"And what happiness death gives too!"
It was their last talk together. Myrrha lay in bed for several days,
motionless and silent, without opening her eyes. She may have suffered
much, for her brows would sometimes contract with pain; but a gentle
smile of resignation would follow; not a groan, not a complaint
escaped the closed lips.
Once, at midnight, she called Arsinoë, who was sitting beside her. The
sick girl spoke with difficulty; she asked, without opening her eyes--
"Is it yet day?"
"No, night still," answered Arsinoë, "but the sun will soon rise."
"I cannot hear.... Who are you?" Myrrha murmured indistinctly.
"It is I, Arsinoë."
The invalid suddenly opened her wide luminous eyes and gazed fixedly
on her sister.
"It seemed to me," said Myrrha with an effort, "it seemed to me that
it was not you ... that I was utterly alone."
Then very slowly, with great difficulty, being scarcely able to move,
she brought her transparent hands together, with an imploring look of
fear. The corners of the lips trembled, the eyebrows moved.
"Do not abandon me! When I die, do not think that I am no more!"
Arsinoë leaned towards her, but Myrrha was too weak to kiss her,
although she tried to do so. Arsinoë brought her cheek closer to the
great eyes, and the young girl softly caressed her face with the long
lashes. Arsinoë felt on her cheek a touch light as butterfly's
velvety wings. It was a trick invented by Myrrha in childhood.
That last caress brought back to Arsinoë all their life together, all
their mutual affection. She fell on her knees and, for the first time
for years, sobbed irresistibly, as if the tears were melting her
inmost heart.
"No, Myrrha," she said, "I will not abandon you.... I will stay with
you always!"