Merry Go Round (25 page)

'It's too late! She threw herself in front of the London express.'

She stepped forward impulsively, and then some strange power seemed to pluck her back. She threw up her hands, and gave a loud cry of horror.

'Be quiet, be quiet!' he cried angrily. Then words came to him, and he uttered his story rapidly, voluble and hysteric; he was all out of breath, and did not think of what he spoke. 'I went down to the cottage, and Bridger wasn't there. He was at the public-house, and I went on. A man met me, running, and said there'd been an accident on the railway; I knew what it was. I ran with him, and we came to them just when they were taking her along. Oh God, oh God! I saw her.'

'Oh, Paul, don't tell me! I can't bear it.'

'I shall never get it out of my eyes.'

'And the child?'

'The child's all right; she didn't take it.'

'Oh, what have we done, Paul – you and I?'

'It's my fault,' he cried – 'only mine!'

'Have you seen Bridger?'

'No; they went to tell him, and I couldn't bear it any more. Oh, I wish I could get it out of my eyes.'

He looked at his hands and shuddered; then he got up.

'I must go and see Bridger.'

'No, don't do that. Don't see him now when he's mad with drink and rage. Wait till tomorrow.'

'How are we going to spend the night, Grace? I feel I shall
never sleep again.'

Next day, when Mr Castillyon came downstairs, his wife saw that he had slept as badly as herself; for though dressed now very carefully in the rough tweeds of the country gentleman, his face was drawn and white, his eyes heavy with watching. He advanced to kiss her as usual, but on a sudden stopped, and a flush rapidly darkened his cheek; he drew back, and without a word sat down to breakfast. Neither could eat, and after a decent interval, meant to impress the servants that nothing very unusual had happened, Paul rose heavily to his feet.

'Where are you going?' she asked. 'You'd better not go to Bridger's; he's been drinking hard all night, and he might hurt you. You know he's violent-tempered.'

'D'you think I should care if he killed me?' he answered hoarsely, his face distorted by a look of dreadful pain.

'Oh, Paul, what have I done!' she cried, breaking down.

'Don't talk of that now.'

He moved towards the door, and she sprang up.

'If you are going to see Bridger, I must come, too. I'm so afraid.'

'Would you mind if anything happened to me?' he asked bitterly.

She looked at him with utter pain.

'Yes, Paul.'

He shrugged his massive shoulders, and together in silence they walked along the drive. The fine weather of the last three weeks was gone, and the day was chilly, and an east wind blew. A low white mist lay over the park, and the dripping trees were very cheerless. No sign of life was seen at Bridger's cottage, but the little garden, usually so trim and neat, was trampled and torn, as though many men had gone carelessly over the beds. Paul knocked at the door and waited, but no answer came; he lifted the latch, and followed by Grace, walked in. Bridger, seated at the table, was looking straight in front of him, stupefied still with grief and liquor. He gazed vacantly at the intruders, as though he recognized them not.

'Bridger, I've come to tell you how dreadfully sorry I am for the awful thing that has happened.'

The sound of the voice seemed to bring the man to his senses, for he gave a low cry and lurched forward.

'What d'you want? What 'ave you come here for? Couldn't
you leave me alone?' He stared at Paul, rage gradually taking possession of him. 'D'you still want me to go – me and the boys? Give us time, and we'll clear.'

'I hope you'll stay. I want to do everything I can to make up for your horrible loss. I can't tell you how deeply I blame myself. I would give anything that this dreadful thing hadn't occurred.'

'She killed 'erself so as I shouldn't be turned off. You're a hard master – you always was.'

'I'm very sorry. In future I will try to be gentler to you all. I thought I only did my duty.'

Mr Castillyon, that man so conscious of his dignity, had never before spoken to his inferiors in apologetic tones. Apt to take others to account, he had never dreamed that some day himself might need to make excuses.

'She was a good girl, after all,' said Bridger. 'In her heart she was as good as your wife, Squire.'

'Where's the child?' asked Grace, almost in a whisper.

He turned upon her savagely.

'D'you want that, too? Aren't you satisfied yet? Has the child got to go, too, before we stay?'

'No, no!' she cried hastily. 'You must keep the child, and we'll do all we can to help you.'

Paul looked at the man.

'Won't you shake hands with me, Bridger? I should like you to tell me you forgive me.'

Bridger drew back his hands and shook his head. Paul saw that no good could come of staying, and turned to the door. The gamekeeper's eye, following him, caught sight of his gun, which leaned against a chair; he stretched out his hand and took it. Grace gave a start, but managed to repress her cry of alarm.

'Squire!' he called.

'Well?'

