“Oh, my darling!” she moaned, as suddenly the sunken eyes opened and gazed mournfully into hers, “do not leave me! I cannot live without you,” and as she spoke she pressed her hand upon her heart and gasped for breath.
His lips moved but no sound came from them, the fingers of the hand she held closed convulsively over hers, he drew a long sighing breath, and was gone.
The sound of a heavy fall brought the cook and housemaid running from the kitchen to find the captain dead and the new-made widow lying prone upon the floor by his bedside, apparently as lifeless as he.
“Dear, dear!” cried the cook, stooping over the prostrate form, “there don’t seem to be a bit more life in her than in him. Take hold here with me, Myra, and we’ll lift her to the couch yonder. Poor thing, poor thing! between nursin’ and frettin’ she’s just about killed, and I shouldn’t wonder if she wouldn’t be long a-following o’ him, if she hasn’t done it already.”
“Betty, I’m afraid she has!” sobbed the girl, “and what will the poor children do? She was just the sweetest lady I ever saw, so she was.”
“There now, Myra, don’t go on so, but run and bring somethin’ to bring her to. Oh, there’s the doctor’s gig at the gate! Run and let him in, quick as you can go.”
In another minute the doctor entered the room, followed by the sobbing Myra. He glanced first at the still form on the bed. “Yes, the poor gentleman has gone!” he said, sighing as he spoke; “but it is only what was to be expected.”
He turned quickly to the couch where lay the still form of Mrs. Eldon, the face as pale and deathlike as that of the husband, laid his finger on her wrist, turned hastily, caught up a hand-glass lying on the bureau and held it to her lips for a moment, then laying it down with a sigh:
“She too is gone,” he said in a low, moved tone, “and I am hardly surprised.”
“Oh, sir, what ailed her?” sobbed Myra, “She scarce ever complained of being ill.”