In the evening he was resting on the sofa in the drawing-room. Auntie
Hamps was near him, at work on some embroidery. In order that her dear
Edwin might doze a little if he could, she refrained from speech; from
time to time she stopped her needle and looked reflectively at the
morsel of fire, or at the gas. She had been in the house since before
tea. Clara also had passed most of the day there, with a few intervals
at her own home; but now Clara was gone, and Janet too had gone. Darius
was tiring them all out, in his mild and senseless repose. He remained
absolutely still, and the enigma which he so indifferently offered to
them might apparently continue for ever; at any rate the doctor's
statement that he might keep as he was for days and days, beyond help,
hung over the entire household, discouraging and oppressive. The energy
of even Auntie Hamps was baffled. Only Alicia, who had come in, as she
said, to take Janet's place, insisted on being occupied. This was one
of the nights dedicated by family arrangement to her betrothed, but
Alicia had found pleasure in sacrificing herself, and him, to her very
busy sense of duty.
Suddenly the drawing-room door was pushed open, without a sound, and
Alicia, in all the bursting charm of her youthfulness and the delicious
_naivete_ of her self-importance, stood in the doorway. She made no
gesture; she just looked at Edwin with a peculiar ominous and excited
glance, and Edwin rose quickly and left the room. Auntie Hamps had
noticed nothing.
"Maggie wants you upstairs," said Alicia to Edwin.
He made no answer. He did not ask where Maggie was. They went upstairs
together. But at the door of the sick-room Alicia hung back,
intimidated, and Edwin entered and shut the door on that beautiful image
of proud, throbbing life.
Maggie, standing by the bed under the gas which blazed at full, turned
to him as he approached.
"Just come and look at him," she said quietly.
Darius lay in exactly the same position; except that his mouth was open
a little wider, he presented exactly the same appearance as in the
afternoon. His weary features, pitiful and yet grim, had exactly the
same expression. But there was no sign of breathing. Edwin bent and
listened.
"Oh! He's dead!" he murmured.
Maggie nodded, her eyes glittering as though set with diamonds. "I
think so," she said.
"When was it?"
"Scarcely a minute ago. I was sitting there, by the fire, and I thought
I noticed something--"
"What did you notice?"
"I don't know... I must go and tell nurse."
She went, wiping her eyes.
Edwin, now alone, looked again at the residue of his father. The
spirit, after hiding within so long, had departed and left no trace. It
had done with that form and was away. The vast and forlorn adventure of
the little boy from the Bastille was over. Edwin did not know that the
little boy from the Bastille was dead. He only knew that his father was
dead. It seemed intolerably tragic that the enfeebled wreck should have
had to bear so much, and yet intolerably tragic also that death should
have relieved him. But Edwin's distress was shot through and
enlightened by his solemn satisfaction at the fact that destiny had
allotted to him, Edwin, an experience of such profound and overwhelming
grandeur. His father was, and lo! he was not. That was all, but it was
ineffable.
Maggie returned to the room, followed by Nurse Shaw, whose head was
enveloped in various bandages. Edwin began to anticipate all the
tedious formalities, as to which he would have to inform himself, of
registration and interment...
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