"I have never seen her since I came back here. Edwin has, though; I am
sure of it. This afternoon at dusk I woke up out of a doze, for getting
up to sit here quite exhausts me, and I was moving forward to touch the
hand-bell on the table there, to let Flore know I was ready for my tea,
when I saw Lavinia. She was standing over there, just in the firelight.
I thought she seemed to be holding out her hand to me, as if inviting me
to go to her, and on her face there was the sweetest smile of welcome;
sweeter than could be seen on any face in life. All the sad, mournful,
beseeching look had left it. She stood there for about a minute, and
then vanished."
"Were you very much frightened?"
"I had not a thought of fear, Johnny. It was the contrary. She looked
radiantly happy; and it somehow imparted happiness to me. I think--I
think," added Nancy impressively, though with some hesitation, "that she
came to let me know I am going to her. I believe I have seen her for the
last time. The house has, also, I fancy; she and I will shortly go out
of it together."
What could I answer to that?
"And so it is over at last," she murmured, more to herself than to me.
"Very nearly over. The distress and the doubt, the terror and the pain.
_I_ brought it all on; you know that, Johnny Ludlow. I feel sure now
that she has pardoned me. I humbly hope that God has."
She caught up her breath with a long-drawn sigh.
"And you will give my dear love to all the old friends in England,
Johnny, beginning with Mr. Featherston; he has been very kind to me; you
will see them again, but I shall not. Not in this life. But we shall be
together in the Life which has no ending."
* * * * *
At twelve o'clock that night Nancy Fennel died. At least, it was as near
twelve as could be told. Just after that hour Flore went into the room,
preparatory to sitting up with her, and found her dead--just expired,
apparently--with a sweet smile on her face, and one hand stretched out
as if in greeting. Perhaps Lavinia had come to greet her.
We followed her to the grave on Saturday. Captain Fennel walked next
the coffin--and I wondered how he liked it. I was close behind him with
Monsieur Carimon. Charley Palliser came next with little Monsieur le
Docteur Dupuis and Monsieur Gustave Sauvage. And we left Nancy in the
cemetery, side by side with her sister.
Captain Edwin Fennel disappeared. On the Sunday, when we English were
looking for him in church, he did not come--his grief not allowing him,
said some of the ladies. But an English clerk in the broker's office,
hearing this, told another tale. Fennel had gone off by the boat which
left the port for London the previous night at midnight.
And he did not come back again. He had left sundry debts behind him,
including that owing to Madame Veuve Sauvage. Monsieur Carimon, later,
undertook the payment of these at the request of Colonel Selby. It was
understood that Captain Edwin Fennel had emigrated to South America. If
he had any conscience at all, it was to be hoped he carried it with him.
He did not carry the money. The poor little income which he had schemed
for, and perhaps worse, went back to the Selbys.
And that is the story. It is a curious history, and painful in more ways
than one. But I repeat that it is true.