"The harm is done," she said; "you may speak out. Is he wounded, or
dead?"
"Dead."
CHAPTER XI.
THE sun sank lower; the western breeze floated cool and fresh into the
house. As the evening advanced, the cheerful ring of the village clock
came nearer and nearer. Field and flower-garden felt the influence of
the hour, and shed their sweetest fragrance. The birds in Norah's aviary
sunned themselves in the evening stillness, and sang their farewell
gratitude to the dying day.
Staggered in its progress for a time only, the pitiless routine of the
house went horribly on its daily way. The panic-stricken servants took
their blind refuge in the duties proper to the hour. The footman softly
laid the table for dinner. The maid sat waiting in senseless doubt, with
the hot-water jugs for the bedrooms ranged near her in their customary
row. The gardener, who had been ordered to come to his master, with
vouchers for money that he had paid in excess of his instructions, said
his character was dear to him, and left the vouchers at his appointed
time. Custom that never yields, and Death that never spares, met on the
wreck of human happiness--and Death gave way.
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