Chapter X: Part III: Remembered!

The nurse came down-stairs as Captain and Mrs. Folkestone entered The Bluff.

Isma scanned the older woman’s face anxiously as she said, “We are not too--”

“No, you are not too late,” the woman in the pink uniform hastened to assure her, “but I am afraid there is not much time left. Lady Berriedale is sinking fast. I saw your car coming, so hurried down to let you know how she is.”

“Can I go to her at once?” asked Mrs. Folkestone, her large eyes glistening with troubled eagerness.

“Well, she is hardly conscious just now; she lies for hours in a semi-conscious state. His lordship is with her. He has been in her room all the morning. He hardly ever leaves her, day or night. He is a most devoted husband. I will tell him you are here. Will you come into the library for a little while, and when Lady Berriedale is fully awake I will let you know.” As she spoke she opened the library door, and after they had entered she closed it gently behind them.

Isma looked round the familiar room and her face showed that it did not bring back happy memories.

She took off her hat and long dust-coat; then she sighed deeply and went over to the window.

Her husband followed her. “Isma, I am so awfully sorry you should have--this--just now,” he said, coming up and standing close behind her. “I wanted our”--his voice lowered--“honeymoon to have been all joy.” His hand caught one of hers and held it closely.

“I am more grieved for you,” she replied, without moving.

Her husband bent lower, looking over her shoulder at her beautiful profile. Then he drew her slightly backward till she rested against him.

She closed her eyes for a moment. “Oh, Falcon, it is lovely to have you with me!” she murmured under her breath.

The pressure on her hand increased. His touch was warm, close, intimate. It not only held intensest sympathy, it held more; it reminded her of all their happiness, what they had been to each other during the last few weeks, their riotous joy, the wonderful satisfaction their new relationship had brought them, the blinding rapture they had tasted in each other’s arms. She felt that Falcon meant his touch to recall this to her mind so that it might strengthen her for the heartrending scene which awaited her.

“Falcon,” she said, turning to him, after a pause, “it must be terrible for Beatrice to--go.” She shivered slightly.

“Yes, little girl,” he replied, with serious tenderness, “but remember she is going out to your beautiful God of the wonderful spaces--don’t forget that.”

She looked up at him with eyes which held a dewy radiance. “Of course! What a dear you are to remind me!”

He smiled down on her. “You impressed it so strongly on my mind, now I can’t forget it, you see.”

There were footsteps in the hall.

Isma and Falcon drew gently apart.

The door opened slowly and Lord Berriedale, looking pale and worn, his arm still in a sling, entered quietly.

When the brief greetings were over he said: “Beatrice is conscious now and wants to see you. I am deeply grieved to have called you back so soon; but she was always asking for you. In fact,” he went on, addressing Isma, “your name has been constantly on her lips since you have been away, and when the doctor said last night that--the end was so near I--wired.”

“We are so glad you did,” said Captain Folkestone, and there was a strong undercurrent of sympathy in his even tones.

“I wish you had let us know sooner that Beatrice wanted me,” murmured Isma, regretfully.

“She wouldn’t allow me to disturb you until it was absolutely necessary. But you had better come at once--she wants you both,” and silently he led them up-stairs.

As they entered the sick-room Isma glanced anxiously toward the luxurious bed with its fine, embroidered linen and rich silk hangings.

The patient lay waxlike and shrunken, her eyes looking enormous in the wasted face and staring with glassy fixity into space.

In a moment Mrs. Folkestone was beside the bed, stooping over the shriveled form and kissing the sunken cheeks.

Slowly recognition dawned into the lusterless eyes and a feeble smile hovered over the purple lips. But she did not speak for some minutes.

The silence in the room was heavy with an awful pall.

At last the patient’s lips moved.

The girl bent over her quickly and caught the words, “Isma--I am--going.” After each word there came a slight rattling sound.

Her friend dropped on her knees and took the emaciated form in her strong young arms. “Beatrice,” she whispered, a little unsteadily, “you don’t--mind?”

“No--not now.” Her voice had grown stronger, and she added, “Isma--you remember the letter I wrote you--telling you about--the dying thief--on the cross?” The dusky eyes were turned full on the fair, girlish face.

“Yes, dearest, of course.”

“And you will not forget--what I asked?”

“No--never.”

The dying woman’s glance strayed to her husband, who was standing at the other side of the bed, as if to include him in what she said. “I want you both to promise me that--you will tell everybody about--Paradise. Tell them to read about it in the--Book. Tell them to ask Him to--remember them--” She stopped and gasped for breath.

“Yes--yes, we will,” Isma assured her, quickly.

The dark eyes looked up with terrible intensity.

“Tell them it is awful to--to pass into--eternity unless He will--remember us.”

She looked at them imploringly till they had both made the promise; then her eyes closed wearily and she lay very still.

By one of the farthest windows stood Rita, looking out on the hot, glittering sea. There was a sullen despair in her coal-black eyes. She was left out again; no one took any notice of her; but then she was the nettle, and no one wanted a stinging nettle; it was left severely alone. An expression of morose hopelessness settled on her face.

Lady Berriedale turned to Captain Folkestone and her glance summoned him to her. When he was beside her she looked up at him with mute appeal; then her eyes dropped to the flaxen head pressed closely against her breast.

The soldier understood at once. “Yes, I will take care of her,” he said, as one making a solemn vow.

After a pause Beatrice looked up at her husband with a deep wistfulness in her glassy eyes and her lips moved as if she were trying to speak.

Isma rose and Lord Berriedale stooped over his wife, his face close to hers. At last she was able to formulate the words. “Neville--don’t grieve.” One of her thin hands sought his. “Wherever I go, I shall always--love you, and”--her lips twisted into a smile--“our--romance will come right--some day.”

A sob shook the man bending over her. “Beatrice--if only you could stay with me and it could come right--here!” and he kissed her as he had not kissed her for years.

For an instant a beautiful smile lighted up her face and her eyes looked happily into his. Then the smile faded and a peculiar, far-away expression took its place. It seemed as if her attention was being gradually withdrawn from her surroundings and gently fixed on something else. At the same time her face grew more waxy and the pinched look about her features increased.

Then under her rattling breath they heard her murmur the words:

“Lord, remember--me--now Thou art in--Thy kingdom--”

For a time there was no sound in the room but the tense breathing of people holding back tears.

Suddenly a marvelous change came over the dying woman. The lines, the sallowness, the pinchedness vanished from her face and in their place came a strange look of youth--not the youth of flesh and blood that fades and withers, but a spiritual youthfulness that suggested an eternal preservation. And with it came an abnormal strength; it seemed as if all weakness had dropped from her like a worn garment flung aside. She sat up in bed, her arms outstretched, her face illumined with a white, unearthly radiance. She did not appear to see the little group about her. She gazed beyond them, gazed with passionate intensity at something no one else could see.

“Paradise--Paradise!” she cried, her voice ringing through the room with triumphant clearness. “It is there--there!” Her eyes widened, dilated with rapturous awe, and once more her voice sounded through the breathless chamber.

“The portals are opening--opening! And--He _has_--remembered--me--”

The next instant the frail form fell back among the pillows--dead.

To the tear-blinded eyes watching it did not seem as if life had ebbed away; it rather appeared as if a new strength had vitalized the departed, giving her power to burst the casket which held her to earth and, leaving death in her wake, she had soared in sublime ecstasy through the portals that opened into--Paradise.

THE END

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.