Fred did so, and could not help recognising the features of the countess. He asked if Mr. Fitzroy had any other friends to whom he could carry messages.
‘Friends? I have none,’ he said, in a toneless way, empty of all bitterness or pain. ‘I neither sought friendship nor offered it. I have loved but one being on this earth, and it has been my duty to stand by and see her suffer, and now I must go, while she remains behind unhappy, with none to comfort her. There is no comfort on earth for miserable wives. When I think of them, I am wroth to hear men complain. What do we know about pain compared with them? And yet they bear it. The God that made them alone can explain how. But this last blow! How will she bear that? Mary, Mary, my poor unhappy girl!’
He closed his eyes, and seemed to dose, then opened them, and clutched Luffington’s fingers, like a startled child.
‘Don’t leave me,’ he breathed, through shut teeth. ‘It is so lonely among strangers. Ah, if I were only back in my room in the ‘St. George and the Dragon,’ with good Mrs. Matcham! Poor Mary! The worst of it is, I have never been able to punch that rascal’s head. Never. For her sake, I have had to “my Lord” him, when I wanted to be at his throat. Well, I played the game gallantly. Nobody can deny that. It’s for her now to continue it alone. The locket! Where’s the locket? Let it go with me. It contains all I have loved on earth, and I’ll lie all the quieter underground for having it with me.’
The dawn found him lifeless, and Luffington sitting with his stiff cold hand clasped in his own. The locket, containing the likeness of the Countess of Harborough and a thick twist of blonde hair, was buried, along with the remains of Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy, in a little Alpine churchyard.
One summer evening, the Flemish priest of Fendon was reading his breviary in the garden, not so intent upon prayer that he had no eye for his flower-beds, which he had just watered. He turned hastily as the garden gate swung back, and recognised Fred Luffington, who approached with an air of unwonted gravity. He carried a square parcel under his arm.
‘My dear young friend,’ cried the enchanted priest, keeping, while he spoke, a finger between the leaves of his breviary.
‘I have a painful commission for you. You must take this box at once to the Countess of Harborough, and acquaint her with the news that Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy is dead. I buried him in Switzerland a month ago.’
The priest shook his head sadly. He scrutinised Luffington’s features sharply, and said—