Soon they were all gathered in the sick room. Old Lansing, and Mabella, and Lanty with their baby Dorothy in his arms, and Temperance and Nathan, and another guest, unseen and silent, to whom they all did reverence, who was nearer to the old clergyman than any of them.
And in a moment the door opened, and Sidney and Vashti came softly in, both pale, both calm.
The old clergyman looked up at them lovingly. His face was the colour of ivory, and the spirit seemed to shine through its imprisoning tabernacle like a light.
In few and feeble words he married them. Then he essayed to speak a little to them, but he stumbled and faltered, and instead of saying, “You, Vashti,” he said “You, Martha,” and when he sought to find Sidney’s name he could only say “Len.”
The composure of the women gave way. Mabella buried her face in Lanty’s arm and cried unrestrainedly. Tears streamed over Lanty’s face also. Those words, Martha and Len, showed how lovingly, despite his stern denial of their suit, the old man had thought of his daughter and her sweetheart.
His voice wandered and failed. Sidney and Vashti knelt beside the bed.
Temperance stole forward and touching them, motioned for them to go.
As they rose the old man looked at them. A little bewilderment flickered into his eyes.
“It’s not Martha and Len”—then his eyes cleared. “I am going to them and the mother.” Then he looked at Sidney, “Be thou faithful unto death,” he said, the solemnity of the words gaining an incalculable force from the weakness of the voice. Then he began to murmur to himself, “I have fought the good fight, I have finished my course.”