven, its squalor and wretchedness, and the misery and degradation of him who lay on it.
There was shouting and calling below, and terrible crazy utterances from Charles, mixed now and then with a kindly word, “Una—good girl—poor little Carrie,” then frightful visions and fear, oaths and cursing, and over all the approach of the King of Terror in his most awful form.
Amethyst was utterly ignorant and helpless, she could have done little, had she had trained skill. But she stood by and touched him and spoke to him, and uttered prayers that were at first mere outbursts of fear, mere cries for help in her extremity. But gradually they grew conscious and clear, and she prayed for her brother’s soul with all her might, and her terror passed away, as he sank into quieter mutterings. She prayed aloud with the instinct of a child, but as the yearning impulse grew stronger, it found fewer words. She said, “Our Father—Our Father,” over and over again, as if she could and need say nothing more, and at last came a weak hoarse echo to her voice.
“Our Father—” muttered Charles, with the last look of his dying eyes fixed on his young sister’s beautiful face, on which the last rays of the sunlight fell.
“An angel—down in hell! Our Father—” he said, and then his head fell back, the great change came, and Amethyst saw him die.
“Oh, my dear, I had to leave you; but your father’s breathing still. Come down; and here’s the doctor, let him see Charles;” and Miss Haredale, pale and shaking, but with composure gained from the very extremity, came into the room, followed by an Italian doctor, who gave one glance at the bed.