I will never call him less than a brother, as God hears
me speak."
A light "that never was on sea or sky" shone in Sandal's fast dimming
eyes, and irradiated his set gray countenance. "Stephen, tell him at
death's door I turned back to forgive him--to bless him. I
stretch--out--my hand--to--him."
At this moment Charlotte opened the door softly, and waved Stephen
towards her. "Your mother is come, and she says she must see the
squire." And then, before Stephen could answer, Ducie gently put them
both aside. "Wait in the corridor, my children," she said: "none but God
and Sandal must hear my farewell." With the words, she closed the door,
and went to the dying man. He appeared to be unconscious; but she took
his hand, stroked it kindly, and bending down whispered, "William,
William Sandal! Do you know me?"
"Surely it is Ducie. It is growing dark. We must go home, Ducie. Eh?
What?"
"William, try and understand what I say. You will go the happier to
heaven for my words." And, as they grew slowly into the squire's
apprehension, a look of amazement, of gratitude, of intense
satisfaction, transfigured the clay for the last time. It seemed as if
the departing soul stood still to listen. He was perfectly quiet until
she ceased speaking; then, in a strange, unearthly tone, he uttered one
word, "Happy." It was the last word that ever parted his lips. Between
shores he lingered until the next daybreak, and then the loving
watchers saw that the pallid wintry light fell on the dead.
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