"Yes—good-bye!" he said,—and then, as another strong shudder convulsed him, he made a last feeble effort to lay his head against her bosom. "Don't let me go, Mary! Hold me!—closer!—closer! Your heart is warm, ah, so warm, Mary!—and death is cold—cold——!"
Another moment—and the moonlight, streaming through the open window, fell on the quiet face of a dead man. Then came silence—broken only by the gentle murmur of the sea, and the sound of a woman's weeping.
[Footnote A]: Beethoven.
CHAPTER XXIII
Not often is the death of a man, who to all appearances was nothing more than a "tramp," attended by any demonstrations of sorrow. There are so many "poor" men! The roads are infested with them. It would seem, in fact, that they have no business to live at all, especially when they are old, and can do little or nothing to earn their bread. Such, generally and roughly speaking, is the opinion of the matter-of-fact world. Nevertheless, the death of "old David" created quite an atmosphere of mourning in Weircombe, though, had it been known that he was one of the world's famous millionaires, such kindly regret and compassion might have been lacking. As things were, he carried his triumph of love to the grave with him. Mary's grief for the loss of the gentle old man was deep and genuine, and Angus Reay shared it with her to the full.
"I shall miss him so much!" she sobbed, looking at the empty chair, which had been that of her own father. "He was always so kind and thoughtful for me—never wishing to give trouble!—poor dear old David!—and he did so hope to see us married, Angus!—you know it was through him that we knew each other!"
"I know!"—and Angus, profoundly moved, was not ashamed of the tears in his own eyes—"God bless him! He was a dear, good old fellow! But, Mary, you must not fret; he would not like to see your pretty eyes all red with weeping. This life was getting very difficult for him, remember,—he endured a good deal of pain. Bunce says he must have suffered acutely often without saying a word about it, lest you should be anxious. He is at rest now."
"Yes, he is at rest!"—and Mary struggled to repress her tears—"Come and see!"
Hand in hand they entered the little room where the dead man lay, covered with a snowy sheet, his waxen hands crossed peacefully outside it, and delicate clusters of white roses and myrtle laid here and there around him. His face was like a fine piece of sculptured marble in its still repose—the gravity and grandeur of death had hallowed the worn features of old age, and given them a great sweetness and majesty. The two lovers stood gazing at the corpse for a moment in silent awe—then Mary whispered softly—