suddenly came a running in the passage outside, a rap at the door and the nurse entered, scared, voluble in italian, but with gestures that translated her.
lady harman rose, realized the gravity and urgency of the moment and hurried with her along the passage. "est-il mauvais?" the poor lady attempted, "est-il——"
oh! what words are there for "taken worse"?
the woman attempted english and failed. she resorted to her native italian and exclaimed about the "povero signore." she conveyed a sense of pitiful extremities. could it be he was in pain again? what was it? what was it? ten minutes ago he had been so grimly angry.
at the door of the sick room the nurse laid a warning hand on the arm of lady harman and made an apprehensive gesture. they entered almost noiselessly.
the bavarian doctor turned his face from the bed at their entrance. he was bending over sir isaac. he held up one hand as if to arrest them; his other was engaged with his patient. "no," he said. his attention went back to the sick man, and he remained very still in that position, leaving lady harman to note for the first time how broad and flat he was both between his shoulders and between his ears. then his face came round slowly, he relinquished something heavy, stood up, held up a hand. "zu spät," he whispered, as though he too was surprised. he sought in his mind for english and then found his phrase: "he has gone!"
"gone?"
"in one instant."
"dead?"
"so. in one instant."
on the bed lay sir isaac. his hand was thrust out as though he grasped at some invisible thing. his open eyes stared hard at his wife, and as she met his eyes he snored noisily in his nose and throat.
she looked from the doctor to the nurse. it seemed to her that both these people must be mad. never had she seen anything less like death. "but he's not dead!" she protested, still standing in the middle of the room.
"it iss chust the air in his throat," the doctor said. "he went—so! in one instant as i was helping him."
he waited to see some symptom of feminine weakness. there was a quality in his bearing—as though this event did him credit.
"but—isaac!"
it was astounding. the noise in his throat ceased. but he still stared at her. and then the nurse made a kind of assault upon lady harman, caught her—even if she didn't fall. it was no doubt the proper formula to collapse. or to fling oneself upon the deceased. lady harman resisted this assistance, disentangled herself and remained amazed; the nurse a little disconcerted but still ready behind her.
"but," said lady harman slowly, not advancing and pointing incredulously at the unwinking stare that met her own, "is he dead? is he really dead? like that?"
the doctor's gesture to the nurse betrayed his sense of the fine quick scene this want of confidence had ruined. under no circumstances in life did english people really seem to know how to behave or what was expected of them. he answered with something bordering upon irony. "madam," he said, with a slight bow, "he is really det."
"but—like that!" cried lady harman.
"like that," repeated the doctor.
she went three steps nearer and stopped, open-eyed, wonder-struck, her lips compressed.
12
for a time astonishment overwhelmed her mind. she did not think of sir isaac, she did not think of herself, her whole being was filled by this marvel of death and cessation. like that!
death!
never before had she seen it. she had expected an extreme dignity, an almost ceremonial sinking back, a slow ebbing, but this was like a shot from a bow. it stunned her. and for some time she remained stunned, while the doctor and her secretary and the hotel people did all that they deemed seemly on this great occasion. she let them send her into another room; she watched with detached indifference a post-mortem consultation in whispers with a doctor from rapallo. then came a great closing of shutters. the nurse and her maid hovered about her, ready to assist her when the sorrowing began. but she had no sorrow. the long moments lengthened out, and he was still dead and she was still only amazement. it seemed part of the extraordinary, the perennial surprisingness of sir isaac that he should end in this way. dead! she didn't feel for some hours that he had in any way ended. he had died with such emphasis that she felt now that he was capable of anything. what mightn't he do next? when she heard movements in the chamber of death it seemed to her that of all the people there, most probably it was he who made them. she would not have been amazed if he had suddenly appeared in the doorway of her room, anger-white and his hand quiveringly extended, spluttering some complaint.
he might have cried: "here i am dead! and it's you, damn you—it's you!"
it was after distinct efforts, after repeated visits to the room in which he lay, that she began to realize that death was death, that death goes on, that there was no more any sir isaac, but only a still body he had left behind, that was being moulded now into a stiff image of peace.
then for a time she roused herself to some control of their proceedings. the doctor came to lady harman to ask her about the meals for the day, the hotel manager was in entanglements of tactful consideration, and then the nurse came for instructions upon some trivial matter. they had done what usage prescribes and now, in the absence of other direction, they appealed to her wishes. she remarked that everyone was going on tiptoe and speaking in undertones....
she realized duties. what does one have to do when one's husband is dead? people would have to be told. she would begin by sending off telegrams to various people, to his mother, to her own, to his lawyer. she remembered she had already written a telegram—that very morning to crappen. should she still let the lawyer come out? he was her lawyer now. perhaps he had better come, but instead of that telegram, which still lay upon the desk, she would wire the news of the death to him....
does one send to the papers? how does one send to the papers?
