There was a
disappointed peevish look about the drooping corners of the mouth, an
angry glitter in the eyes.
He did not look at his daughter very often as they sat together through
that weary vigil, but kept his eyes for the greater part of the time upon
the wasted face on the pillow, which looked like a parchment mask in the
dim light. He seemed to be deep in thought, and several times in the
night Marian heard him breathe an impatient sigh, as if his thoughts were
not pleasant to him. More than once he rose from his chair and paced the
room softly for a little time, as if the restlessness of his mind had
made that forced quiet unendurable. The early morning light came at last,
faint and wan and gray, across a forest of blackened chimney-pots, and by
that light the watchers could see that Jacob Nowell had changed for the
worse.
He lingered till late that afternoon. It was growing dusk when he died,
making a very peaceful end of life at the last, with his head resting
upon Marian's shoulder, and his cold hand clasped in hers. His son stood
by the bed, looking down upon him at that final moment with a fixed
inscrutable face. Gilbert Fenton called that evening, and heard of the
old man's death from Luke Tulliver. He heard also that Mrs. Holbrook
intended to sleep in Queen Anne's Court that night, and did not therefore
intrude upon her, relying upon being able to see her next morning.
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