They bore it to the chamber in the rear of the parlor on the ground floor, that had been John Cleve’s sleeping-room. Here they laid it on the bed to await the arrival of the family physician. The latter could do no good, but all the same he must come.
Not until afternoon could the busy country doctor, whose practice extended over many miles, be found and brought to Wolfscliff.
He was conducted by Stuart to the room of death.
“A death from old age, pure and simple,” was the verdict of science.
“Did you ever see a body more thoroughly consumed by the life of the spirit? I have known Mr. Cleve all my life, as my father and my grandfather knew him before me, and I never knew of, or heard of, his having a day’s illness,” concluded Dr. Osborne as they sat together beside the bed.
“He was a saint prepared for heaven,” reverently replied the young man.
Then they arose, and standing on each side of the bed, drew the sheet up over the calm, cold face and left the room together.
The doctor went away, kindly offering to transact any business that was now required for the family and for the deceased at Wolfswalk.
Stuart went to inquire about the condition of his wife.
Polly had put her to bed, and Mrs. Pole had laid her sleeping infants in with her, the one on her right side and the other on her left. They were the best sedatives, for the tender mother was obliged to control herself for fear of disturbing them.