she sat nearly upright, and over her head was a dark veil through which
I could see nothing whatever. Her right hand lay on the coverlet, and
as I seated myself by her bedside, where the nurse had put a chair for
me, Margaret advanced her hand towards me, shyly, hesitatingly, as if
not sure that I would take it. But it was a sign, a gesture.”
He paused, his face beaming and radiant with the light of that memory.
“I am speaking of things unspeakable,” he said. “I can no more convey
to you all that meant than by a mere enumeration of colours can I steep
your soul in the feeling of a sunset.... So there I sat, with her hand
covered and clasped in mine. I had been told that very likely she would
not speak, and for myself there was no word in the world which would
not be dross in the gold of that silence.
“And then from behind her veil there came a whisper.
“‘I couldn’t die without seeing you,’ she said. ‘I was sure you would
come. I’ve one thing to say to you. I loved you, and I tried to choke
my love. And for years, my dear, I have been reaping the harvest of
what I did. I tried to kill love, but it was so much stronger than I.
And now the harvest is gathered. I have suffered cruelly, you know, but
I bless every pang of it. I needed it all....’
“Only a few minutes before, I had quaked at the thought of seeing her.
But now I could not suffer that the veil should cover her face.
“‘Put up your veil, darling,’ I said. ‘I must see you.’
“‘No, no,’ she whispered. ‘I should horrify you. I am terrible.’
“‘You can’t be terrible to me,’ I said. ‘I am going to lift it.’
“I raised her veil. And what did I see? I might have known, I think: I
might have guessed that at this moment, supreme and perfect, I should
see with vision.
“There was no scar or ravage of disease or disfigurement there. She was
far lovelier than she had ever been, and on her face there shone the
dawn of the everlasting day. She had shed all that was perishable and
subject to decay, and her immortal spirit was manifested to me, purged
and punished if you will, but humble and holy. There was granted to my
frail mortal sight the power of seeing truly; it was permitted to me to
be with her beyond the bounds of mortality....
“And then, even as I was lost in an amazement of love and wonder, I
saw we were not alone in the room. Two boys, whom I recognized, were
standing at the other side of the bed, looking at her. It seemed
utterly natural that they should be there.
“‘We’ve been allowed to come for you, mother darling,’ said one. ‘Get
up.’
“She turned her face to them.
“‘Ah, my dears,’ she said. ‘How lovely of you. But just one moment.’
“She bent over towards me and kissed me.
“‘Thank you for coming, Roderick,’ she said. ‘Good-bye, just for a
little while.’
“At that my power of sight--my power of true sight--failed. Her head
fell back on the pillows and turned over on one side. For one second,
before I let the veil drop over it again, I had a glimpse of her face,
marred and cruelly mutilated. I saw that, I say, but never then nor
afterwards could I remember it. It was like a terrible dream, which
utterly fades on the awaking. Then her hand, which had been clasping
mine, in that moment of her farewell slackened its hold, and dropped on
to the bed. She had just moved away, somewhere out of sight, with her
two boys to look after her.”
He paused.
“That’s all,” he said. “And do you wonder that I chose that room? How
I hope that she will come for me.”
My room was next to Roderick’s, the head of his bed being just opposite
the head of mine on the other side of the wall. That night I had
undressed, lain down, and had just put out my light, when I heard a
sharp tap just above me. I thought it was some fortuitous noise, as of
a picture swinging in a draught, but the moment after it was repeated,
and it struck me that it was perhaps a summons from Roderick who wanted
something. Still quite unalarmed, I got out of bed, and, candle in
hand, went to his door. I knocked, but receiving no answer, opened it
an inch or two.
“Did you want anything?” I asked, and, again receiving no answer, I
went in.
His lights were burning, and he was sitting up in bed. He did not
appear to see me or be conscious of my presence, and his eyes were
fixed on some point a few feet away in front of him. His mouth smiled,
and in his eyes was just such a joy as I had seen there when he told me
his story. Then, leaning on his arm, he moved as if to rise.
“Oh, Margaret, my dear....” he cried.
He drew a couple of short breaths, and fell back.
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN AT THE PITMAN PRESS, BATH
* * * * * *
Transcriber’s note:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.