Wentworth’s pale face became convulsed, and his eyes filled with tears.
“Yes,” he murmured, clasping his hands, “that was the cause indeed!”
It was a day of grief to all but Muriel. The servants moved about the house with eyes red with weeping. Patrick seemed ten years older with his forlorn sorrow. Hannah and the children came to the house, and remained for a couple of hours, crying bitterly. Gracious and calm and sweet amidst the mortal anguish, Muriel soothed and strengthened and consoled them all.
The next day was the day of the funeral. The library where the body lay was decked as on the day of the wedding, with a profusion of roses. All the windows were open, and the rich, dark room swam in clear radiance.
In the morning, Mrs. Eastman, Emily, Wentworth, and Captain Fisher, being present, Muriel produced a brief will which Harrington had made the day after his marriage. The few engravings which decorated his room, and a portion of his books, he had bequeathed to Emily and Wentworth. The bulk of his library was given to Muriel. His house to Captain Fisher, with the provision that the two rooms in which he had lived should be kept for the refuge of any fugitive, exile, houseless or outcast person of any description who might stand in need of succor. His little income he had also given in charge to the Captain to be expended for the relief of any human distresses that might fall within his knowledge, or to be used at his discretion for any charitable end.
The old man bent his head, silently weeping, and the rest sat mute and still, thinking with swelling hearts of the kind spirit that had left earth forever.
A little while, and they were gone from the room—all save Muriel and Wentworth. The latter stood bending over the coffin and looking mournfully on the beautiful dead face of his friend, and Muriel sat at the organ dreaming in music, which brooded in sweet and glorious surges on the sunlit air.
As the melody died away, Wentworth stole slowly to her side.
“I forgot to ask you,” he murmured, “about the burial service. Have you sent for a clergyman?”
“No, Richard,” she replied. “He needs none. Our thoughts and memories are the fittest burial rites for him. He was a type and harbinger of the day when religion shall be the tender love and reverence of every soul for all. In the vision of that day let us lay his dead form in the grave, hallowed by our remembrance.”