“She must go to bed at once,” said Eleanor; “I will call Nora, and have her placed in the room which opens out of ours, Mary.”
The young ladies retired to give their gentle attention to the sick girl; and both, before they went out, pressed my hand as they said good night.
We three men remained long, talking over each particular of our strange story, for we could not feel like sleeping. And before we parted for the night, Mr. Argyll had humbled himself to confess that he was led to condemn me without sufficient cause.
“I loved you as a son, Richard,” he said, in a broken voice, “better than I ever loved James, for I was aware that he had many faults of heart and head. And when I was induced to believe you the author of the crime which had broken all our hearts, I was still further downcast. My health has failed, as you see; and I was urgent upon Mary to marry her cousin, for I felt as if she would soon be left friendless, and I wanted the girls to have a protector. I might better have left them to the care of a viper,” he added, with a shudder. “Poor Mary, dear girl! she was right all the time. She never did love that man—though, of course, she had no idea of the truth. Thank God, it is no worse!”
I knew he was thinking of the marriage, and I, too, murmured, “Thank God.”
“Mr. Argyll,” said Mr. Burton, laying his hand on that of the other, “this terrible affair is now brought to a close, as far as it can be. Let me advise you to brood over it as little as possible. Your health is already affected. I acknowledge it is enough to shake one’s reason; but, for that, I would bid you to drop it all from your mind—to banish the thought of it—never to refer to it again. You can yet be tolerably happy. A fair future lies before all of you, except dear Miss Eleanor. Adopt Richard as your son, make him your partner, as you first intended. I will give you my warrant for what it is worth, that he will relieve you both of business and household cares—and that you will feel, during your declining years, as if you, indeed, had a son to comfort you.”
“But I do not believe that Richard would take such a place, after what has passed,” said Mr. Argyll, doubtfully.
I hesitated; for a moment pride rebelled; but since all is forgiven, ought it not to be forgotten? When I spoke it was with heartiness.
“If you need a partner in your office, and wish me to take the place, I will do so.”
“Then the compact is signed,” said Mr. Burton, almost gayly. “And now I will try to find a bed at the hotel.”
“Of course you will not,” said our host; “this house is yours as much as mine, Mr. Burton, always. How much I thank you for all the time, money and thought you have lavished in our behalf, I will not try to say tonight. Our gratitude is unspoken because it is boundless.”
“Don’t thank me for following out the instincts of my nature,” said the detective, affecting carelessness; and with that we shook Mr. Argyll’s hand, and retired to the rooms assigned us.
In the morning Miss Sullivan was found to be much worse; the journey and the excitement had made her very ill, so that it was impossible for her to return to the city with Mr. Burton. A physician was sent for who said that she could not live over two or three days. She heard the sentence with apparent joy; only she begged Mr. Burton to send little Nora up to her, on the evening train, that she might see the child before she died. This he promised to do, and to have always an interest in her welfare. She was much affected when he bade her farewell, for he had gained her love and confidence by his manner of treating her.
The child came, and was tenderly received by the sisters. They were unwearied in their attentions to the sufferer, whose last hours were soothed by their earnest words of hope and comfort. Leesy died with a smile on her face, going out of this world, which had been so cold to one of her impassioned nature, with joy. When I looked at the wasted corpse, I could hardly realize that the fire was out forever which had so long burned in those wonderful eyes—it was not quenched, it had only been removed to a purer atmosphere. She was buried, very quietly, but reverently, on a beautiful winter day. Her little charge was much petted by the young ladies; and as a lady who chanced to see her, learning that she was an orphan, took a fancy to adopt her, they, with Mr. Burton’s consent, resigned her to a new mother. I have seen little Nora lately; she is a pretty child, and well cared for.
X
The New Life
The winter passed away quietly. The sudden absence of James Argyll caused much harmless gossip in the village. It was reported, and generally believed, that he had gone abroad, on a tour to Egypt, because Miss Argyll had jilted him. Fortunately, the arrangements for the wedding were known to but few, the feelings of the family having inclined toward a very quiet affair. The little woman who had prepared the wedding-dress was