she took miss summersly satchell who was hovering outside in the sunshine on the balcony, into her room, and sat pale and businesslike and very careful about details, while miss summersly satchell offered practical advice and took notes and wrote telegrams and letters....
there came a hush over everything as the day crept towards noon, and the widowed woman sat in her own room with an inactive mind, watching thin bars of sunlight burn their slow way across the floor. he was dead. it was going on now more steadfastly than ever. he was keeping dead. he was dead at last for good and her married life was over, that life that had always seemed the only possible life, and this stunning incident, this thing that was like the blinding of eyes or the bursting of eardrums, was to be the beginning of strange new experiences.
she was afraid at first at their possible strangeness. and then, you know, in spite of a weak protesting compunction she began to feel glad....
she would not admit to herself that she was glad, that she was anything but a woman stunned, she maintained her still despondent attitude as long as she could, but gladness broke upon her soul as the day breaks, and a sense of release swam up to the horizons of her mind and rose upon her, flooding every ripple of her being, as the sun rises over water in a clear sky. presently she could sit there no longer, she had to stand up. she walked to the closed venetians to look out upon the world and checked herself upon the very verge of flinging them open. he was dead and it was all over for ever. of course!—it was all over! her marriage was finished and done. miss satchell came to summon her to lunch. throughout that meal lady harman maintained a sombre bearing, and listened with attention to the young doctor's comments on the manner of sir isaac's going. and then,—it was impossible to go back to her room.
"my head aches," she said, "i must go down and sit by the sea," and her maid, a little shocked, brought her not only her sunshade, but needless wraps—as though a new-made widow must necessarily be very sensitive to the air. she would not let her maid come with her, she went down to the beach alone. she sat on some rocks near the very edge of the transparent water and fought her gladness for a time and presently yielded to it. he was dead. one thought filled her mind, for a while so filled her mind, that no other thought it seemed could follow it, it had an effect of being final; it so filled her mind that it filled the whole world; the broad sapphire distances of the sea, the lapping waves amidst the rocks at her feet, the blazing sun, the dark headland of porto fino and a small sailing boat that hung beyond came all within it like things enclosed within a golden globe. she forgot all the days of nursing and discomfort and pity behind her, all the duties and ceremonies before her, forgot all the details and circumstances of life in this one luminous realization. she was free at last. she was a free woman.
never more would he make a sound or lift a finger against her life, never more would he contradict her or flout her; never more would he come peeping through that papered panel between his room and hers, never more could hateful and humiliating demands be made upon her as his right; no more strange distresses of the body nor raw discomfort of the nerves could trouble her—for ever. and no more detectives, no more suspicions, no more accusations. that last blow he had meant to aim was frozen before it could strike her. and she would have the hostels in her hands, secure and undisputed, she could deal as she liked with mrs. pembrose, take such advisers as she pleased.... she was free.
she found herself planning the regeneration of those difficult and disputed hostels, plans that were all coloured by the sun and sky of italy. the manacles had gone; her hands were free. she would make this her supreme occupation. she had learnt her lesson now she felt, she knew something of the mingling of control and affectionate regard that was needed to weld the warring uneasy units of her new community. and she could do it, now as she was and unencumbered, she knew this power was in her. when everything seemed lost to her, suddenly it was all back in her hands....
she discovered the golden serenity of her mind with a sudden astonishment and horror. she was amazed and shocked that she should be glad. she struggled against it and sought to subdue her spirit to a becoming grief. one should be sorrowful at death in any case, one should be grieved. she tried to think of sir isaac with affection, to recall touching generosities, to remember kind things and tender and sweet things and she could not do so. nothing would come back but the white intensities of his face, nothing but his hatred, his suspicion and his pitiless mean mastery. from which she was freed.
she could not feel sorry. she did her utmost to feel sorry; presently when she went back into the dépendance, she had to check her feet to a regretful pace; she dreaded the eyes of the hotel visitors she passed in the garden lest they should detect the liberation of her soul. but the hotel visitors being english were for the most part too preoccupied with manifestations of a sympathy that should be at once heart-felt and quite unobtrusive and altogether in the best possible taste, to have any attention free for the soul of lady harman.
the sense of her freedom came and went like the sunlight of a day in spring, though she attempted her utmost to remain overcast. after dinner that night she was invaded by a vision of the great open years before her, at first hopeful but growing at last to fear and a wild restlessness, so that in defiance of possible hotel opinion, she wandered out into the moonlight and remained for a long time standing by the boat landing, dreaming, recovering, drinking in the white serenities of sea and sky. there was no hurry now. she might stay there as long as she chose. she need account for herself to no one; she was free. she might go where she pleased, do what she pleased, there was no urgency any more....
there was mr. brumley. mr. brumley made a very little figure at first in the great prospect before her.... then he grew larger in her thoughts. she recalled his devotions, his services, his self-control. it was good to have one understanding friend in this great limitless world....
she would have to keep that friendship....
but the glorious thing was freedom, to live untrammelled....
through the stillness a little breeze came stirring, and she awoke out of her dream and turned and faced the shuttered dépendance. a solitary dim light was showing on the verandah. all the rest of the building was a shapeless mass of grey. the long pale front of the hotel seen through a grove of orange trees was lit now at every other window with people going to bed. beyond, a black hillside clambered up to the edge of the sky.
far away out of the darknesses a man with a clear strong voice was singing to a tinkling accompaniment.
in the black orange trees swam and drifted a score of fireflies, and there was a distant clamour of nightingales when presently the unseen voice had done.
