Aunt Althea lay in a four-post bed near a window through which she
might see the sunshine resting on the small Italian garden. Her
colorless face was stamped with a look of almost infantile
acquiescence, though it was only three days since she had sat out there
in the garden, thinking:
"When Lilla comes back I'll ask her whether she wouldn't like a little
run over to Rome, before the season sets in."
The sick woman tell asleep. Her hair appeared grayer, her skin more
nearly transparent, than ordinarily. All her various ardors had not
slipped away from her without leaving on her countenance the marks of
their transmutation, a peculiar nobility that owed half its fineness to
unacknowledged suffering.
In the night the nurse decided to wake the physician, who was dozing in
one of the guest rooms. Aunt Althea had conquered time, had regained
her "beloved Europe." Somewhere in the New York house there was a
photograph of her, taken in her twenty-fifth year. She, too, it
seemed, had once been charming, full of young grace and eager
expectancy. And now she was in her twenty-fifth year again, and
driving through Rome to the English cemetery. She reached it. She met
some one there, to whom she spoke in Italian. It was a rendezvous of
lovers. And Lilla heard the sigh:
"Don't go. Don't smile at my intuition----"
Later, after seeming to listen intently, Aunt Althea cried:
"What are they calling? All massacred at Adowa!" She uttered a moan,
"I knew it!"
To the doctor's surprise she lived through the following day. By
evening everybody had become hopeful of her recovery. Aunt Althea,
turning her faded, aristocratic head on the pillow, said:
"You must go and rest, Lilla. I shall be all right now. How badly you
look! How I must have worried you! They shouldn't have spoiled your
party. You see it wasn't worth while."
She passed away at dawn.
It was a morning of unusual brightness. A high wind caught up and
scattered broadcast the petals from the Italian garden, as though that
spot had served its only purpose. Now and then a swift cloud cast a
shadow over the landscape, then passed on, leaving everything as
brilliant as before. The boughs of the trees tapped urgently against
the windowpanes, calling attention to the sparkling clarity of space.
And Lilla, sitting alone in her room, wondered, "Will she meet him out
there? Does fate finally relent? Or are those moments that she had
with him--so few, while others are allowed so many!--supposed to be
enough happiness for her?"