“My dear fellow, not one single soul came that night. When twelve o’clock struck, Vane’s face became the colour of a corpse. The ticking of the pendulum, as it swung remorselessly backwards and forwards, seemed to furrow deep wrinkles in the wan face of our desolate friend. We were witnessing the final agony of a marionette which Society had held up by strings; until one day it grew weary of its plaything, and dropped the toy upon the ground. He sat there, his little curly head drooping on his breast, like a withered flower on its stem; whilst the invisible orchestra played Boccherini’s minuetto. The atmosphere of that past haunt of Society was redolent of exotic perfumes which made us giddy. Towards three o’clock in the morning we left him without disturbing his reflections, and we have never seen him since; it is only a week ago.”
“Shall we go, my lord? Time is short, and this is no place for men like you.”
“Let us run upstairs, Dan. I reproach myself for not having come to inquire after him before.”
Lionel led the way upstairs, followed by the somewhat reluctant Danford. They pushed open the door leading into the dilettante’s bedroom, but at first, could not see anything, for the shutters were closed. The overpowering stillness caused the two men to pause on the threshold, and to hold their breath. After a few seconds they heard the regular tick-tack of an old empire timepiece, and gradually their eyes perceived in the dark the glittering brass ornaments of the furniture. Danford the practical saw no fun in remaining thus in total obscurity, and he groped his way towards the large bay window. He turned the latch, pushed the shutters aside, and let in a flow of sunshine which revealed the mahogany bedstead on which lay the small body of Montagu Vane.
Lionel, who had crossed the room and joined Dan, touched his arm.
“There he is,” murmured the two men. They walked on tip-toe close to the bed and gazed upon the little dilettante, stretched out on his pallet sleeping his last sleep.
“He is quite cold,” whispered Lionel, laying his hand on the motionless heart.
“But not yet stiff, my lord,” added Dan, whose keen eye detected the suppleness of the limbs, which could not have been cold for more than a few hours. The wrinkles had been smoothed down, and the petty, frivolous expression of the small face had been replaced by the placid aspect of a wax doll.
“Do you think there was any struggle, my dear Dick?” Lionel looked at his guide with anguish.
“No, my lord; there seems to have been no wrench, no painful parting from life. What you witnessed, that evening when the world abandoned him, must have been the only agony he ever knew.”