But Richard was not
there. He had borne all he could, and on his bed in his bolted
room he lay, scarcely giving a token of life save when the sounds
from the parlors reached his ear, when he would whisper,
"'Tis done. It is done."
One by one the hours went by, and then up the gravelled walk the
carriages rolled a second time to take the guests away. Hands were
shaken and good nights said. There was cloaking in the ladies'
room and impatient waiting in the gentlemen's; there was hurrying
down the stairs, through the hall, and out upon the piazza. There
was banging to of carriage doors, cracking of drivers' whips, and
racing down the road. There was a hasty gathering up of silver, a
closing of the shutters, a putting out of lamps, until at last
silence reigned over Collingwood, from whose windows only two
lights were gleaming. Arthur was alone with his bride, and Richard
alone with his God.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
SIX YEARS LATER.
The New York and Springfield train eastward bound stood waiting in
the depot at New Haven.
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