on a low bed, with his eyes fastened eagerly upon the door, lies paul rodney, the dews of death already on his face.
there is no disfigurement about him to be seen, no stain of blood, no ugly mark; yet he is touched by the pale hand of the destroyer, and is sinking, dying, withering beneath it. he has aged at least ten years within the last fatal hour, while in his eyes lies an expression so full of hungry expectancy and keen longing as amounts almost to anguish.
as mona advances to his side, through the gathering gloom of fast approaching night, pale almost as he is, and trembling in every limb, this miserable anxiety dies out of his face, leaving behind it a rest and peace unutterable.
to her it is an awful moment. never before has she stood face to face with dissolution, to wait for the snapping of the chain,—the breaking of the bowl. "neither the sun nor death," says la rochefoucauld, "can be looked at steadily;" and now "death's thousand doors stand open" to receive this man that but an hour agone was full of life as she is now. his pulses throbbed, his blood coursed lightly through his veins, the grave seemed a far-off destination; yet here he lies, smitten to the earth, beaten down and trodden under, with nothing further to anticipate but the last change of all.
"o death! thou strange, mysterious power, seen every day yet never understood but by the incommunicative dead, what art thou?"
"you have come," he says, with a quick sigh that be speaks relief. "i knew you would. i felt it; yet i feared. oh, what comfort to see you again!"
mona tries to say something,—anything that will be kind and sympathetic,—but words fail her. her lips part, but no sound escapes them. the terrible reality of the moment terrifies and overcomes her.
"do not try to make me any commonplace speeches," says rodney, marking her hesitation. he speaks hastily, yet with evident difficulty. "i am dying. nothing, can alter that. but death has brought you to my side again, so i cannot repine."
"but to find you like this"—begins mona. and then overcome by grief and agitation, she covers her face with her hands, and bursts into tears.
"mona! are you crying for me?" says paul rodney, as though surprised. "do not. your tears hurt me more than this wound that has done me to death."
"oh, if i had not given you that pistol," sobs mona, who cannot conquer the horror of the thought that she has helped him to his death, "you would be alive and strong now."
"yes,—and miserable! you forget to add that. now everything seems squared. in the grave neither grief nor revenge can find a place. and as for you, what have you to do with my fate?—nothing. what should you not return to me my own? and why should i not die by the weapon i had dared to level against yourself? there is a justice in it that smacks of sadlers' wells."
he actually laughs, though faintly, and mona looks up. perhaps he has forced himself to this vague touch of merriment (that is even sadder than tears) just to please and rouse her from her despondency,—because the laugh dies almost as it is born, and an additional pallor covers his lips in its stead.
"listen to me," he goes on, in a lower key, and with some slight signs of exhaustion. "i am glad to die,—unfeignedly glad: therefore rejoice with me! why should you waste a tear on such as i am? do you remember how i told you (barely two hours ago) that my life had come to an end where other fellows hope to begin theirs? i hardly knew myself how prophetic my words would prove."
"it is terrible, terrible," says mona, piteously sinking on her knees beside the bed. one of his hands is lying outside the coverlet, and, with a gesture full of tender regret, she lays her own upon it.
"are you in pain?" she says, in a low, fearful tone. "do you suffer much?"
"i suffer nothing: i have no pain now. i am inexpressibly, happy," replies he, with a smile radiant, though languid. forgetful of his unfortunate state, he raises his other hand, and, bringing it across the bed, tries to place it on mona's. but the action is too much for him. his face takes a leaden hue, more ghastly than its former pallor, and, in spite of an heroic effort to suppress it, a deep groan escapes him.
"ah!" says mona, springing to her feet, and turning to the door, as though to summon aid; but he stops her by a gesture.
"no, it is nothing. it will be over in a moment," gasps he. "give me some brandy, and help me to cheat death of his prey for a little time, if it be possible."
seeing brandy, on a table near, she pours a little into a glass with a shaking hand, and passing her arm beneath his neck, holds it to his parched lips.
it revives him somewhat. and presently the intenser pallor dies away, and speech returns to him.
"do not call for assistance," he whispers, imploringly. "they can do me no good. stay with me. do not forsake me. swear you will remain with me to—to the end."
"i promise you faithfully," says mona.
"it is too much to ask, but i dread being alone," he goes on, with a quick shudder of fear and repulsion. "it is a dark and terrible journey to take, with no one near who loves one, with no one to feel a single regret when one has departed."
"i shall feel regret," says, mona, brokenly, the tears running down her cheeks.
"give me your hand again," says rodney, after a pause; and when she gives it to him he says, "do you know this is the nearest approach to real happiness i have ever known in all my careless, useless life? what is it shakspeare says about the folly of loving 'a bright particular star'? i always think of you when that line comes to my mind. you are the star; mine is the folly."
he smiles again, but mona is too sad to smile in return.
"how did it happen?" she asks, presently.
"i don't know myself. i wandered in a desultory fashion through the wood on leaving you, not caring to return home just then, and i was thinking of—of you, of course—when i stumbled against something (they tell me it was a gnarled root that had thrust itself above ground), and then there was a report, and a sharp pang; and that was all. i remember nothing. the gamekeeper found me a few minutes later, and had me brought here."
