The mysterious news was wonderful! Men of science would come and live
near her—perhaps in the woods across the creek. But her chief perplexity
as she washed the dishes was whether the miracle would include Marvin.
Probably not, because he was not a physical research man, much less a
medical research man.
When the dishes were finished, she went down to the shore, Agricola
following as usual. She mounted the rock and looked toward the west. The
birches were doing off their gold to stand in silver. The hill was dark,
but the sky was rich and deep. She turned toward her island, over which
the moon would later rise, and saw a flotilla of little frozen clouds.
They seemed like Dante’s celestial rose of white, each petal a redeemed
soul. They were more angels than she had ever seen men in one day, and
the littlest petals were the souls of children, which always behold the
face of their Father. Under this so sudden enchantment the wonder of her
father’s news was gradually forgot.
Her eye traveled up the river, and her brother seemed curiously near.
How often she had seen him come sailing home, with brown throat bare to
the winds and head thrown back to snuff the breeze.
Now all was changed, and she could not imagine him. What body celestial
might he wear? If she could only catch one glimpse of his pure radiance,
she would not be afraid. She would not act like the Little Red Leaf, to
lock the door against a ghost even though she believed that Penaycee was
safe in the lodge of the reindeer. She knew that in seeing Horatio’s
body, with brown throat bare to the winds and head thrown back to snuff
the breeze, she had seen but the least part of Horatio. How curious it
all was—this ancient language that everybody spoke, about bodies and
souls. How utterly it failed to fit the scientific fact that her
brother’s body was of finer tissue than any imaginable spirit, and that
it ended only in the stars.
She could think no more, and turned her gaze to the ore-boats coming up
the river. They were very numerous this summer, these big instinctive
animals hunting their prey so quietly. It took each one some three or
four minutes to pass her island, which eclipsed each constellation in
turn, but they advanced as inexorably as fate. Thus, in a day or two,
Marvin would be coming.
She seemed past caring. She would just say no, and not attempt to
explain. It was like death—it had to be gone through, but only once. She
had heard that a drowning man lives through ages in a few seconds, but
if ever she had to drown, she would set her teeth and stand it.
Agricola moved a little in his sleep and powerlessly barked in his
throat. Long accustomed not to chase his natural prey, Agricola
sometimes took it out on rabbits in his sleep. She was sure he never
quite caught them—they changed and evaporated. She drew her hand softly
along his head, and the noises ceased.
By this the moon had risen. She laid her own head on her arm, moved her
back till it touched his, and drowsily watched the boats. Cities they
were, forerunners of the greater cities that would cover the earth till
there was no more solitude or beauty. Here came the largest of all—she
knew it in the moonlight as it reached her misty island and disappeared.
How long it was in passing! An hour, a day, a year. Many years. Millions
of years hiding it on the misty river. She watched for it in vain, and
in its place saw—something else!
For there in the mist of the river Horatio seemed to stand beneath the
moon, throwing her a kiss. And at that signal there were other faces
beside him, growing in number like the opening petals of a rose. Tier on
tier, a mighty orchestra, retreating upward till they were pearly dim,
hiding the moon. Then arose a strange sweet music—voices of young
stars—cry of a heavenly army—men and maidens chanting her father’s hymn.
In their midst stood Horatio like another father, loved by the unborn
who were not his own, yet whom he had loved with love divine, all love
excelling.
With a thrill of unspeakable joy she awoke, and saw the great steamer
emerge from behind her island.