REMEMBERED!
The nurse came down-stairs as Captain and Mrs. Folkestone entered The
Bluff.
Isma scanned the older woman’s face anxiously as she said, “We are not
too--”
“No, you are not too late,” the woman in the pink uniform hastened
to assure her, “but I am afraid there is not much time left. Lady
Berriedale is sinking fast. I saw your car coming, so hurried down to
let you know how she is.”
“Can I go to her at once?” asked Mrs. Folkestone, her large eyes
glistening with troubled eagerness.
“Well, she is hardly conscious just now; she lies for hours in a
semi-conscious state. His lordship is with her. He has been in her room
all the morning. He hardly ever leaves her, day or night. He is a most
devoted husband. I will tell him you are here. Will you come into the
library for a little while, and when Lady Berriedale is fully awake I
will let you know.” As she spoke she opened the library door, and after
they had entered she closed it gently behind them.
Isma looked round the familiar room and her face showed that it did
not bring back happy memories.
She took off her hat and long dust-coat; then she sighed deeply and
went over to the window.
Her husband followed her. “Isma, I am so awfully sorry you should
have--this--just now,” he said, coming up and standing close behind
her. “I wanted our”--his voice lowered--“honeymoon to have been all
joy.” His hand caught one of hers and held it closely.
“I am more grieved for you,” she replied, without moving.
Her husband bent lower, looking over her shoulder at her beautiful
profile. Then he drew her slightly backward till she rested against him.
She closed her eyes for a moment. “Oh, Falcon, it is lovely to have you
with me!” she murmured under her breath.
The pressure on her hand increased. His touch was warm, close,
intimate. It not only held intensest sympathy, it held more; it
reminded her of all their happiness, what they had been to each
other during the last few weeks, their riotous joy, the wonderful
satisfaction their new relationship had brought them, the blinding
rapture they had tasted in each other’s arms. She felt that Falcon
meant his touch to recall this to her mind so that it might strengthen
her for the heartrending scene which awaited her.
“Falcon,” she said, turning to him, after a pause, “it must be
terrible for Beatrice to--go.” She shivered slightly.
“Yes, little girl,” he replied, with serious tenderness, “but remember
she is going out to your beautiful God of the wonderful spaces--don’t
forget that.”
She looked up at him with eyes which held a dewy radiance. “Of course!
What a dear you are to remind me!”
He smiled down on her. “You impressed it so strongly on my mind, now I
can’t forget it, you see.”
There were footsteps in the hall.
Isma and Falcon drew gently apart.
The door opened slowly and Lord Berriedale, looking pale and worn, his
arm still in a sling, entered quietly.
When the brief greetings were over he said: “Beatrice is conscious
now and wants to see you. I am deeply grieved to have called you back
so soon; but she was always asking for you. In fact,” he went on,
addressing Isma, “your name has been constantly on her lips since you
have been away, and when the doctor said last night that--the end was
so near I--wired.”
“We are so glad you did,” said Captain Folkestone, and there was a
strong undercurrent of sympathy in his even tones.
“I wish you had let us know sooner that Beatrice wanted me,” murmured
Isma, regretfully.
“She wouldn’t allow me to disturb you until it was absolutely
necessary. But you had better come at once--she wants you both,” and
silently he led them up-stairs.
As they entered the sick-room Isma glanced anxiously toward the
luxurious bed with its fine, embroidered linen and rich silk hangings.
The patient lay waxlike and shrunken, her eyes looking enormous in the
wasted face and staring with glassy fixity into space.
In a moment Mrs. Folkestone was beside the bed, stooping over the
shriveled form and kissing the sunken cheeks.
Slowly recognition dawned into the lusterless eyes and a feeble smile
hovered over the purple lips. But she did not speak for some minutes.
The silence in the room was heavy with an awful pall.
At last the patient’s lips moved.
The girl bent over her quickly and caught the words, “Isma--I
am--going.” After each word there came a slight rattling sound.
Her friend dropped on her knees and took the emaciated form in her
strong young arms. “Beatrice,” she whispered, a little unsteadily, “you
don’t--mind?”
“No--not now.” Her voice had grown stronger, and she added, “Isma--you
remember the letter I wrote you--telling you about--the dying thief--on
the cross?” The dusky eyes were turned full on the fair, girlish face.
“Yes, dearest, of course.”
“And you will not forget--what I asked?”
“No--never.”
The dying woman’s glance strayed to her husband, who was standing
at the other side of the bed, as if to include him in what she
said. “I want you both to promise me that--you will tell everybody
about--Paradise. Tell them to read about it in the--Book. Tell them to
ask Him to--remember them--” She stopped and gasped for breath.
“Yes--yes, we will,” Isma assured her, quickly.
The dark eyes looked up with terrible intensity.
“Tell them it is awful to--to pass into--eternity unless He
will--remember us.”
She looked at them imploringly till they had both made the promise;
then her eyes closed wearily and she lay very still.
By one of the farthest windows stood Rita, looking out on the hot,
glittering sea. There was a sullen despair in her coal-black eyes. She
was left out again; no one took any notice of her; but then she was
the nettle, and no one wanted a stinging nettle; it was left severely
alone. An expression of morose hopelessness settled on her face.
Lady Berriedale turned to Captain Folkestone and her glance summoned
him to her. When he was beside her she looked up at him with mute
appeal; then her eyes dropped to the flaxen head pressed closely
against her breast.
The soldier understood at once. “Yes, I will take care of her,” he
said, as one making a solemn vow.
After a pause Beatrice looked up at her husband with a deep wistfulness
in her glassy eyes and her lips moved as if she were trying to speak.
Isma rose and Lord Berriedale stooped over his wife, his face close
to hers. At last she was able to formulate the words. “Neville--don’t
grieve.” One of her thin hands sought his. “Wherever I go, I shall
always--love you, and”--her lips twisted into a smile--“our--romance
will come right--some day.”
A sob shook the man bending over her. “Beatrice--if only you could stay
with me and it could come right--here!” and he kissed her as he had not
kissed her for years.
For an instant a beautiful smile lighted up her face and her eyes
looked happily into his. Then the smile faded and a peculiar, far-away
expression took its place. It seemed as if her attention was being
gradually withdrawn from her surroundings and gently fixed on something
else. At the same time her face grew more waxy and the pinched look
about her features increased.
Then under her rattling breath they heard her murmur the words:
“Lord, remember--me--now Thou art in--Thy kingdom--”
For a time there was no sound in the room but the tense breathing of
people holding back tears.
Suddenly a marvelous change came over the dying woman. The lines,
the sallowness, the pinchedness vanished from her face and in their
place came a strange look of youth--not the youth of flesh and blood
that fades and withers, but a spiritual youthfulness that suggested an
eternal preservation. And with it came an abnormal strength; it seemed
as if all weakness had dropped from her like a worn garment flung
aside. She sat up in bed, her arms outstretched, her face illumined
with a white, unearthly radiance. She did not appear to see the little
group about her. She gazed beyond them, gazed with passionate intensity
at something no one else could see.
“Paradise--Paradise!” she cried, her voice ringing through the room
with triumphant clearness. “It is there--there!” Her eyes widened,
dilated with rapturous awe, and once more her voice sounded through the
breathless chamber.
“The portals are opening--opening! And--He _has_--remembered--me--”
The next instant the frail form fell back among the pillows--dead.
To the tear-blinded eyes watching it did not seem as if life had
ebbed away; it rather appeared as if a new strength had vitalized the
departed, giving her power to burst the casket which held her to earth
and, leaving death in her wake, she had soared in sublime ecstasy
through the portals that opened into--Paradise.
THE END
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.