"you are talking too much," says mona, nervously.
"i may as well talk while i can: soon you will not be able to hear me, when the grass is growing over me," replies he, recklessly. "it was hardly worth my while to deliver you up that will, was it? is not fate ironical? now it is all as it was before i came upon the scene, and nicholas has the title without dispute. i wish we had been better friends,—he at least was civil to me,—but i was reared with hatred in my heart towards all the rodneys; i was taught to despise and fear them as my natural enemies, from my cradle."
then, after a pause, "where will they bury me?" he asks, suddenly. "do you think they will put me in the family vault?" he seems to feel some anxiety on this point.
"whatever you wish shall be done," says mona earnestly, knowing she can induce nicholas to accede to any request of hers.
"are you sure?" asks he, his face brightening. "remember how they have drawn back from me. i was their own first-cousin,—the son of their father's brother,—yet they treated me as the veriest outcast."
then mona says, in a trembling voice and rather disconnectedly, because of her emotion, "be quite sure you shall be—buried—where all the other baronets of rodney lie at rest."
"thank you," murmurs he, gratefully. there is evidently comfort in the thought. then after a moment or two he goes on again, as though following out a pleasant idea: "some day, perhaps, that vault will hold you too; and there at least we shall meet again, and be side by side."
"i wish you would not talk of being buried," says mona, with a sob. "there is no comfort in the tomb: there our dust may mingle, but in heaven our souls shall meet, i trust,—i hope."
"heaven," repeats he, with a sigh. "i have forgotten to think of heaven."
"think of it now, paul,—now before it is too late," entreats she, piteously. "try to pray: there is always mercy."
"pray for me!" says he, in a low tone, pressing her hand. so on her knees, in a subdued voice, sad but earnest, she repeats what prayers she can remember out of the grand service that belongs to us. one or two sentences from the litany come to her; and then some words rise from her own heart, and she puts up a passionate supplication to heaven that the passing soul beside her, however erring, may reach some haven where rest remaineth!
some time elapses before he speaks again, and mona is almost hoping he may have fallen into a quiet slumber, when he opens his eyes and says, regretfully,—
"what a different life mine might have been had i known you earlier!" then, with a faint flush, that vanishes almost as it comes, as though without power to stay, he says, "did your husband object to your coming here?"
"geoffrey? oh, no. it was he who brought me. he bade me hasten lest you should even imagine me careless about coming. and—and—he desired me to say how he regrets the harsh words he uttered and the harsher thoughts he may have entertained towards you. forgive him, i implore you, and die in peace with him and all men."
"forgive him!" says rodney. "surely, however unkind the thoughts he may have cherished for me, i must forget and forgive them now, seeing all he has done for me. has he not made smooth my last hours? has he not lent me you? tell him i bear him no ill will."
"i will tell him," says mona.
he is silent for a full minute; then he says,—
"i have given a paper to dr. bland for you: it will explain what i wish. and, mona, there are some papers in my room: will you see to them for me and have them burned?"
"i will burn them with my own hands," says mona.
"how comforting you are!—how you understand," he says, with a quick sigh. "there is something else: that fellow ridgway, who opened the window for me, he must be seen to. let him have the money mentioned in the paper, and send him to my mother: she will look after him for my sake. my poor mother!" he draws his breath quickly.
"shall i write to her?" asks mona, gently. "say what you wish done."
"it would be kind of you," says he, gratefully. "she will want to know all, and you will do it more tenderly than the others. do not dwell upon my sins; and say i died—happy. let her too have a copy of the paper dr. bland has now."
"i shall remember," says mona, not knowing what the paper contains. "and who am i, that i should dwell upon the sins of another? are you tired, paul? how fearfully pale you are looking!"
he is evidently quite exhausted. his brow is moist, his eyes are sunken, his lips more pallid, more death-like than they were before. in little painful gasps his breath comes fitfully. then all at once it occurs to mona that though he is looking at her he does not see her. his mind has wandered far away to those earlier days when england was unknown and when the free life of the colony was all he desired.
as mona gazes at him half fearfully, he raises himself suddenly on his elbow, and says, in a tone far stronger than he has yet used,—
"how brilliant the moonlight is to-night! see—watch"—eagerly—"how the shadows chase each other down the ranger's hill!"
mona looks up startled. the faint rays of the new-born moon are indeed rushing through the casement, and are flinging themselves languidly upon the opposite wall, but they are pale and wan, as moonlight is in its infancy, and anything but brilliant. besides, rodney's eyes are turned not on them, but on the door that can be seen just over mona's head, where no beams disport themselves, however weakly.
"lie down: you will hurt yourself again," she says, trying gently to induce him to return to his former recumbent position; but he resists her.
"who has taken my orders about the sheep?" he says, in a loud voice, and in an imperious tone, his eyes growing bright but uncertain. "tell grainger to see to it. my father spoke about it again only yesterday. the upper pastures are fresher—greener——"
his voice breaks: with a groan he sinks back again upon his pillow.
