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Page 9
"In the gloaming, O my darling!
When the lights are dim and low,
And the quiet shadows falling
Softly come and softly go.
When the winds are sobbing faintly
With a gentle unknown woe,
Will you think of me and love me
As you did once, long ago?
"In the gloaming, O my darling!
Think not bitterly of me,
Though I passed away in silence,
Left you lonely, set you free.
For my heart was crushed with longing.
What had been could never be:
It was best to leave you thus, dear,
Best for you and best--"
But the line was never finished. With a wild cry, more of fear than
of pain, Darrow sprang from his chair. "Gentlemen, I have been
stabbed!" was all he said, and fell back heavily into his seat. Gwen
was kneeling before him in an instant, even before I could assist
him. His right hand was pressed to his throat and his eyes seemed
starting from their sockets as he shouted hoarsely: "A light, a
light! For God's sake, don't let him strike me again in the dark!"
Maitland was already lighting the gas and Herne and Browne, so Browne
afterward told me, were preparing to seize the assailant. I
remembered, after it all was over, a quick movement Browne had made
toward the darkest corner of the room.
The apartment was now flooded with light, and I looked for the
assassin. He was not to be found! The room contained only Gwen,
Darrow, and his four invited guests! The doors were closed; the
windows had not been touched. No one could possibly have entered
or left the room, and yet the assassin was not there. But one
solution remained; Darrow was labouring under a delusion, and
Gwen's voice would restore him. As she was about to speak I
stepped back to note the effect of her words upon him. "Do not
fear, father," she said in a low voice as she laid her face against
his cheek, "there is nothing here to hurt you. You are ill,--I
will get you a glass of cordial and you will be yourself again in
a moment." She was about to rise when her father seized her
frantically by the arm, exclaiming in a hoarse whisper: "Don't
leave me! Can't you see? Don't leave me!" and for the first time
he removed his hand from his throat, and taking her head between
his palms, gazed wistfully into her face. He tried to speak again,
but could not, and glanced up at us with a helpless expression
which I shall never forget. Maitland, his eyes riveted upon the
old gentleman, whose thoughts he seemed to divine, hurriedly
produced a pencil and note-book and held them toward him, but
he did not see them, for he had drawn Gwen's face down to him and
was kissing her passionately. The next instant he was on his feet
and from the swollen veins that stood out like cords upon his neck
and forehead, we could see the terrible effort he was making to
speak. At last the words came,--came as if they were torn hissing
from his throat, for he took a full breath between each one of them.
"Gwen--I--knew--it! Good-bye! Remember--your--promise!"
--and he fell a limp mass into his chair, overcome, I felt sure,
by the fearful struggle he had made. Maitland seized a glass of
water and threw it in his face. I loosened the clothing about his
neck and, in doing so, his head fell backward and his face was
turned upward toward me. The features were drawn,--the eyes were
glazed and set. I felt of his heart; he was dead!
CHAPTER II
Silence is the only tender Death can make to Mystery.
The look of pain and astonishment upon my face said plainly enough
to Gwen:
"Your father is dead." I could not speak. In the presence of her
great affliction we all stood silent, and with bowed heads. I had
thought Darrow's attack the result of an overwrought mental condition
which would speedily readjust itself, and had so counted upon his
daughter's influence as all but certain to immediately result in a
temporary cure. When, therefore, I found him dead without any
apparent cause, I was, for the time being, too dazed to think, much
less to act, and I think the other gentlemen were quite as much
incapacitated as I. My first thought, when I recovered so that I
could think, was of Gwen. I felt sure her reason must give way under
the strain, and I thought of going nearer to her in case she should
fall, but refrained when I noticed that Maitland had noiselessly
glided within easy reach of her. To move seemed impossible to me.
Such a sudden transition from warm, vigorous life to cold, impassive
death seems to chill the dynamic rivers of being into a horrible
winter, static and eternal. Though death puts all things in the
past tense, even we physicians cannot but be strangely moved when
the soul thus hastily deserts the body without the usual farewell of
an illness.
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