“This is the grief of dying,” he faltered, at length. “Oh, dear ones, death is bitter to me when I see you grieve.”
“No, no, it shall not be,” cried Wentworth, lifting his streaming eyes to Harrington’s. “We will not pain you. Emily, dear Emily, let us be calm—let us not make him suffer whom we love.”
“I will not,” she answered, lifting her beautiful agonized face, and controlling herself with a strong effort. “I will be calm. For your sake, John, for I love you as I never dreamed I could love.”
“Thanks, thanks,” faltered Harrington. “Dear Emily, dear Richard, think of Muriel. She is here, she you love so fondly remains to make life beautiful to you. Oh, think of that, and be filled with gladness and gratitude! There. I have much to say to you, but my strength fails me. Live happy. Love much. Now farewell till we meet in the bright land.”
Emily bent down, folding him in her arms, and pressed her mouth to his cold lips in a long, fervent kiss, whose memory never left her life. Rising presently, she swept away to the extremity of the room, and sank on her knees by a chair. Wentworth remained for a little while, his arms around his friend, his head resting upon his bosom. Then raising his sorrowful and haggard face, he kissed him on the forehead, grasped his hand and held it to his heart, and with one lingering, mournful look upon the noble and peaceful countenance which smiled upon him, reverently laid the hand down, and slowly wandering away, knelt beside Emily.
Harrington looked at Muriel, with his white face kindled.
“Come to me now, my beloved,” he said, in a faint and fervid voice. “The shadows have passed. Come, and share my dying hour of joy.”
Pale, and glorious in her festal beauty, she moved to the folding-doors.
“I will stay with him till he is gone,” she said, calmly. “Wait here till I come out to you.”