"You think," she almost whispered, "that he is—dead?—without saying good-bye—without a word to me? Oh, Guy, whatever he has done I loved him. How can I be happy in the fruit of his pain—to die deserted and alone?"
He tried to comfort her. Would not the greatest wish, the one keen desire of the lost man's heart be fulfilled if she were beloved and happy?
"In the dusk there crept out a small, dark figure."
Together they walked towards the house; when they were out of sight the laurels rustled once more, and in the dusk there crept out a small, dark figure, unshaven, ragged, and forlorn. A beggar, surely! And the beggar knelt and kissed the dust which the young girl's feet had trodden.
In the morning one of the gardeners came up to the house with a grave face, and asked to see Mrs. Montresor.
"If you please, ma'am, there's a man, a tramp, he looks like; a poor, half-starved creature, he's lying dead among the laurels down by the shrubbery walk."
"Good God! The poor man! Who can he be?"
The man's face was working; he was twirling his cap in his hands. He leaned forward and whispered—
"Ma'am, I think, I al—most think—it's the master, Mr. Rawdon."
So for the second time the master of Firholt came home.
They carried the small, light figure to the house, to his own room, a strange contrast to its luxurious fittings.
There Ellinor went to him, and shut the door.
"Father! father! Oh, why will you not speak to me? Say once more, 'My little girl.'"
But Matthew Rawdon, the forger, would never speak again. Medical examination showed that he had been dead for many hours, the immediate cause of death being an old and deeply-seated heart disease, increased by suffering and want. He seemed to have been leading the life of a vagrant, but how and where he had succeeded in so completely hiding himself never came to light. The story of his death was hushed up, as had been that of his crime. Lady Peyton carefully talked of him as "highly eccentric," and explained that it was entirely owing to his eccentricity that her son's marriage had been postponed. The odd little man had started off in such an unaccountable manner, and Ellinor had been so resolute in abiding by his wish that she should await his return.
Well, he had come, and he was dead, and there was an end of it. No one had much interest in ferreting out the truth of his story. When the days of her mourning were ended, Ellinor married very quietly.
Sometimes in the summer evenings she takes her children to her father's grave, hoping that he is in some way conscious of the fidelity of her recollection.
She knows what was his crime—surely long ago worked out—and prays that its shadow may never fall upon those she loves.
