“As I understand, he was the head of the concern.”
“Y-e-s, but Gus Lombard is all right. It is a pity, though, that Arthur was taken off.”
Such is the sorrow of the world; a few who have known us intimately may feel a less selfish grief; our motives are so complex, and selfishness so much a part of human nature, that we seldom judge our own actions correctly. If but one or two can say with sincerity that our lives and our language were pure, then we shall not have lived in vain, as every living being—whether good or bad—will influence some other to follow his example. Lombard had been an unmarried man, who kept up a fine establishment, and lived in good style; but being very reticent few knew aught of his business affairs.
He was laid out in one of the parlors; windows were darkened; lamps were shaded; heavy carpets deadened the footfalls, until the silence and gloom became oppressive.
Late at night, three days after he was stricken down, a slight, fair girl entered the parlor noiselessly; Edith Herford had been his ward; she had also been his betrothed, although no one save his brother Gus was aware of the fact. Noiselessly she pushed aside the portières, and seeing the man on watch lying back in his chair, sleeping soundly, she crossed the room, and knelt beside the coffin.
Sobs shook her slight frame as she laid her face on his cold breast: “Oh, Arthur, my beloved!” she whispered, caressing his cold face, kissing the folded hands.
“To-morrow they will put you out of my sight, and I shall be indeed bereft. Oh, my love! my love!”
With bowed head she wept silently; the ticking of the clock sounded loud and awesome in the unnatural silence, “tick-tock, tick-tock; time-going, time-gone,” it seemed to say; the breathing of the sleeping watcher vibrated on the still air like an electric shock; a brooding mystery seemed to hang over the dead form, it appeared like sculptured marble, which at any moment might become instinct with life; it was hard to realize that the soul had gone from the body, the features were so placid, and were tinged with a roseate glow by the shades on the incandescent light.
Edith’s nerves were keyed up to their highest pitch, it seemed to her that she must scream; as she pressed her lips to the cold hand, she fancied that there was a slight movement of the fingers; she thought the eyelids quivered; she pressed her handkerchief over her mouth, afraid she should cry out.
“Oh, Arthur! My Arthur! I know that you are gone from me forever, and this is but a delusive fancy, would it were true, that I might not be so lonely!” she whispered, gazing mournfully at him.