The dead _did_ know. She had come back to tell him that she knew. She
knew that he thought of her with unkindness. She had been there when he
talked about her to Effie. She knew the thought he had hidden even from
himself. She knew that she had died because, secretly, he had wished her
dead.
That was the meaning of her look and of her tears.
No fleshly eyes could have expressed such an intensity of suffering, of
unfathomable grief. He thought: the pain of a discarnate spirit might be
infinitely sharper than any earthly pain. It might be inexhaustible. Who
was to say that it was not?
Yet could it—could even an immortal suffering—be sharper than the
anguish he felt now? If only he had known what he was doing to her— If
he had known. If he had known—
But, he thought, we know nothing, and we care less. We say we believe in
immortality, but we do not believe in it. We treat the dead as if they
_were_ dead, as if they were not there. If he had really believed that
she was there, he would have died rather than say the things he had said
to Effie. Nobody, he told himself, could have accused him of unkindness
to his mother while she lived. He had really loved her up to the moment,
the moment of supreme temptation, when he wanted Effie. He had not
willed her to die. He had been barely conscious of his wish. How, then,
could he be held accountable? How could he have destroyed the thing
whose essence was the hidden, unknown darkness? Yet, if men are
accountable at all, he was accountable. There had been a moment when he
was conscious of it. He could have destroyed it then. He should have
faced it; he should have dragged it out into the light and fought it.
Instead, he had let it sink back into its darkness, to work there
unseen.
And if he had really loved his mother, he would have wished, not willed
her to live. He would have wanted her as he wanted her now.
For, now that it was too late, he did want her. His whole mind had
changed. He no longer thought of her with resentment. He thought, with a
passionate adoration and regret, of her beauty, her goodness, and her
love for him. What if she _had_ kept him with her? It had been, as Effie
had said, because she loved him. How did he know that if she had let him
go he would have been good for anything? What on earth could he have
been but the third-rate organist he was?
He remembered the happiness he had had with her before he had loved
Effie; her looks, her words, the thousand things she used to do to
please him. The Mendelssohn she had given him. A certain sweet cake she
made for him on his birthdays. And the touch of her hands, her kisses.
He thought of these things with an agony of longing. If only he could
have her back; if only she would come to him again, that he might show
her—
He asked himself: How much did Effie know? She must wonder why he had
taken that sudden dislike to the drawing-room; why he insisted on
sleeping in his study. She had never said anything.
A week had passed—they were sitting in the dining-room after supper,
when she spoke.
“Wilfrid, why do you always want to sit here?”
“Because I hate the other room.”
“You didn’t use to. It’s only since that day you were ill, the last time
you were playing. Why do you hate it?”
“Well, if you want to know—you remember the beastly things I said about
mother?”
[Illustration]
“You didn’t mean them.”
“I did mean them— But it wasn’t that. It was something you said.”
“I?”
“Yes. You said ‘If the dead knew—’”
“Well—?”
“Well—they do know—I’m certain my mother knew. Certain, as I’m certain
I’m sitting here, that she heard.”
“Oh, Wilfrid, what makes you think that?”
“I can’t tell you what makes me think it— But—she was there.”
“You only think it because you’re feeling sorry. You must get over it.
Go back into the room and play.”
He shook his head and still sat there thinking. Effie did not speak
again; she saw that she must let him think.
Presently he got up and went into the drawing-room, shutting the doors
behind him.
The Mendelssohn was still on the piano ledge, open at Number Nine. He
began to play it. But at the first bars of the melody he stopped,
overwhelmed by an agony of regret. He slid down on his knees, with his
arms on the edge of the piano and his head bowed on his arms.
His soul cried out in him with no sound.
“Mother—Mother—if only I had you back. If only you would come to me.
Come—Come—”
And suddenly he felt her come. From far-off, from her place among the
blessed, she came rushing, as if on wings. He heard nothing; he saw
nothing; but with every nerve he felt the vibration of her approach, of
her presence. She was close to him now, closer than hearing or sight or
touch could bring her; her self to his self; her inmost essence was
there.
The phantasm of a week ago was a faint, insignificant thing beside this
supreme manifestation. No likeness of flesh and blood could give him
such an assurance of reality, of contact.
For, more certain than any word of flesh and blood, her meaning flashed
through him and thrilled.
She knew. She knew she had him again; she knew she would never lose him.
He was her son. As she had once given him flesh of her flesh, so now,
self to innermost self, she gave him her blessedness, her peace.