The Argosy — page 364: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

346 The Missing Rubies. looked like a fine copy of Michael’s face, carved in ivory, without a wrinkle to mar its outlines. Vordenberg stopped short, and his heart gave a warning throb. . Going up close to that motionless figure, he laid his hand upon the breast. Michael was asleep indeed. After “life’s fitful fever” there had come to him the boon of eternal rest. As Vordenberg stood there beside his dead friend, he remembered that his last words to Michael had been angry words. And he recalled that parting look that Michael had given him and Paulina as they were leaving the room. It had been a look of sorrow and remorse. The better nature of. the man had struggled through that burning desire for revenge which had withered up all that was good in his life. At the last, just at the very last, there had been granted to Stavieski a little time of repentance and regret. As Vordenberg stood there, looking down quietly at the still face, he seemed to see a long procession of the friends of his youth passing by. His father came first, a shadowy figure whose features were faint and indistinct. Then came the Count Lorenski, gallant and strong, with head erect, and dauntless eyes, as if he were leading on a regiment of heroes to die for Poland. Then old Wouriski, venerable and feeble, his fur cap covering his grey hairs. Then Paul Stavieski, young, stalwart, handsome, with a proud glance and a firm step. Others followed; but Vordenberg could bear no more. He covered his eyes as if to shut out the sight of that spectral company, and groaned aloud in bitterness of heart. Conquering himself at last, he bethought him of all that now remained to be done. A sealed letter, with his name on the cover, was lying on the table near the lamp. He opened and read it. In a few words, written in his own language, John Wouriski de- scribed the manner of his companion’s death : After Vordenberg had left the room, he spoke but little, and seemed disinclined to begin the preparations for departure. Wouriski had urged him to make haste; but he did not care to move, and once he had murmured something about going on a longer journey than they had ever taken yet. Then suddenly, in a loud voice, he called his friend to his side, looked at him, pressed his hand, and sank back heavily on the sofa. Wouriski put some cordial to his lips; but all in vain. He never spoke again. The heart disease, under which he had laboured for years, had opened the doors of life’s dreary prison, and set the captive free. Two persons were pacing slowly up and down, under the great trees in the meadow in front of Ham House. The fine old place was asleep in the sunshine and shadows of that golden afternoon. Through the trees gleamed the silver line of the river. From the silent old gardens came the scent of full-blown roses and honey-suckle, overpoweringly sweet ; the ancient bricks comicbooks.com