Paul turned round, and when he saw that the man held that weapon in his hand he straightened himself; he looked at him steadily.

'Well, what do you want?'

Bridger stepped forward, and roughly gave the gun into his master's hand.

'Take it and keep it, Squire. I swore last night I'd blow your bloody brains out, and swing for it. I'm not fit to have this gun yet. Keep it, or if I get in drink I'll kill you.'

An indescribable look of pride came into Paul's face, and the humiliation and shame were banished. Grace's heart beat fast when she saw what he was about to do, and a sob broke from her. He gave back the gun.

'You'll need it for your work,' he said coldly. 'I don't think I'm afraid. I will take my chance of your wanting to shoot me.'

The man looked with wonder at his master, and then violently flung the gun into the corner of the room.

'By God!' he said.

Paul waited for one moment to see if Bridger had anything more to say, then gravely opened the door for his wife.

'Come, Grace.'

He walked with long steps back to the house, and for the first time in her life Grace admired her husband; she felt that, after all, he was not unworthy of his authority. She touched his arm.

'I'm glad you did that, Paul. I felt very proud.'

He removed his arm quickly, so that she shrank away.

'Did you think I was likely to be afraid of my gamekeeper?' he answered disdainfully.

'What are you going to do about me?' she asked.

'I don't know yet. I must think it over. All that you told me last night was true?'

'Quite true.'

'Why did you tell me?'

'It was the only way to save those people. If I'd had the courage to do it a couple of hours earlier, that poor girl wouldn't have killed herself.'

He said no more, and silently they reached the house.

For some days Paul made no reference to his wife's confession, but went about the work of his estate, his Parliamentary labours, with stolid method, and only Grace's new sympathy discerned the awful torment from which he suffered. He took care to speak naturally before the servants and his brother, but avoided to be alone with her. His back seemed strangely bent, and he walked with a listless torpor, as though his large limbs were grown suddenly too heavy to bear; his fleshy face was drawn and sallow, his eyelids puffy from want of sleep, and his eyes dim. At length Grace could stand her misery no longer; she went to the library, where she knew he was alone, and softly opened the door. He sat at the table with Blue-Books and paper spread in front of him, striving industriously to fit himself for the duties which he took so seriously; but he did not read: he rested his face on his hands, staring straight in front of him. He started when his wife entered, and looked at her with harassed eyes.

'I'm sorry to disturb you, Paul, but we can't go on much longer in this way. I want to know what you're going to do.'

'I don't know,' he said. 'I wish to do my duty.'

'I suppose you're going to divorce me.'

He gave a groan, and pushing back his chair, stood up.

'Oh, Grace, Grace, why did you do it? You know how I worshipped you; I would have given my life to save you a moment's uneasiness. I trusted you with all my soul.'

'Yes, I know all that. I've repeated it to myself a thousand times.'

He looked at her so helplessly that she could not restrain her pity.

'Would you like me to go away? Your mother can easily come down to you, and you can talk it over with her.'

'You know what she'd advise me to do,' he cried.

'Yes.'

'D'you
want
me to divorce you?'

She gave him a look of utter agony, but would not allow the gathering tears to fall from her eyes; with fierce self-reproach, she wished to excite in him no atom of commiseration. He glanced away, with a certain shame of his next question.

'D'you still care for – Reggie Bassett?'

'No,' she cried, exultantly; 'I loathe and detest and despise him. I know he's not worth a quarter of you.'

He threw up his hand helplessly.

'Oh God! I wish I knew what to do. At first I could have killed you, and now – I feel we can't go on as we are, ought to do something; I can't forget the whole thing. I ought to hate you, but I can't; notwithstanding everything, I love you still. If you go, I think I shall die.'

She looked at him thoughtfully, divining in some measure the emotions which tore him in sundry directions. It seemed due to his honour that he should divorce the errant wife, and yet he had not the heart to do it; anger and shame were banished by utter sorrow; and then, he could not bear the scandal and the public disgrace. Paul Castillyon was a man of old-fashioned ideas, and it seemed to him proper for a gentleman to keep his name out of the newspapers. Nor did he like the modern notion that the wronged husband cuts a somewhat heroic figure; he remembered vividly his disgust when a member of his club, divorcing his wife, had sought in the smoking-room to excite sympathy by narration of the lady's infidelities. He was proud of his name, and could not bear that it should be covered with ridicule; the very thought shamed him, so that he could scarcely face his wife.

'I leave myself entirely in your hands,' she said at length. 'I will do whatever you wish.'

'Can't you give me a little more time to think it over? I don't want to do anything hastily.'

'I think we'd better decide at once. It'll be much better for you to settle it; you're making yourself ill. I can't bear to see you so awfully unhappy.'