13
when she was in her room again she began to think of sir isaac and more particularly of that last fixed stare of his....
she was impelled to go and see him, to see for herself that he was peaceful and no longer a figure of astonishment. she went slowly along the corridor and very softly into his room—it remained, she felt, his room. they had put candles about him, and the outline of his face, showing dimly through the linen that veiled it, was like the face of one who sleeps very peacefully. very gently she uncovered it.
he was not simply still, he was immensely still. he was more still and white than the moonlight outside, remoter than moon or stars.... she stood surveying him.
he looked small and pinched and as though he had been very tired. life was over for him, altogether over. never had she seen anything that seemed so finished. once, when she was a girl she had thought that death might be but the opening of a door upon a more generous feast of living than this cramped world could give, but now she knew, she saw, that death can be death.
life was over. she felt she had never before realized the meaning of death. that beautiful night outside, and all the beautiful nights and days that were still to come and all the sweet and wonderful things of god's world could be nothing to him now for ever. there was no dream in him that could ever live again, there was no desire, no hope in him.
and had he ever had his desire or his hope, or felt the intensities of life?
there was this beauty she had been discovering in the last few years, this mystery of love,—all that had been hidden from him.
she began to realize something sorrowful and pitiful in his quality, in his hardness, his narrowness, his bickering suspicions, his malignant refusals of all things generous and beautiful. he made her feel, as sometimes the children made her feel, the infinite pity of perversity and resistance to the bounties and kindliness of life.
the shadow of sorrow for him came to her at last.
yet how obstinate he looked, the little frozen white thing that had been sir isaac harman! and satisfied, wilfully satisfied; his lips were compressed and his mouth a little drawn in at the corners as if he would not betray any other feeling than content with the bargain he had made with life. she did not touch him; not for the world would she ever touch that cold waxen thing that had so lately clasped her life, but she stood for a long time by the side of his quiet, immersed in the wonder of death....
he had been such a hard little man, such a pursuing little man, so unreasonable and difficult a master, and now—he was such a poor shrunken little man for all his obstinacy! she had never realized before that he was pitiful.... had she perhaps feared him too much, disliked him too much to deal fairly with him? could she have helped him? was there anything she could have done that she had not done? might she not at least have saved him his suspicion? behind his rages, perhaps he had been wretched.
could anyone else have helped him? if perhaps someone had loved him more than she had ever pretended to do——
how strange that she should be so intimately in this room—and still so alien. so alien that she could feel nothing but detached wonder at his infinite loss.... alien,—that was what she had always been, a captured alien in this man's household,—a girl he had taken. had he ever suspected how alien? the true mourner, poor woman! was even now, in charge of cook's couriers and interpreters, coming by express from london, to see with her own eyes this last still phase of the son she had borne into the world and watched and sought to serve. she was his nearest; she indeed was the only near thing there had ever been in his life. once at least he must have loved her? and even she had not been very near. no one had ever been very near his calculating suspicious heart. had he ever said or thought any really sweet or tender thing—even about her? he had been generous to her in money matters, of course,—but out of a vast abundance....
how good it was to have a friend! how good it was to have even one single friend!...
at the thought of his mother lady harman's mind began to drift slowly from this stiff culmination of life before her. presently she replaced the white cloth upon his face and turned slowly away. her imagination had taken up the question of how that poor old lady was to be met, how she was to be consoled, what was to be said to her....
she began to plan arrangements. the room ought to be filled with flowers; mrs. harman would expect flowers, large heavy white flowers in great abundance. that would have to be seen to soon. one might get them in rapallo. and afterwards,—they would have to take him to england, and have a fine great funeral, with every black circumstance his wealth and his position demanded. mrs. harman would need that, and so it must be done. cabinet ministers must follow him, members of parliament, all blenkerdom feeling self-consciously and, as far as possible, deeply, the chartersons by way of friends, unfamiliar blood relations, a vast retinue of employees....
how could one take him? would he have to be embalmed? embalming!—what a strange complement of death. she averted herself a little more from the quiet figure on the bed, and could not turn to it again. they might come here and do all sorts of things to it, mysterious, evil-seeming things with knives and drugs....
she must not think of that. she must learn exactly what mrs. harman thought and desired. her own apathy with regard to her husband had given way completely now to a desire to anticipate and meet mrs. harman's every conceivable wish.
