“‘But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust!’”
He lay very still; but when, after a time, Ella would have offered him something in a glass, he put her hand feebly aside. Miles could not hear their words, except, “If every one was faithful as you—” and the woman’s reply, “I’ll never leave him till he sends me away.” She rose, and, crossing to the window, where a row of geraniums glowed in the sunset, stood picking blindly at the dead leaves.
He continued to speak, but neither audibly nor with the living. From time to time they caught the name of George, Godfrey, or Christopher. His eyes remained closed; but his face turned slightly, now and then, with the air of one who clearly saw and heard the persons in a ghostly conference. As day drooped into night, the seen fused with the unseen. And it was in a mystical twilight that he turned toward Miles, at last, with a look of grave relief, which told that the council had reached some fortunate conclusion. The lips barely moved, and indeed the eyes made their effort needless.
“I’m satisfied, my boy.”
The only praise he had ever given, it was beyond all value.
The woman lighted a lamp behind the shawl; then stood beside Miles, waiting. Nothing moved in the room, except twin shadows of the andirons fluttering on the wall, alert and capricious as a pair of fencers. In the passage Tony the sailor had paused silently, like a man drawn by strange impulse to the edge of a forbidden circle.
Something approached, arrived, and culminated. The counterpane stirred. It was as though a broad and soothing wave had lifted the prostrate figure slightly, and passed, bearing away the spirit in one gentle, mighty undulation.
The servant was the first to speak.
“He was a good man,” she whispered. “It’s over now. He was a good man.”