Henrietta died when she was sixty-three. Her father and stepmother were
long dead, also her second brother, whom none of the family had seen for
years. When her relations were sent for, it was very cold weather in
January, and Louie and Minna did not obey the summons. They deplored it
continually afterwards, and explained to one another how appalling the
wind had been, and what care they had to take for their children's sake,
and how Henrietta had frightened them so much the year before by sending
for them when there was no need, that they naturally could not be
expected to realize that this time it really was important.
William came, looking more benevolent than ever with his very becoming
white hair. Henrietta said that she thought it was the last time she
should see him, but he assured her it was just the cold which had pulled
her down a little, and she would be all right again as soon as the wind
changed. "It's wretched, knocks everybody up." He looked so hearty and
mundane that it almost seemed, when he was in the room, as if there
could not be such a thing as death.
They talked about the drought last summer, and William's son, who was a
planter in Ceylon, and the noise of the motor-buses in London, until
William said he must go for his train. He was allowing a quarter of an
hour too much time, for he was able to stay and talk a little while with
the doctor, who called when he was there.
"There isn't any chance, you say."
"No, I am afraid not. Miss Symons' heart has been delicate for some
years; it gives her very little strength to stand against this attack."
"Um! I was afraid so," said William, and he was glad to get out of the
house, and buy a _Pall Mall_.
The inspector niece came down (uninvited), very energetic, and very kind
in using the last few days of her holidays in nursing a disagreeable
reactionary relation. She dominated the nurse, who was much meeker than
nurses usually are, and quite quelled her poor aunt, too weak to protest
even at attacks on the monarchy. But Henrietta was much happier when the
niece's holidays came to an end, and she was left to die quietly and
dully with the nurse.
Evelyn was away in Egypt with Herbert for her health, and by a most
unfortunate accident she did not get the first telegram announcing
Henrietta's dangerous illness. Poor Henrietta asked constantly if there
was nothing from her, and as she got weaker, and a little wandering, she
kept on crying like a child: "I want Evelyn." They cabled again, and
when the answer came, "Starting home at once," it was too late, and
Henrietta was not sufficiently herself to understand it.
As soon as Evelyn got home, she went to Bath. The little house was still
as it was, but for some legacies which a careful nephew had already
abstracted. But the place of the dead seemed to have been filled even
more quickly than usual. Annie, as she said, had only waited "till the
pore old lady was taken" to marry comfortably with a saddler, and the
parlourmaid was already established in a very smart town situation.
There was an unknown caretaker to look after the house, which was to
let. Evelyn saw the doctor and the clergyman, who both spoke kindly of
Miss Symons. "We shall miss your sister very much," said Mr. Vaughan,
"she was always doing kind things,"--and he did miss her to a certain
extent, but there is a ceaseless supply of generous, touchy incapable
old ladies in England, and he could not be expected to miss her very
much. Evelyn went to see the nurse, and could hear from her more of what
she wanted. The nurse was a kind, sweet girl, the centre of an
affectionate family, and engaged to a devoted young clerk.
"Oh, Mrs. Ferrers, if only you could have come back in time," she said,
sobbing, "or if you could have written. She _did_ want you so; every
time there was a ring it was, 'Is that from her?' and I heard her say to
herself: 'I thought she would be _sure_ to come.' I simply had to go out
in the passage, I couldn't keep back my tears, and of course one must
always be bright before a patient; it is so bad for them if one isn't.
Some nieces and nephews came, and one of them stayed several days, and
two brothers, I think; and there were several members of the family
there for the funeral, and she had some simply lovely wreaths, and the
church was nice and full, numbers of her poor people were there,"
brought there, as surely the kind nurse knew, not from love of
Henrietta, but from love of funerals, "but when your wire did come I
cried for joy, though we couldn't make her take it in, poor dear; still
it seemed as if someone really cared for her. Oh, she looked so lovely
and peaceful at the end, all the trouble gone."
This was a comforting deception, which the nurse thought it justifiable
to practise on relations, for in fact death had not changed Henrietta;
there had been no transfiguration to beauty and nobility, she looked
what she had been in life--insignificant, feeble, and unhappy.
"Miss Symons asked me to give you this box," said the nurse. "She made
me promise I would give it you over and over again."
Evelyn found it was an inlaid sandalwood box, which she had sent from
India as a present from the first baby. In it she found Herbert's letter
announcing the death of little Madeline, hers and the other two babies'
photographs, and a sheet of notepaper, tied with blue ribbon. On it was
written, "I can't tell you how much good you have done me, I seem to
have been living for this for fifteen years. EVELYN, September 23,
1890." As she read it, Evelyn remembered, what she had long forgotten,
that this was what she had once said to Henrietta.
When she walked to the hotel, it was a bright, sunny afternoon, and snow
was on the ground. She went to her room to take off her things, but she
stood instead at the window, too intent on what she had heard to be
capable of anything. Her heart was almost bursting to think that
Henrietta should have treasured all these years the little love she had
given her, crumbs, which she had as it were left over from her husband
and boys, love not even for Henrietta's own sake, but for the sake of
the dead children. She with all the riches of love poured on her, and
Henrietta with so little. "I was cold, selfish, self-absorbed, I didn't
think of her, I forgot her, I criticized her; it was all my fault."
But even at this moment of exaltation Evelyn realized that it was not
her fault, but Henrietta's own; that it was because she was so unlovable
that she was so little loved.
"But if she had had the chance she wouldn't have been unlovable. She was
capable of greater love than any of us, and she never had the chance. If
there is any justice and mercy in the world how can they allow a poor,
weak human creature to have so few opportunities, such hard temptations,
and when it yields to temptation to suffer so cruelly? And now I am to
go back, and be happy with Herbert and the boys, and to feel quite truly
that I did everything I could, _I can't bear it_."
She was so much filled with her thoughts that she had not observed the
flight of time. She looked up, and was suddenly aware that the night had
come, and that the sky was shining with innumerable stars. At the same
moment she felt inextricably mingled with the stars, a rush of the most
exquisite sensation, emotion, replenishment she had ever known. She felt
through every fibre of her being that it was all perfectly well with
Henrietta, and that the bitterness, aimlessness, and emptiness of her
life was made up to her. This conviction was a thousand times more real
to her than the room in which she was standing, more real than the
stars, more real than herself. Tears of delight came raining down her
cheeks, and she found that she was saying over and over again, "Darling,
I am so glad"; poor childish words, but no more inadequate than the
noblest in the language to express her unspeakable comfort, beyond all
utterance, even beyond thought. How often she said these words, or how
long this bliss lasted she could not tell.
A strange dream-like remembrance of it stayed with her for some days.
She told her husband, and he said, "I am very glad of anything that can
be a comfort to you, dearest;" but he looked at her anxiously, and
thought it was a sign that she was to be ill again. However, she
continued well and strong. She told no one else, but from henceforth she
was perfectly happy about Henrietta.
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| Transcriber's Note: |
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| Changes to the original have been made as follows: |
| |
| Page 42 accumalation of years changed to |
| accumulation |
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| Page 48 teazing of a kind changed to |
| teasing |
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| Page 60 two much absorbed changed to |
| too |
| |
| Page 64 then he felt prepared changed to |
| than |
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| Page 70 inacessible foreign place changed to |
| inaccessible |
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End of Project Gutenberg's The Third Miss Symons, by Flora Macdonald Mayor