IN THE LIGHT OF THE MOON.
Gwen, in the drawing-room, had hidden her face in the sofa cushion. She
had not wanted to hear the dreadful steps of the men carrying in the
stretcher.
She was feeling frightened and unstrung and as if she had lost Rachel.
Since that fearful moment when the floor of the cottage gave way and
Luke was buried in its ruins, her sister had not spoken a word to her.
Her dazed condition frightened Gwen; and she almost dreaded seeing her.
She knew where she probably was at this moment; for no sooner had the
men who had carried in Luke's body left, than Rachel had gone up into
the room, where they had laid him. It was now 10 o'clock and she was
still there, and there was a deathly silence in the house. Gwen opened
the door and listened. Not a sound could be heard. All was still. At
last feeling it unbearable she crept upstairs hoping to find Polly in
the nursery.
Polly was sitting by Pat's little crib, crying. It was a relief to Gwen
to hear her sobs. It broke the terrible silence.
"Is Mrs. Luke still there?" she asked, glancing in the direction of the
room in which she knew they had laid him.
Polly could not speak for her tears; but nodded.
"It's ten o'clock," said Gwen. "She ought to be coming to bed. She'll
be quite ill to-morrow. Do you think you could go in and persuade her
to come? Tell her I want to speak to her. Or where is Mrs. Greville?
Perhaps she would go."
"She ain't fit Miss Gwen," said Polly, "and I daren't go to her. She's
in her room and maybe in bed for all I know. I guess I'd better go
myself."
Gwen stood outside the room while Polly went softly in. The very fact
of the door being opened frightened her; all her nerve had left her and
she hoped that Polly would not be long.
She was not gone a minute; she came out of the room on tiptoe, closing
the door softly behind her. She was trembling so that at first she
could not speak and had to lean against the wall for support.
"Oh what is it? What is it?" cried Gwen in a panic, turning white.
It was some moments before Polly could speak, then the words came in
gasps.
"She's gone with him," she panted.
"What?"
"She's gone right—away—with him—to Heaven." She could scarcely speak.
"Do you mean she is dead?" cried Gwen.
"Yes; yes, she's dead; and the moon is shining on 'em both."
Gwen appalled at the news, opened the door and looked in. But what she
saw was so wonderful and beautiful that all horror subsided. Rachel was
kneeling by the bed on which Luke lay, her cheek resting on his dead
hand and a smile of rapture on her face. The moonlight was streaming
into the room from the open window on to the faces of husband and wife.
Once more they were together in its pathway as they had been on that
evening on the sea at Southwold, but now they were unconscious of it,
as they were together in the city that has no need of the sun neither
the moon to shine in it, for the glory of God did lighten it and the
Lamb is the Light thereof.
When the villagers heard that Rachel had died of heart failure on the
same day as her husband they mourned and wept. So young, they said, to
die! Two valuable lives given for the sake of a poor sick baby of a
drunken woman! What a waste of life!
But the Bishop, who came to preach the funeral sermon, said, "It was
one of the most beautiful things of which he had ever heard, and he
felt that instead of mourning and weeping, there should be flowers and
singing. Two happy saints treading together the streets of gold! No
long parting! No farewells! The Rector," he told the people, "could
hardly have had time to reach the gates of Heaven before he was joined
by his wife. What could be more joyful for them!"
"But," he added, and with evident emotion, "when we look at it from our
own point of view, we cannot help tears. Did not our blessed Lord weep
at the tomb of Lazarus? It is not wrong to weep; but in thinking of our
loss, we must not forget their gain; for they were lovely and pleasant
in their lives and in their death they were not divided!"
THE END.