Fru Boyesen lay propped up in her high, large bed; her face was
congested and she breathed stertorously. With an unconscious gesture she
threw back the feather-bed covering her, only to have it instantly
replaced by the watchful Ingeborg. The room was close and stuffy, it was
cold outside, all the windows were hermetically closed and a fire burned
in the porcelain stove. The sick woman's hair had been braided neatly,
but with the restless movements of her head, straggling yellowish-grey
strands had come loose and strayed over her mottled forehead and on the
pillow. With a feverish hand she tugged at the top button of her flannel
nightgown.
"Air! I want air!" she muttered.
Ingeborg laid her cool hand on her Aunt's forehead, while she counted
the respiration, and under the soothing touch the old woman grew calm
for a few minutes.
She had been ill four days, an ordinary attack of bronchitis, the doctor
thought at first, but it rapidly ran into pneumonia, and the age of the
patient left but a bare chance of recovery. Ingeborg nursed her
devotedly assisted by one of the servants and would not hear of calling
in outside help.
"You are as good a nurse as I could wish," said the doctor, "but I am
afraid you will wear yourself out."
"No fear of that," Ingeborg had answered, "and I want to do all I can
for poor Auntie--you know how she hates to have anyone else in the
room."
"Well, in five days I shall be able to tell, you can do without help
till then, and afterwards if it is necessary--"
The way he spoke the last words, however, gave but little hope of such a
contingency arising and Ingeborg's eyes filled with tears.
Fru Boyesen had lain most of the time in a heavy stupor, waking
occasionally to fits of delirium when her strong will and habit of
command made it very difficult for Ingeborg to keep her in bed. When she
raved it was always about Ragna who was coming to pay a visit and in
whose honour due preparation must be made, or Ragna who would not come
and refused to give ear to her Aunt's pleading, or it was Ragna ill and
lonely who must be helped,--but always Ragna, nothing but Ragna.
The poor old soul, debarred by her own action from the natural outlet of
her affection, nay adoration, for her heart's darling, had brooded over
her sorrow, feeding on her own repressed love. Deprived of outward
expression, she bowed down in secret before the idol enshrined in her
heart. All these years she had kept up the sham of an unforgiving
spirit, had worn her mask of hardness, never once betraying herself to
anyone except the watchful Ingeborg, and now that delirium had loosened
her tongue, she raved on, babbling like a child of that which was
nearest her heart, while Ingeborg marvelled somewhat bitterly at all the
misspent effort of repression, when so much good might have been done,
so much pain avoided.
Ragna thought herself thoroughly on her guard, when writing to her
sister, little dreaming how much Ingeborg read between the lines, more
from what was omitted than from what was said, though she herself, to
whom many things had grown "through custom stale" mentioned them
casually, as though quite in the ordinary course of events, things
which to the unaccustomed eyes of Ingeborg seemed unbearable to the last
degree, little meannesses on the part of Valentini, his way of opening
her letters, his habit of spending the evenings away from home and the
like.
When Aunt Gitta fell ill, Ingeborg's first impulse had been to telegraph
for Ragna, sure that her presence would set all right, but the doctor
said that five days would decide everything, one way or the other, and
three times five days was the shortest space of time in which it would
be possible for Ragna to reach her Aunt.
There had been but little delirium to-day, at most a gentle wandering,
the greater part of the time the old woman lay oblivious to her
surroundings, lost to the world. To Ingeborg who took this state of coma
for sleep it seemed of favourable augury, but the doctor shook his head.
"She may drift away without waking up again," he said.
Ingeborg thought it terrible that anyone should die thus, with no chance
to repair the wrong done or to prepare for the future life, but there
was nothing she could do, except administer the medicines to the
unconscious woman at the appointed hours, and between whiles sit silent,
her hands folded in her lap, her anxious eyes, eager to detect any
change, fixed on her aunt's face.
It was snowing outside, a fine dry snow, hard, like ice crystals, the
room was in profound silence, broken only by the stinging sound of the
snow, driven against the window pane, the crackling of the wood in the
stove, the ticking of a small clock on the mantel, and the heavy
stertorous breathing of the sick woman. At dusk a maid came in with a
lighted lamp, tip-toeing noiselessly in list slippers; she set it on
the table cast a glance at the bed and withdrew. Ingeborg fastened a
piece of paper to the lamp shade to keep the bright light from her
Aunt's face, but it seemed already to have aroused Fru Boyesen, for she
turned uneasily, groaned and made as if to sit up.
