University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.

The nervous fever changed to a fatal disease which
consumed Sarah slowly. Silent and passive as she lay
in her darkened chamber, the pulse of household life was
still subordinate to her influence; its ways depended on
her condition from hour to hour; for the first time it
tacitly owned a common individuality, of which she was
the centre. Parke confined himself to the house absolutely;
flitted in and out of her chamber twenty times a
day, smoked perpetually, changed from chair to chair,
sofa to sofa, in all the rooms, where he carried piles of
books, which he vainly tried to read. He dwelt upon
every favorable symptom which appeared with a vehemence
that betrayed a doubt; the unfavorable ones he
passed over with a dogged silence. He wrote to Charlotte,
in the beginning of Sarah's illness, that she must
not expect to see him while his mother's life hung by a
thread, but that she would get well. As an occupation,
a relief, he wrote to all his friends—he wished no nearer
approach from outside life—even including Theresa. She
replied, and for several weeks a curious, semi-oblivious
correspondence was kept up.

Jason watched by Sarah's bedside night and day; he
attended to no calls whatever. Gilbert assumed authority
over affairs out of doors, and inside Elsa conducted
them with quietness and dispatch. But, as only the ordinary
details necessary were dispatched, she was tormented

by a waiting leisure which preceded a dreaded
crisis; day after day she had nothing to do but recall
her experiences in sickness and compare them with the
present, or recount to Mary, and the neighbors who
came to inquire for Sarah, the cases which had ended in
death. In the chambers of her memory death showed
so placid and commonplace an aspect that his coming
wore no terrors; but his shadow darkened Philippa's
soul. All that she looked upon was touched with Decay;
nothing had been made to escape the vanishing Hand.
A peremptory restlessness prevented her from inhabiting
any familiar spot. Her own room now looked like a
guest-chamber; she wandered often in the garden, in the
orchard, and over the hill. Many times a day she put
in order the cups and vials on the table and mantel in
Sarah's chamber, but rarely exchanged any words with
her. Sometimes she sat near her while Jason was at his
meals; then Sarah's eyes followed her movements with
an expression which was interpreted in the old way.
Once when their eyes met Sarah asked her if Parke was
married. She shook her head for a reply, not trusting
herself to speak, and hoped that Sarah would say more
—they could at least unite on that subject—but she
turned her face to the wall. Again she asked if the cinnamon
roses had bloomed. Philippa gathered some for
her; she turned them over and over in her hand, inhaled
their perfume for an instant, and handed them to Jason,
with a motion that they should be taken out of her
sight.

“Philippa,” she called, once more, “what kind of a
day is it?”

“The sunshine is level everywhere.”

“Level! So shall I be soon. Shall you stay here
afterwards?”

“Do you wish me to?'

“Stop. Yes, or no.”

“Yes.”

“I knew you would.”

“And I know that you do not desire it.”

“I cannot.”

For the most part, Sarah was silent towards Jason.
Not a word passed between them concerning Parke or
Philippa; he accepted what her will had enforced now,
as always. If he had any hope of a nearer, clearer communication,
he was disappointed. He vainly watched
for an opportunity to give her some fragment of himself
that would leave him with the feeling that she had some
clue to his spiritual being. Savages have a belief that
when they are in the clutches of the lion and the tiger a
happy paralysis seizes them—they do not feel the terror
of being rent asunder; it may be that there is a magnetism
of Death, in which all the powers of life are painlessly
wrapped. It seemed so with Sarah.

The morning dawned when Jason saw in her face the
bewildered, flitting look of a departing soul. He kneeled
by her with a solemn mien, and fixed his eyes upon hers,
and a sad intelligence passed between them. She said
nothing, but for a moment returned his gaze; then she
laid her feeble hand on his, and shut her eyes. He kissed
her tenderly, and she gave a sigh which ploughed his heart
with anguish, and tempted him to cry aloud. He buried
his face in her pillow, and presently he felt her hand
moving round his neck, and drawing him close to her.
Then she was still. The voice of Elsa broke the silence.

“She is going to heaven, Jason, swiftly, and she does
not sense it.”

“Call Parke and Philippa.”

Her soul passed over the threshold of the world of
spirits, just as they reached the room. Parke saw her
hands flutter, and darted forward with a cry of “Mother!”
caught them in his grasp, but their helpless deadness
appalled him so he dropped them and staggered backward.
Philippa stood by Jason, self-forgetful, absorbed
in the dread spectacle. Her brain whirled with the questions
which pressed upon her. “What is that in the
place of her identity?” “Where is she?” “Why was
she ever alive?” “What does it all mean?”

“It is all over,” Elsa announced, in a composed voice,
laying Sarah's hands straight beside her, and closing her
eyes.

“Oh God!” cried Parke, “this is too horrible. Talk
about infinite Goodness before such a sight as this!”

Philippa gave a loud, hysterical cry, at which Jason
rose to his feet, looked wildly about him, and struck his
hands out as if he could not see.

“Take care of Parke, Jason,” said Elsa, and he was
obliged to lead him away, reeling.

“I'll put you to bed, miss,” said Elsa to Philippa, leading
her from the room tenderly, and crying bitterly.

When the doors were opened for the coffin-bearers,
the sun streamed its hot, yellow rays through the house,
and laid bare its loneliness. Something was gone from
every nook and corner. No sweet, gracious, lovely
spirit had vanished therefrom, but a dominant, exacting,
forcible presence had gone forever. The sun's rays

fell from the wide, blue summer sky, and travelled
with the funeral procession that still afternoon when
Sarah was buried, and rested on the mound of sand
heaped beside the grave—on the black pall—on the
mourners—with a glory that mocked the shadows of
the Valley of Death.