"Who's is away?" shrieked Helen, thinking at once of her father.
"Whisht!" said the old nurse, catching hold of Mrs. Bruce as she was rushing from the room, and speaking beneath her breath; "wisht! My lord's deid; but we'll no greet; I canna greet. He's gane awa' hame."
No, it was not the old man who was called. Mr. Cardross lived several years after then—lived to be nearly ninety. It was the far younger life—young, and yet how old in suffering!—which had thus suddenly and unexpectedly come to an end.
The earl was found dead in his bed, in his customary attitude of repose, just as Malcolm always placed him, and left him till the morning. His eyes were wide open, so that he could not have died in his sleep. But how, at what hour, or in what manner he had died—whether the summons had been slow or sudden, whether he had tried to call assistance and failed, or whether, calling no one and troubling no one, his fearless soul had passed, and chosen to pass thus solitary unto its God, none ever knew or ever could know, and it was all the same now.
He died as he had lived, quite alone. But it did not seem to have been a painful death, for the expression of his features was peaceful, and they had already settled down into that mysteriously beautiful death-smile which is never seen on any human face but once.
Helen stood and looked down upon it—the dear familiar face, now, in the grandeur of death, suddenly grown strange. She thought of what hey had been talking about last night concerning the world to come. Now he knew it all. She did not "greet;" she could not. In spite of its outward incompleteness, it had been a noble life—an almost perfect life; and now it was ended. He had had his desire; his poor helpless body cumbered him no more—he was "away."
* * * * *
It was a bright winter morning the day the Earl of Cairnforth was buried —clear hard frost, and a little snow—not much—snow never lies long on the shores of Loch Beg. There was no stately funeral, for it was found that he had left express orders to the contrary; but four of his own people, Malcolm Campbell and three more, took on their shoulders the small coffin, scarcely heavier than a child's, and bore it tenderly from Cairnforth Castle to Cainforth kirk-yard. After it came a long, long train of silent mourners, as is customary in Scotch funerals. Such a procession had not been witnessed for centuries in all this country-side. Ere they left the Castle the funeral prayer was offered up by Mr. Cardross, the last time the good old minister's voice was ever heard publicly in his own parish, and at the head of the coffin walked, as chief mourner, Cardross Bruce-Montgomerie, the earl's adopted son.
And so, laid beside his father and mother, they left him to his rest.
According to his own wish, his grave bears this inscription, carved upon a plain upright stone, which—also by his particular request— stands facing the Manse windows: