  "Oh heart that neither beats nor heaves, In that one darkness lying still. What now for thee my love's great will? Or the fine web the sunshine weaves?" C. D. Rossetti MARIE had never seen death, but there was no fear in her heart as she softly closed the door behind her, and went forward into the room. The cotton blind at the window fitted badly, and gleams of sunlight found their way through on either side of it, seeming to concentrate in a strangely deliberate manner about the silent figure of the man who had given his life for her. A white sheet covered him, but Marie's hand did not tremble as she gently drew it down and looked at the marble whiteness of Feathers' ugly face. Death had been kind to him. It had wiped out the hard lines, and left him with a peculiarly noble, and boyish look. But even the waters of the treacherous river had been unable to smooth his rough hair, and it stood up over his head with just the same obstinate untidiness that she had always known, and with sudden impulse she laid her hand on it, smoothing it gently, as a mother might smooth the hair of a sleeping child. Were there two ways of loving, she was asking herself desperately? and was it possible to love two men at the same time, or had she indeed ceased to love Chris? Feathers had given her her first man's kiss of passion. In his arms she had first known complete happiness, and it seemed a crude impossibility that she would never hear his voice again, that his eyes would never open any more to look at her with their faithful adoration. And it came home to her with bitter truth as she stood there, that Last night, right from the first moment of their meeting at the inn, he had thought only of her, never once of himself—even down to the very end, when wounded to death, he had given his last ounce of strength to save her, spent his last breath on words of cheer and encouragement. And what had she given him in return?—little enough it seemed now, as she looked at his marble face about which the autumn sunshine flickered. He had loved her so completely, and now she would never be able to tell him how much she honored him, loved him! For Marie Celeste knew that she did love him! Not perhaps with romantic passion with which she had once loved Chris; not perhaps as she would some day love Chris again—but with the wonderful, trusting, imperishable love which one must feel for a friend who has never failed. Her heart ached for the sound of his voice—to hear him say that he understood and forgave. His last kiss on the dark road that night would always be one of her most cherished memories she knew, as she stood there, her eyes fixed on his face, while her heart made its last farewell. He had told her to go back to Chris—she knew that it had been his earnest wish, and she knew too, that some day she would obey. But not yet! oh not yet! She must have a little time first to herself to get back her lost courage, and to forget the sweetness of a lost dream. She took the little sprig of white heather which he had sent her from Scotland—so long ago it seemed—and which she had always worn about her neck, and laid it between his folded hands. Then she kissed him as so short a time ago he had kissed her—his hands, and his closed eyes, his rough coarse hair, and the lips that felt like marble beneath her own. She was sobbing now—cruel sobbing that brought with it no relief And it seemed to her distraught imagination that now there was a little smile of contentment shadowing Feathers' cold lips, where before no smile had been, and something seemed to snap on her heart and brain as she cried his name in anguish through the silent room. "Feathers!—Feathers!" And the woman who kept the inn came running swiftly at the sound of a fall, and found Marie Celeste lying senseless, her arms flung out towards the man who, for the first time in his life, could not hear or answer when she called to him. |
|
