“What can you do, my lord?” said the officer he saw. “From what you say, the fellow has married her, and we can’t undo that. I’ll take what steps you like, my lord, but—”
But! There was a volume in that one word, for when afterwards effort after effort was made to win the wanderer back by father, mother, sister, all was in vain. She had spoken truly. The Julia whom Harry Artingale had known was dead.
It was close upon twelve that same night that, sick at heart, Artingale returned to his friend’s chambers, to find that Burgess had been busy preparing supper, feeling sure that he would return.
“Where is your master?” said Artingale.
“He said he would go and lie down, sir, till you came. He thought you would be sure to come back to-night. But oh, my lord—oh sir,” cried the poor fellow piteously, “can’t you do something to make poor master what he was? This is weary work indeed!”
“I don’t know, Burgess. I can’t say. I’ll try, but I hope he will be better now.”
“I hope and pray he may, sir,” said the man, fervently; and Artingale went on into the bedroom, to see that his friend had placed Julia’s picture on the easel at the farther side of the bed in full sight from where he lay; and as the young man’s eyes lighted upon the prostrate figure, he uttered a cry which brought in the man.
“Quick, Burgess, quick! The nearest doctor.”
A fruitless errand: James Magnus, after his long and weary pilgrimage, was resting peacefully where there is no dreaming of revenge.
Of a broken heart! So it was said, for the secret was well kept. There are men who dare to make the rush headlong from this world.