Ingeborg stepped lightly to her side and pressed her quietly back
against her pillows. Fru Boyesen passed her hand over her eyes twice or
thrice as if dazed, but the expression of her eyes as she looked up at
Ingeborg was such that the light of reason shone in them.
"Ingeborg," she said in a hoarse voice, "how long have I been ill?"
"Four days, Aunt."
"And what does Dr. Ericssen say is the matter with me?"
"He said it was bronchitis, and that--"
"Don't lie, girl," said the old lady, quick to perceive the hesitation
in her niece's voice "tell me the truth, I can bear it."
"He says now that it is pneumonia."
"Pneumonia--" repeated Fru Boyesen, "pneumonia! And I am over sixty."
She closed her eyes a moment and her face became stern. "Tell me,
Ingeborg, how long does Ericssen give me? I have a right to know."
Her eyes claimed the truth from the girl, who answered with a sob in her
voice.
"He says the fifth day is the decisive day, until then he can't tell."
"Oh, can't he? I can then. I tell you, Ingeborg, this is the end, I
shall never recover."
The girl would have protested but such was her own intimate conviction
and had been from the first; with her Aunt's eyes on her face she felt
the futility of it. A silence fell between them, broken by a sigh from
Fru Boyesen.
"Ingeborg!" she said suddenly, "there is something I must do before I
go, I have something on my conscience."
"Do you wish me to send for the Herr Pastor, Aunt?"
"The Herr Pastor! This is not a matter for clergymen, this is something
that regards me alone. I have been unjust to your sister, Ingeborg--I am
an old woman on my death bed, and I see clearly now that I have done
wrong. The living may be vindictive, but the dying must make reparation
if they would be forgiven. I made a will disinheriting Ragna, I want to
destroy that, to reinstate her. She has been wilful, Ingeborg, proud and
inconsiderate, she has hurt me more than I can say, but she is young and
I am old, it is I who should have known better. Young people will be
foolish, it is for us old wise ones to repair the damage done, and I
have been a wicked, resentful old woman. 'Judgment is mine, saith the
Lord,' and I would have taken it into my own hands. I wished to punish
her, and perhaps I have, but I have punished myself far more. Remember
this, little Ingeborg, we should leave judgment and condemnation to the
Lord,--we should only try to love and help."
She sank back on her pillows, exhausted. Ingeborg put a cup of brandy
and water to her lips, saying,
"Hush, Auntie dear, you must not talk so much, you will tire yourself
out."
But Fru Boyesen would not be satisfied, she motioned Ingeborg to come
near, and whispered into her ear,
"Get the solicitor, send for Hendriksen, at once, _at once_ do you hear?
I must make it right for Ragna before it is too late."
Ingeborg nodded, and summoning the maid in attendance ordered her, in
the old lady's hearing to go at once for Herr Hendriksen, and gave her
the money for a cab to bring the solicitor back.
Fru Boyesen smiled contentedly and closed her eyes. Ingeborg burning
with suppressed excitement, could hardly keep her seat--now indeed was
all to come right, like in a story! Her loyal sisterly heart rejoiced
for Ragna, and could she have guessed the true state of affairs in
Florence, she would have rejoiced still more. Then the pathos of the
thing struck her, all her love and compassion went out to the quiet
figure on the bed.
"Poor Aunt Gitta!" she said softly to herself, "how she must have
suffered--and how she loves Ragna!"
How she must have loved her indeed, for that love to break down her
stubborn will, sweeping away in an all-devouring flood the barriers of
prejudice and pride, leaving nothing but tenderness and the desire to
help.
Ingeborg could no longer contain her agitation; she rose and stood by
the window, gazing out at the driving storm. Though but five in the
afternoon it was quite dark and the whirling flakes of snow made
wavering circles in the halo of light about the street lamps. In the
garden a gaunt tree, stripped of its leaves, raised black limbs skyward,
and below, an even blanket of white shaded off into the night. This late
snow storm belying the earlier promise of spring seemed of evil portent
to the watching girl. To her anxious eyes all the world outside seemed
like a great white desert, she sought in vain for some sign of life, of
human companionship, but there were no passers-by in the quiet street.
Suddenly two dim black masses appeared, coming from different
directions; they stopped simultaneously at the garden gate and resolved
themselves into three figures whom Ingeborg recognized as the doctor,
the solicitor and the maid who had been sent to fetch him. She watched
them struggle up the garden path till they reached the door-step and the
muffled sound of the bell rang through the house, then hastened to the
bedside.
