The Sunday herald. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1866-1887, 1886-04-18


tried to persuade her TO go home to her |
parents. He resented my Interference we
fought-and here am"
ut was that! ~ cried, confounded at
was on account Of Lucy p
"Poor child, poor girl" he murmured,
closing his eyes.
| stood speeohIess for while. For the |
first time realized Malet's part in the duel
Of which the doctor had spoken. In face Of
his mortal malady, | had forgotten tor the
moment that malady's cause.
"Well Z" he said at last, as did not
speak.
are the last man, yes, the last man In the
world I should have thought would fight a
duel"
lie smiled little. "Why not ~ he said.
had no intention Of killing the poor wretch
who challenged me; he was safe enough
from me-"
"But the sin of it" began.
ooh, the sin Of 1.-THE sin Of It," he said.
"Sit down, Frank )" he went on, raising his
head and looking at me with smile by the
dim light of the candle. 80 you're a par
son now, priest suppose you would call
yourself, and are going to save mems souls.
Well, you do a world Of good, old fellow,
one way or another. know so much of
you"
His head fell back OH the pillow. "Move
the light, will You 2" he said. others is
nothing to do. and IL hurts my eyes We
don't need a candle To talk by"
| rose and set the candle on deal table In
the passage outside. The door stood aiar;
only a thread of light fell through the open
ing. But though the moon was on the other
side Of the house its sufrused Wilderness filled
the room, and through the open easement
It's light could be seen falling on a tree
covered hill that, rising just behind the
hotel garden, defined It's summit against the
pale summer heavens. took my place again
plainly In the twilight as he lay with II
turned toward the window, his eyes fixed on
the sky. For a long time he was silent
also did not speak. My heart was weighed
down by the sense of our long estrangement;
II was breaking at the thought that we
should have met only to ind him like this.
lie spoks again, quite suddenly
"You never believed me about Lucy" he
said.
"For Gods sake, Ambrose, don't speak Of
that again I" cried In anguish. "Forgive
me, forgive mo the loss Of all these years
has been nine"
"No, no." he said; at is no matter. All
is over now and II is all one. Life, too, will
be over in few hours, and that is well.
Strange" he went on after pause, "that
men should dread death as they do. have
thought SO always; now that am dying |
think so more than ever. To dread the un
known-when to know the unknowable Is
the great and unattainable desire of life."
''Most men think otherwise, !" said "the
love of lite is strong"
eyes, yes, l know it," he said, land II is
better so; it should be so. But something
has gone wrong between me and life /; have
telt stranger III IL always. ID. ath is best ~
lie lay silent again for long while. His
breathing was difficult and oppressed but
he was suffering no acute pain, he told me {;
he may even have dozed, as he lay there,
his eyes opening and closing from time to
time. Now and then the wind stirred the
trees on the hill outside; the shadows slowly
moved with the advancing night; otherwise
all was still. But presently he began to
turn restlessly in the bed his hands, hot
with fever, strayed over the counterpane.
When he spoke again his mind was wander
ing little.
~ suppose you 60 back to Oxford at once,
old fellow 7" he said. 81 should like TO get
back there, ii it were only for day. My
mother is dead, you know poor mother.
The meadows down by the river; 1t would
be cooler there than here; we might have
another walk together. Lucy"
The words died away in murmur f; but
all at once, half raising himself in bed
"No one has believed in me, no one has cared
for me-" he said, in strange, loud, solemn
| voice, such as had never heard him use be
fore "and knowledge is ignorance, and one
drinks and drinks and the eternal thirst is
T never quenched, never"
lie looked round wildly till, his eyes fall
ing on me in the imperfect light, gradually
| r,,n rntpr nd Inv hal
quietly.
, "Givs me some water, will you, Frank p
/ he said, in an exhausted voice.
did as he desired.
~ must have been asleep, l think" he
said, as his head sank again on the pillow
81 should have liked to tell you all abou
my wandsrings, Frank. have wandered
l good deal since we last met but suppose
I there won't be time. What o'clock is tn
| He felt under the pillow for his watch.
r went to the door, and, looking at my owl
watch by the candle outside, told him thu
hour.
: SIT is later than thought" he said, ant
\ again lay silent, his face turned to the win
dow. sat down beside him and took hi
p. hand in mine. He let it lie there. "Strange,
he said again one lives alone, and one die
alone and yet human fellowship is sweet
+ like to feel your hand in mine, Frank"
8 He was growing weaker. l could see Il
, by the way his head lay on the pillow, ant
by the increasing difficulty with which h
!, swallowed the cordial gave him from tim
to time. asked him presently whether Ii
: had any wishes could fulfill.
Y "No," he said at first; then, "bury IN
l here of COURSE" he said zone spot of eartl
. is like another, and there is no one at HON,
. to mourn for me.''
a "Don't say that" said: a." l brok
down, and, laying my head on the counter
/. pane, cried like girl. 1t distressed him.
0 "Don't," he said twice, aud in a minute
0 had conquered the weakness. 81 hav
!, longed for DEATH" he said "aud now 1t ha
II come. Yes, am glad to die. Something
was wrong between me and life; coul
| have made nothing ii. Death is best, an
what comes after"
q "You do believe, Ambrose '' cried. TIL
o words were involuntary; for, though th
= thought had been in my mind since / eli
}. tered the room, had not meant to utter Il
IS He looked at me with eyes whose kindnes
n and Affection can never forget.
"GoOd old Frank!' he said. "If 20
# ever see Lncy," he went on, after pause
n "tell her from ms to go back to her parents
" have written to them she will have N
a difficulty. Tell her 80 from me-"
- The room was growing darker the moo
o had set. could not make out the change
in his face any more. But he still kept
turned toward the window. "IIow brigh
), the stars are tonight" he said one,
!, "Sursly we shall know" And once again
% "Soon shall know" Then u long silsnc.
n About midnight the doctor had come In
IS had laid his hand on his patients pulse
d and gone without a word. l brought til
& light back into room in the darkest hou
. before dawn; but Ambrose took no notice
d About dawn he died.
h An hour later went through the fror
u door of the hotel, and out into the cour
o yard to breathe the morning air. The nigl
It had been a terrible one to ms; did no
o until afterward, know how terrible an
o poignant. No, only in after years came
10 understand what scales of self suiicienc
"a had fallen from my eyes, and that. fror
1t that day forward, was changed man.
y went out into the courtyard, looking up
h the morning sky, which had the pathos
10 the light that first dawns after one whom "
10 love has died. The lay would clear I'M
n brightness later on, but at that early hor
tnn nd ,iaty Ia,