'Don't think about me; think about yourself. What will you do if –' He stopped, unable to continue.

'If you divorce me?'

'No, I can't do that,' he cried quickly. 'I dare say I'm a doting, weak fool, and you'll despise me even more than you do; but I can't lose you altogether. Oh, Grace, you don't want me to divorce you?'

She shook her head.

'It would be very generous if you could spare me that. Will you be satisfied if I go and live abroad? I promise that you'll have no cause to blame me again. We need tell people nothing; they'll think it's a sort of amicable separation.'

'I dare say that would be the best thing,' he said quietly.

'Then, good-bye.'

She stretched out her hand to him, and the tears in her eyes made everything dim about her. He took it silently.

'I want to tell you once more, Paul, how bitterly I regret all the unhappiness I've caused you. I was never a good wife to you. I hope with all my heart that you'll be happier now.'

'How can I be happy, Grace? You were all my happiness. I can't help it; all these days I've fought against it, I've done all I could, but still even now – now that I know you've never cared for me at all, and the rest – I love you with all my heart.'

The tears ran down her wasted, colourless cheeks, and for a while she could not speak. She withdrew her hand, and stood in front of him with head bent down.

'I don't ask you to believe me, Paul. I've lied to you and betrayed you, and you have the right to take my words as worthless. But I should like to tell you this before I go: I do love you now honestly. During these last months of wretchedness I've understood how kind and good you were, and I've been awfully touched by your great love for me; you made me utterly ashamed of myself. Oh, I've been worthless and selfish; I've sacrificed you blindly to all my whims, I've never tried to make you happy; but if I'm less of a cad than I was, it's because of you. And the other day, when you gave that man his gun, I was so proud of you, and I felt such a poor mean creature I could have fallen on my knees before you and kissed your hands.'

She took her handkerchief and dried her eyes; then, forcing a smile, for one moment she flashed at him a gay look such as she had been accustomed to give.

'Don't think too badly of me, will you?'

'Oh, Grace, Grace,' he cried, 'I can't bear it! Don't go. I want you so badly. Let us try again.'

The colour rushed to her face, and she went to him quickly.

'Paul, d'you think you ever can forgive me? I tell you I love you as I never loved you before.'

'Let us try.'

He opened his arms, and with a cry of joy she flung herself into them; she lifted her lips to him, and when he kissed her she pressed more closely to him.

'My darling husband,' she whispered.

'Oh, Grace, let us thank God for His mercy to us.'

T
HE
summer passed, and Miss Ley went her way as usual, going industriously, with the vivacity of a young girl, to the various entertainments offered by the season. She had a knack for extracting amusement from functions which others found entirely tedious, and with sprightly, good-natured malice related her adventures conscientiously to the faithful Frank.

He, of course, remained in London, but once a fortnight went to see Herbert Field at Tercanbury. His visits, though himself knew they were useless, were of singular consolation to the Deanery household; his kindly humour and his sympathy had so endeared him that all looked forward with the keenest pleasure to his arrival; and he had a way of arousing confidence so that even Bella felt nothing more could be done for her husband than Frank did. On reaching home from Paris, they had settled down very quietly, and though at first the Dean felt some uneasiness in Herbert's presence, this was soon replaced by a very touching affection; he learnt to admire the unflinching spirit with which the youth looked forward to inevitable death, the courage with which he bore pain. When the weather grew warmer, Herbert lay all day in the garden, rejoicing in the green leaves and the flowers and the singing of the birds; and forsaking his erudite studies, the Dean sat with him, talking of ancient authors or of the roses he loved so well. They played chess interminably, and Bella loved to watch them, the sun, broken into patches of green and yellow by the leaves, colouring them softly; it amused her to see the little smile of triumph with which her father looked up when he made a move to puzzle his opponent, and the boyish laugh of Herbert when he found a way out of the difficulty. They both seemed her children, and she could not tell which was dearer to her.

But cruelly the disease progressed, and at length Herbert
was confined to bed; a terrible haemorrhage exhausted him, so that Frank could not conceal from Bella his fear that at length the end was coming.

'For months he's been hanging on a thread, and the thread is breaking. I'm afraid you must prepare yourself for the worst.'

'D'you mean it can only be a question of weeks?' she asked with agony.

He hesitated for a while, but decided it was better to tell her the truth.

'I think it's only a question of days.'

She looked at him steadily, but her face by now was so trained to self-command that no expression of horror or of pain disturbed its steadfast gravity.

'Can nothing be done at all?' she asked.

'Nothing. I can be of no more use to you; but if it will comfort you at all, you'd better wire for me if he has another haemorrhage.'

