But a
hush and a cloud seemed gathering in the stillness and darkness,
and with them came the sense of a solemn celebration, as if the
gloom were canopy as well as pall--black, but bordered and hearted
with purple and gold; and the stillness seemed to tremble as with
the inaudible tones of a great organ, at the close or commencement
of some mighty symphony.
With beating heart he walked softly towards the room where, as on
an altar, lay the vanishing form of his master, like the fuel in
whose dying flame was offered the late and ill nurtured sacrifice
of his spirit.
As he went through the last corridor leading thither, Mrs Catanach,
type and embodiment of the horrors that haunt the dignity of death,
came walking towards him like one at home, her great round body
lightly upborne on her soft foot. It was no time to challenge her
presence, and yielding her the half of the narrow way, he passed
without a greeting. She dropped him a courtesy with an uplook and
again a vailing of her wicked eyes.
The marquis would not have the doctor come near him, and when Malcolm
entered there was no one in the room but Mrs Courthope. The shadow
had crept far along the dial. His face had grown ghastly, the
skin had sunk to the bones, and his eyes stood out as if from much
staring into the dark. They rested very mournfully on Malcolm for
a few moments, and then closed softly.
"Is she come yet?" he murmured, opening them wide, with sudden
stare.
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