Amethyst’s heart sank within her. Why did not her mother come?—And surely nothing but the worst trouble at Casa Remi could have kept Sylvester from coming to her help in such extremity.
In the dawn of the morning, without rally or suffering, Lord Haredale died, and, as Amethyst turned to face the chilly light at the opened door, there, with pale face and anxious eyes, stood Sylvester Riddell. She flew to him with outstretched hands.
“Oh, you are here?” she cried, “I have been longing—”
Sylvester clasped her hands close.
“Oh, my dearest,” he cried. “It was almost all over last night. They never even gave me your telegram till too late. But he is still alive, and he caught a whisper of your trouble, and his first word was ‘Go.’ Now, now I can take care of you. How could your mother let you come?”
Chapter Thirty Seven.
Peace.
Three days after that night of watching there was a double funeral in the cemetery at Bordighera, and the last Baron Haredale, and the only heir to his title, were laid to rest under a foreign sky, far away from the home they had forfeited; for there was no money to spare for funeral journeys, or for ceremonies at the end of them. Haredale was mortgaged up to its chimney-tops, and the title died with its direct male heirs. There had been no time for more than telegrams from the solicitors in charge of the miserable family affairs; but it was hoped that some provision would be saved out of the wreck for Lady Haredale and her four young daughters.