EPILOGUE.
That morning, at eight o’clock, Wentworth took Roux and Antony, with the elfin Tugmutton, to Worcester, and delivered them, with a note from Muriel, to the care of a friend. A week later, and Roux’s family followed him. Safe in the uncorrupted heart of the Commonwealth, where, even in that dark period, the old New England honor fortressed the rights of the lowly—happy, because they knew not what had befallen their strong friend—thenceforth their humble fortunes flowed in peace.
Wentworth returned in the afternoon of that day, but even before his return, the news of Harrington’s death had spread abroad among all who knew the family, and already a number of friends had called. Mrs. Eastman and Muriel, however, unwilling to be questioned, had decided to excuse themselves to every one, and nobody was admitted. Harrington had lived rather a reclusive life—at least, he went but little into what is called society, and except to a number of poor and humble people, he was little known. To most of the friends and acquaintance of Muriel, he was a stranger, and to the neighborhood only a stately figure, sometimes seen alone from the windows, sometimes walking with her. Hence the interest the neighborhood felt in his death was, as far as he personally was concerned, vague, and keen only on account of Muriel, whose loss, so soon after her marriage, excited a great deal of sympathy and comment.
The funeral was to be strictly private, and Wentworth returned to find the beauteous body already prepared for the grave. It lay in its casket in the library, garbed in the clothes it had worn in life. The young man gazed upon it a little while, then turned to Muriel.
“Of course,” he said, “the burial permit has been attended to.”
“Yes,” she answered. “Dr. Winslow gave the certificate.”
“What cause could he have assigned for the death?” he asked, with a startled air.
Muriel looked at him for a moment with a strange, faint smile.
“Enlargement of the heart,” she answered.