"mona, are you still there?" he says, with a return to consciousness: "did i dream, or did my father speak to me? how the night comes on!" he sighs wearily. "i am so tired,—so worn out: if i could only sleep!" he murmurs, faintly.
alas! how soon will fall upon him that eternal sleep from which no man waketh!
his breath grows fainter, his eyelids close.
some one comes in with a lamp, and places it on a distant table, where its rays cannot distress the dying man.
dr. bland, coming into the room, goes up to the bedside and feels his pulse, and tries to put something between his lips, but he refuses to take anything.
"it will strengthen you," he says, persuasively.
"no, it is of no use: it only wearies me. my best medicine, my only medicine, is here," returns paul, feebly pressing mona's hand. he is answering the doctor, but he does not look at him. as he speaks, his gaze is riveted upon mona.
dr. bland, putting down the glass, forbears to torment him further, and moves away; geoffrey, who has also come in, takes his place. bending over the dying man, he touches him lightly on the shoulder.
paul turns his head, and as he sees geoffrey a quick spasm that betrays fear crosses his face.
"do not take her away yet,—not yet," he says, in a faint whisper.
"no, no. she will stay," says geoffrey, hurriedly: "i only want to tell you, my dear fellow, how grieved i am for you, and how gladly i would undo many things—if i could."
the other smiles faintly. he is evidently glad because of geoffrey's words, but speech is now very nearly impossible to him. his attempt to rise, to point out the imaginary moonlight to mona, has greatly wasted his small remaining stock of life, and now but a thin partition, frail and broken, lies between him and that inexorable rubicon we all must one day pass.
then he turns his head away again to let his eyes rest on mona, as though nowhere else can peace or comfort be found.
geoffrey, moving to one side, stands where he can no longer be seen, feeling instinctively that the ebbing life before him finds its sole consolation in the thought of mona. she is all he desires. from her he gains courage to face the coming awful moment, when he shall have to clasp the hand of death and go forth with him to meet the great unknown.
presently he closes his fingers upon hers, and looking up, she sees his lips are moving, though no sound escapes them. leaning over him, she bends her face to his and whispers softly,—
"what is it?"
"it is nearly over," he gasps, painfully. "say good-by to me. do not quite forget me, not utterly. give me some small place in your memory, though—so unworthy."
"i shall not forget; i shall always remember," returns she, the tears running down her cheeks; and then, through divine pity, and perhaps because geoffrey is here to see her, she stoops and lays her lips upon his forehead.
never afterwards will she forget the glance of gratitude that meets hers, and that lights up all his face, even his dim eyes, as she grants him this gentle pitiful caress.
"pray for me," he says.
and then she falls upon her knees again, and geoffrey in the background, though unseen, kneels too; and mona, in a broken voice, because she is crying very bitterly now, whispers some words of comfort for the dying.
the minutes go by slowly, slowly; a clock from some distant steeple chimes the hour. the soft pattering of rain upon the walk outside, and now upon the window-pane, is all the sound that can be heard.
in the death-chamber silence reigns. no one moves, their very breathing seems hushed. paul rodney's eyes are closed. no faintest movement disturbs the slumber into which he seems to have fallen.
thus half an hour goes by. then geoffrey, growing uneasy, raises his head and looks at mona. from where he sits the bed is hidden from him, but he can see that she is still kneeling beside it, her hand in rodney's, her face hidden in the bedclothes.
the doctor at this instant returns to the room, and, going on tiptoe (as though fearful of disturbing the sleeper) to where mona is kneeling, looks anxiously at rodney. but, alas! no sound of earth will evermore disturb the slumber of the quiet figure upon which he gazes.
the doctor, after a short examination of the features (that are even now turning to marble), knits his brows, and, going over to geoffrey, whispers something into his ear while pointing to mona.
"at once," he says, with emphasis.
geoffrey starts. he walks quickly up to mona, and, stooping over her, very gently loosens her hand from the other hand she is holding. passing his arm round her neck, he turns her face deliberately in his own direction—as though to keep her eyes from resting on the bed and lays it upon his own breast.
"come," he says, gently.
"oh, not yet!" entreats faithful mona, in a miserable tone; "not yet. remember what i said. i promised to remain with him until the very end."
"you have kept your promise," returns he, solemnly, pressing her face still closer against his chest.
a strong shudder runs through her frame; she grows a little heavier in his embrace. seeing she has fainted, he lifts her in his arms and carries her out of the room.
later on, when they open the paper that had been given by the dead man into the keeping of dr. bland, and which proves to be his will, duly signed and witnessed by the gamekeeper and his son, they find he has left to mona all of which he died possessed. it amounts to about two thousand a year; of which one thousand is to come to her at once, the other on the death of his mother.
to ridgway, the under-gardener, he willed three hundred pounds, "as some small compensation for the evil done to him," so runs the document, written in a distinct but trembling hand. and then follow one or two bequests to those friends he had left in australia and some to the few from whom he had received kindness in colder england.
no one is forgotten by him; though once "he is dead and laid in grave" he is forgotten by most.
they put him to rest in the family vault, where his ancestors lie side by side,—as mona promised him,—and write sir paul rodney over his head, giving him in death the title they would gladly have withheld from him in life.