"Auntie! Auntie! he has come! Herr Hendriksen is here!"
There was no answer, the heavy breathing had begun again. Ingeborg was
helplessly watching the flapping of the cheeks, the puff of the lips at
each breath, when the doctor entered; he advanced to the bed and stood
frowning, his lips pushed out.
"Can't we wake her, Doctor?" asked Ingeborg eagerly. "She was awake just
a little while ago, and had me send for Herr Hendriksen,--she wants to
set things right again for Ragna, in case--in case--Oh, Doctor, it is
most important!" she joined her hands beseechingly, "after what she said
I don't think she can die in peace, unless she has done it!"
The doctor shook his head. He knew the story of Ragna's marriage and
subsequent estrangement from her aunt; she was a favourite of his, and
he wished with all his heart to help her cause, but there was nothing to
be done.
"What a pity you did not get her to sign a statement then! Who can tell
if she will come out of this coma again? She may, but I doubt it--see,
the pulse has failed steadily since this morning, it is barely a
thread!"
"Oh, Doctor!" said Ingeborg, tears in her eyes, "can nothing be done?
Nothing? Think of all that it means!"
"There is always the possibility of a return to consciousness. Have Herr
Hendriksen draw up a will or a codicil or whatever the thing is,
according to your aunt's expressed wishes, and if she comes to, she may
be able to sign it. I can try a hypodermic of caffeine," he added to
himself, "but I'm afraid it's no use. Run down to Hendriksen and let him
get the will ready in any case, I shall stop here."
Ingeborg sped down the stairs and found the solicitor enjoying a cup of
coffee in the sitting-room. She explained the case to him and he agreed
to draw up a codicil annulling all former wills, in the tenour of the
will destroyed by Fru Boyesen after Ragna's marriage and to hold it in
readiness. Accordingly he set to work and Ingeborg returned to the sick
chamber.
They waited some time and as there was still no sign of returning
consciousness Dr. Ericssen tried the hypodermic of caffeine, but without
effect, except for a slightly stronger pulse, the stertorous breathing
continued unchanged. Solicitor and doctor supped together, in a gloomy
silence, while Ingeborg, unwilling to leave her aunt, had a tray sent up
to her; after which the doctor returned to his patient and the man of
law to his post by the fire. The evening dragged on drearily; Ingeborg
sat despondently by the bedside; it all seemed such cruel irony--the
waiting solicitor, the fate of her sister hanging in the balance,
dependent on that unconscious figure on the bed.
Towards morning there was a change, patent even to the inexperienced
eyes of the girl. Fru Boyesen opened her eyes, but they appeared
oblivious of her immediate surroundings, they were fixed on space, and
seemed to have a glaze over them; her lips moved, and bending over her,
Ingeborg caught the words:
"Solicitor--Ragna!"
"Quick!" she said to the doctor; he ran to the landing and called
Hendriksen, who gathered up his papers, pen, ink, and seals, and bounded
up the stairs.
"Oh!" thought Ingeborg, "if only there is time--if only she is able to
sign!"
She poured some brandy into a spoon, but as she turned to administer it,
the sick woman's head fell back on the pillow, and her jaw dropped--Herr
Hendriksen approaching, pen and paper in hand, stopped, hesitating.
Ingeborg dropped the spoon, brandy and all, and the doctor rushed
forward; one glance was enough; he waved the solicitor back, his
services were no longer required.
Poor Aunt Gitta! she had put off, too long, her work of reparation, and
now it was too late.
Too late! These are indeed the "saddest words of tongue or pen," a lower
circle in the Inferno of Fate than the poet's "it might have been!"
Alas! for those to whom the long sought opportunity, the ardently
desired happiness comes at last, and finds the sands run down in the
glass, the vital energy spent. The chance is there, but an ironical
voice gives the sentence "Too late!" And alas, above all, for those, who
in the sunset of life see in retrospect, the false turning, the long
weary miles of the road they have followed, and which they would
retrace, ere darkness fall, and the night come,--but the stern voice
says: "Ye have wasted the precious years, ye have put life and strength
into that which is vain, and ye would unravel the strand of the Fates
and plait it up afresh when the shears of Atropos are already extended?
Too late! Remorse is not reparation."
"Who shall restore the years that the locust hath eaten?"
The words sounded like a knell in the ears of Ingeborg, as she drew the
sheet over her aunt's face. Ragna would have laughed a bitter laugh, but
Ingeborg wept.