"There, there, alanna, didn't I tell you it wasn't _her_ fault at all, but _his_? and now you see for yourself it's true, and you'll go away with an easier mind. And, mark my words, it's coming right--it's coming right by degrees, and it will all come right in the end."
Mr. Dugdale still kept late hours, as he had done all his life. Mrs. Doran left him at the usual hour in more than his accustomed spirits, and not apparently fatigued by the unusual emotion of the day. When he was alone, the old man passed some time in reading; then he closed his book and gave himself up to thought. His thoughts were seemingly very peaceful, and not sad; for there was a calm and patient smile upon the worn face, to which old age had brought a serene dignity. His large deeply-cushioned arm-chair moved easily upon its castors, and, after a period of profound stillness, he rolled himself in the chair towards a writing-table, on which a lamp was burning. He unlocked a deep drawer, the lowest of a set on his right-hand, and took out two objects. One was his will, which he spread out upon the table and read attentively. Then muttering to himself, "A few kind words to Nelly,--God help her, poor child!" he wrote half-a-dozen lines on the reverse of one of the pages of the document, and appended his initials in a clear and steady hand. This done, he replaced the paper in the drawer, and turned his attention to the other object he had taken out.
It was the portrait of Margaret, in its beautiful setting of passion-flowers in jeweller's work of enamel and gold. There was reverential tenderness in the old man's touch as he placed the picture upright before him, opened the screens of golden filigree, and "fell to such perusal" of it as had been familiar to him since the coffin-lid had closed over the face it feebly shadowed forth. The minutes fled by as he gazed upon the likeness of the beautiful spiritual face which had gone down to the grave in untouched loveliness; and a glass upon his dressing-table alongside reflected his bowed head, sunken features, bent shadowy figure, and thin gray hair. Now and then a few unconnected murmurs escaped his lips, but rarely; while his gaze remained fixed, and a solemn peacefulness spread over his face.
"The same eyes in heaven," he whispered, "the same smile. How many years have I looked for them, and longed for them--how many, many years! I shall go to _her_; but she has not been waiting and watching for _me_. No, no; heaven has been full enough to her all this time with _him_ there."
He changed the position of the picture slightly, and leaned his head back against the cushion in his chair, looking at the face from a greater distance; then stretched out his folded hands and rested them upon the table.
"A long, long time--but nearly over, I think--and I have not murmured overmuch, for your sake, Margaret. But now, now I think I may make the _Nunc dimittis_ my evensong."
A little longer the old man's gaze remained fixed upon the picture; and then his form settled down amid the cushions, his hands fell gently from the edge of the table upon his knees, and his eyes closed softly. Through the hours of the night the lamp burned, and lighted up the picture with its golden trellised covers unclosed, and lighted up the old man's serene face. But with the morning the flame in the lamp flickered and died, and the sunshine came in, and gleamed upon the walls and the floor. Voices and footsteps stirred in the house, and soon Mrs. Doran came to Mr. Dugdale's room, as she did every morning. Then she knew, when she looked at the old man and touched his passive hands, still clasped and resting on his knee,--so gentle had been the parting between the body and the spirit,--that his sleep was never to know waking until the resurrection morning.
The blinds are closely drawn in Gertrude Ritherdon's house, and she sits alone, dressed in deep mourning. There is a touch of sadness upon her beauty; but she is more beautiful than she was in her girlhood, and for all the sorrow in her face today, one can see she is a happy woman. She is so. A happy wife, loved, trusted, honoured; her husband's companion and his friend. A proud and happy mother too, untroubled, when she watches her boy's baby glee and hears his laughter, with any remembrance of a great inheritance which was once to have been the birthright of her first-born son. A happy woman in her house, and popular with her friends; one whose life is full of blessings and void of bitterness. It is not for her faithful old friend Gertrude Ritherdon wears mourning to-day. That wound has long been healed, and she and her husband have none but sunny happy thoughts of him. Death has come nearer to Gertrude this time even than he came when Mr. Dugdale answered his summons--they have received formal notice of Eleanor's decease. The event has been long looked for, and Gertrude has well known that life has had nothing desirable in it for Eleanor. The sisters have never met, and of late Eleanor has lived abroad altogether, her husband being rarely with her; but Gertrude knows that her sister's former feelings have long ago returned, and there is sorrow, but not anguish, in this definitive earthly parting.
George Ritherdon has been summoned to Naples, where Eleanor Baldwin died, by Major Carteret, and Gertrude is now expecting his return. Her thoughts have been busy with the past; and when they have rested upon Robert Meredith, it has been without any anger for herself, but with some wonder as to how he will take the passing away to a stranger of all the wealth and luxury he bought at such a price, and enjoyed for so comparatively short a time. He will be a rich man, no doubt, with all Eleanor had to bestow on him; but he will have to see a stranger in the place he filled so pompously, and to feel himself once more a person of no importance. For Eleanor has died childless, and the Deane passes away to the eldest son of the late brother of that Mr. Mordaunt who was the next in the entail, and who, strange to say, died only two days before the death of Mrs. Meredith Baldwin occurred. Gertrude has heard this vaguely, in the hurry of George's departure, and during the first bewilderment which death brings with it.
A carriage stops, and Gertrude lifts the end of a blind and looks out. Two gentlemen enter the house, and in a few seconds she is clasped in her husband's arms, and sees, standing behind him, her uncle. Major Carteret. She greets him affectionately, and then loses her composure and bursts into tears. The two men allow her to give vent to her feelings without remonstrance, and when she is again calm, they talk a little of their journey, and then approach the subject of Eleanor's death. Gertrude knows the particulars of the event, and they go on to speak of the will.