Indeed it was more than critical. Those about the sick man knew that his recovery—even his partial recovery—was impossible. Close to him now was the dread Presence which care and skill had kept at bay so long, and no one was more thoroughly aware of the fact than himself. He met it with a grim philosophy, which is the only possible substitute for Christian resignation. Of religious belief he had very little, never having troubled himself to formulate the vague ideas which he had received from a much attenuated Protestantism. But, such as they were, they did not inspire him with terror. God would, no doubt, be merciful to a man who was conscious of never having done anything dishonorable in his life. This consciousness helped to support his philosophy, but it is not likely that he gave it much thought. A subject which has not occupied a place of importance in a man's consideration during life will hardly do so even in the face of death.
Mr. Singleton was more interested in arranging his worldly affairs than in preparing for the great change from time to eternity. His lawyer was summoned, and a final and complete revision made of the important document which would fulfill or blast the hopes of many people. Concerning this document Mrs. Singleton was wild with curiosity; but she could learn nothing, and her husband declined even to speculate concerning their chances. "We shall know soon enough—perhaps too soon," he said, with his usual philosophy, a little tinged by despondency.
Another person who felt some curiosity, mingled with an indifference which surprised herself, was Marion Lynde. Who would take in the will that place which Brian Earle had forfeited? And what would the latter think now of the fact that he had thrown away a fortune rather than give a promise, the fulfillment of which, as it now chanced, would never have been exacted? "He would have had the money and his freedom besides," she thought. "Does he recognize his folly now? Will he recognize it when he hears the news that soon must be told him?"
Of her own interest in this crisis, Marion did not take a great deal of thought. She had no doubt that some legacy for herself would find a place in Mr. Singleton's will, and no doubt also that in the time to come she would be grateful for it. But she regarded the probability just now with a dull indifference, which was the reaction from a great disappointment. She had not only lost the only man who had ever touched her heart, but also the fortune that might have been hers in the entirety. And, after that great loss, could she rejoice over the prospect of obtaining a small share of this fortune?
No: to rejoice was impossible; but she felt that whatever the old man's generosity gave would be welcome, since it would mean emancipation from absolute dependence on relations for whom she had no cordiality of feeling. No doubt the time would come when she would be very glad of this, but just now it was difficult—in fact, impossible—to be glad of anything.
In this way the days, weighted with much pain for one and much uncertainty of hope and fear for others, dragged their slow hours away and the end came at last. Marion was still in the house—Mrs. Singleton, who felt that her presence could no longer do any harm, had begged her not to leave,—and she felt a thrill of awe and regret when the words came from the sick chamber, "He is dying."
So the old man who had showed nothing but kindness to her was passing away—and how? Without a single heart near him that throbbed with affection, without a Sacrament or a word of prayer! Marion had associated too much with Catholics not to feel the horror of this, but she also knew too much of Protestants to expect anything different. Yet she could not help saying to Mrs. Singleton, "Has no clergyman been sent for?"
That lady looked surprised. "No," she answered. "Why should one be sent for? No one would take the liberty of doing such a thing while Mr. Singleton was conscious, and after unconsciousness had set in where would be the good? Mr. Eustace would come and read prayers, no doubt, if we asked him to do so; but what would be gained by it?"
"Nothing, I suppose," said Marion. She had heard those prayers—which are all that Protestantism offers,—and shuddered at the recollection. Yet for the dying man to go forth into eternity without a word of appeal in his behalf, seemed to her so terrible that she stole away to her own room, opened a prayer-book which had been given her at the convent, and, kneeling down, said for the first time in her life the prayers for the dying which she found therein.
And while she was saying them—those tender and infinitely touching petitions, which call upon the Most High in solemn supplication for the soul in its agony,—the soul for which she prayed passed away, and was done with the things of earth forever.