“She is quite happy,” said the mother, nodding her head sagaciously. “I only warned her to take care that he has plenty of beef-tea, for he is sadly thin.”
The door was pushed open, and Sniff came running in, looking for Marion. Somebody had tied a white favour round his neck, of which nothing was left but a little ragged strip of ribbon. He had followed Anthony to Hardlands, and not finding Marion there or here, flung himself exhausted at Mr Miles’s feet, with a piteous look of entreaty in his faithful eyes. The Vicar stooped and patted him.
“Is she gone, poor fellow—” he said.
What stopped the words?—What spring of life suddenly failed?—Was it the shadow, after all, no longer shadowy, but a presence, a reality? Mrs Miles, running to him with a cry, caught him in her faithful arms, and held him by an almost supernatural strength from falling forward on his face.
“William, William!”
The servants in the kitchen heard the cry though he did not, and flocked in, Anthony was sent for, another messenger despatched to Underham for the doctor. All the doctors in the world could do him no good, but Mrs Miles would not believe it as she sat by the bed where he was lying.
“He was so well, Anthony, all the morning. And I think Marion’s wedding made him remember our own, for do you know what he said just before? ‘We have been very happy together, Hannah,’ he said. I must tell him when he is better that I did not say half enough.”
I think the words have been told by this time like so many other of those unspoken words which wait for our utterance, but he did not hear them then. No more sounds apparently reached his ear where he lay silent and motionless while the days passed slowly by, carrying his moments with them, until the last came, when they scarcely expected it, as quiet and gentle as his life had been throughout.