Then in a low, indistinct tone he inquired,--

"Where am I?"

"At Dr. Johnson's house. Keep perfectly quiet and all will be well."

Suddenly memory a.s.serted its sway.

"Esther!" Lebeau cried, in as eager and anxious a voice as his utter prostration would permit.

"Miss Woodville is here. She is alive, having only fainted. There was a slight abrasion of the flesh behind her ear, probably the result of a fall; but that will soon disappear. And as for you, my good friend, we shall soon have you upon your feet again."

Lebeau moved his eyes in a negative sign, and with a sad smile murmured,--

"My account is settled. Why do you attempt to deceive me? Am I a coward?"

A moment later he asked,--

"Who saved Esther?"

"Francis Monday, the foundling, Sir Joshua Reynolds's pupil."

Levet briefly recounted how the rescue had come about; how old Maud, whose obstinacy and madness had nearly been the cause of her young mistress's death, had finally saved her life by her psalm-singing; with what infinite difficulty they had entered the house and s.n.a.t.c.hed from the devouring flames three living beings and one corpse.

"One thing is certain," he concluded, "and that is, that these two children love each other. It was his future wife whom Frank saved last night in Holborn, and, though this sad week will leave its mark in ruins for many a day, it has at least served to make two hearts supremely happy."

A profound satisfaction overspread the pallid features of the dying man.

"Miss Woodville has begged several times to see you. Shall I bring her to you?"

Lebeau's face brightened still more. Then he appeared to reflect. Of course it would have been balm to his departing soul to make himself known to her, to be a father for one short hour, to go with the pardon and caress of his child. But would she not repulse him? Would she find him worthy of her? And after all, was it not better that she should remain a foundling rather than be known as the child of Lebeau, the adventurer, the professor and purveyor of vice to the great?--Ah, well!

he would hold his peace, would die without disturbing any one, and leave her happy. But in any case he must hasten to inform Frank who he was, and give him the means of establishing his ident.i.ty.

"Frank!" he murmured. "I wish to see Frank--to speak with him."

"You have made sufficient effort for to-day. Rest now; to-morrow you shall talk with him."

"To-morrow--I shall not be here. Go--go and find him."

Without further objection Levet, who understood the true condition of his patient, left the chamber. In a few moments he reappeared, followed by Frank and Esther hand in hand. Their faces, radiant with youth and happiness, clouded with sadness. With bowed heads and faltering steps they approached the bed. Frank paused upon one side, while Esther sank upon her knees at the other.

"Father!" she breathed.

"Then you heard--"

"All!"

The emotion proved too much for the sufferer. He felt his head swim, and believed that the final vertigo had come.

"Only one moment!" he murmured, as though demanding respite of the destructive forces of nature; "Frank must know--"

"Frank already knows that he is the true Lord Mowbray," whispered Esther.

"But the proofs!" pursued Lebeau; "the proofs are necessary. The nurse, Elizabeth Hughes, still lives--at Bangor--in Wales. She will give all the necessary evidence.--Elizabeth Hughes--do not forget!"

He was exhausted with so much speech. His aching eyes had lost their circ.u.mspection. Gropingly his hand sought the fair head of his daughter and rested there. Then his thoughts fled backward over forty long years.

Again he saw the humble peasant's cot in the mountains of Dauphine, whence he had set out to see the world. We saw a dying woman lying upon her bed,--his mother! Her faltering hand was laid upon his boyish head, pressing it gently, tenderly. All the remainder of his existence had vanished; all that remained was the Alpha and Omega; an utter void united that caress received and this caress given. It was a foretaste of that world where there is no reckoning of time, where moments are as ages, where thoughts and acts are lost in one eternal present.

Entering noiselessly, Levet pa.s.sed here and there about the room upon tiptoe. Lebeau realized all that took place, but the power of perception had abandoned him.

"Are you there, doctor?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Bring them close to me."

Esther stooped and kissed the brow upon which the dews of death had begun to gather.

"We shall meet again, father," she whispered.

"Perhaps," faltered Lebeau.

"Did you wish to sleep?" inquired Levet, when the young people had left the room.

"No, but I could not die before them. There is no use in saddening their young lives."

The surgeon did not attempt to deny the danger.

"You are a brave man, comrade," he said; "and since you are able to look death in the eye, do you not wish to make some preparation? There is a Catholic priest here in the house. Although Dr. Johnson is no friend to the papists, he has given this man the protection and shelter of his roof. If you desire to see him I--"

But Lebeau made a negative sign, while by some singular reaction the sceptic and philosopher again took possession of his expiring body.

"Read to me," he said, "the ode of Horace--to Posthumus."

"Horace's ode to Posthumus!" repeated Levet, scarcely believing that he had heard aright.

But he had made no mistake. It was Lebeau's wish that the Horatian ode should be read to him instead of the prayers for the dying. The aged surgeon arose and pa.s.sed into an adjoining apartment, which contained Dr. Johnson's library. Soon he returned with a large book in his hand, and seated himself at the bedside. In a slow, impressive voice he began to read the famous ode, which the dying man accompanied in a low murmur, punctuating the familiar verses as though he were giving the responses to a psalm.

"'_Visendus ater flumine languido_,'" Levet read.

"'_Cocytus errans_,'" continued Lebeau faintly.

But when Levet p.r.o.nounced the fatal words, which typify "the end-all here," _Linguenda tellus_, he perceived that no response came from the bed. Quickly he bent above the poor pagan, and placed his hand upon his heart; finding no answering throb there, with reverent fingers he closed the eyes of the dead.

After a few days London regained her habitual aspect. Blackened ruins; fragments of walls and roofs, still sheltering emptiness; gaping, desolate s.p.a.ces, which had once been human abodes with happy firesides, about which many generations had been warmed and cheered,--these alone remained to tell the tale of that four days' madness, of the strange delirium which had fallen upon the great city. But how many human remains lay beneath these ruins, which would never be recognized, and how many corpses had been swallowed by the Thames? One knew not, one dared not attempt to estimate. Some unfortunate wretches, who confessed nothing and remembered still less, or, lost to all sense of decency, accused each other, were hastily tried and hanged. The princ.i.p.al criminal, he who had loosed the pa.s.sions of the populace, Gordon, was already under lock and key in Newgate. Had he been more misguided than perverse? He was given the benefit of the doubt. His madness, and perhaps his rank, saved him: but the remarkable fact remains that this man, who had set fire to London and led to death several hundred human beings, not to mention the enormous destruction of property of which he was the cause, was not punished; though a few years later, having written some insolent lines upon Queen Marie Antoinette, he was thrown into prison and there languished for the remainder of his days.

When Reuben at last appeared after a considerable lapse of time, the events of June, 1780, had begun to be obliterated from the public mind.

Though in no way apprehensive for his personal safety, he seemed pursued by a memory, haunted by a remorse which it was impossible to evade.