'It will be the last?'

'Yes.'

When she went back to Herbert he smiled so brightly that it seemed impossible Frank's gloomy judgement could be true.

'Well, what does he say?'

'He says you keep your strength wonderfully,' she answered, smiling. 'I hope soon you'll be able to get up again.'

'I feel as well as possible. In another fortnight we can go to the seaside.'

Each knew that the other hid his real thought, but neither had the heart to put aside the false hopes with which they had so long tried to reassure themselves. Yet to Bella the strain was growing unendurable, and she besought Miss Ley to come and stay with them. Her father was grown so fond of Herbert that she dared not tell him the truth, and desired Miss Ley to distract his attention. She could not unaided continue much longer her own cheerfulness, and only the presence of someone else might make it possible to preserve a certain sober hilarity. Miss Ley consented, and forthwith arrived; but perceiving that it was her part to add some gaiety to that last act of life, she felt
it a little gruesome; it was as though she were invited to some grim festival to watch the poor boy die. However, with unusual energy she exerted herself to amuse the Dean, and having an idea that her powers of conversation were not altogether contemptible, took pains to be at her best; it did Herbert infinite good to hear her talk with the old man, bantering him gently, playing about his words with the agility of a light-winged butterfly, propounding hazardous theories which she defended with all possible ingenuity. The Dean took pleasure in the contest, and opposed her with all the resources of his learning and his common sense; with questions apparently guileless, he strove to lure her to self-contradiction, but when he managed this it profited him little, for she would extricate herself with a verbal quip, a prance, a flourish, and a caper; or else, since the only importance lay in the aesthetic value of a phrase, assert her utter indifference to the matter of the argument. To prove a commonplace, she would utter paradox after paradox – to make the fantastic obvious, would argue with the staid logic of Euclid.

'Man has four passions,' she said – 'love, power, food, and rhetoric; but rhetoric is the only one that is proof against satiety, ennui, and dyspepsia.'

A fortnight passed, and one morning Herbert Field, alone with Bella, had another attack of haemorrhage, so that for a while she thought him dying. He fainted from exhaustion, and in terror she sent for the local doctor. Presently he was brought round to consciousness, but it was obvious that the end had come; from this final attack he could never rally. Yet it seemed impossible that human skill should have no further power; surely there must be some last desperate remedy for which the moment was now at hand, and Bella asked Miss Ley whether Frank might be sent for.

'Anyhow, we shall never trouble him again,' she said.

'You don't know Frank,' answered Miss Ley. 'Of course he'll come at once.'

A telegram was despatched, and within four hours Frank arrived, only to see that Herbert's condition was hopeless. He hovered between life and death, kept alive by constant stimulants, and they could do nothing but sit and wait. When Bella repeated to her father, from whom so far as possible she had hidden her husband's desperate state, that the boy could scarcely outlast the night, he looked down for a moment, then turned to Frank.

'Is he strong enough for me to administer the Holy Sacrament?'

'Does he want it?'

'I think so. I have talked to him before, and he told me that he wished to take it before he died.'

'Very well.'

Bella went to prepare her husband, and the Dean assumed the garments of his office. Frank also went into the bedroom to be at hand if needed, and stood by the window apart from those three who performed the sacred mystery; it seemed to him as though the Dean were invested strangely with a greater, more benignant dignity. A certain majesty had descended upon the minister of God, and while he read the prayers a light shone on his face like that on the face of a pictured saint.

Verily, verily I say unto you, He that heareth My word, and believeth on Him that sent Me, hath everlasting life, and shall not come into condemnation; but is passed from death unto life.

Bella knelt at the bedside, and Herbert Field, emaciated and extraordinarily weak, his sombre eyes shining unnaturally from his white and wasted face, listened attentively. There was no fear now, but only resignation and hope; it could be seen that with all his heart he believed those promises of life everlasting and of pardon for sins past; and Frank, storm-tossed on the sea of doubt, envied that undisturbed assurance.

The Body of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was given for thee, preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life: Take and eat this in remembrance that Christ died for thee, and feed on Him in thy heart by faith with thanksgiving.

The dying man took the bread and wine which should mystically prepare the Christian soul for her journey to the life beyond, and they seemed to give a peace ineffable; the tortured
body was marvellously eased, and a new serenity descended upon the mind.

The Dean read the last solemn lines of the service, and rising from his knees, kissed the boy's forehead. Herbert was too weak to speak, but the faintest shadow of a smile crossed his lips. Presently he dozed quietly. It was late in the afternoon now, and Frank suggested that he should take the Dean into the fresh air.

'There is no immediate danger, is there?' asked the old man.

'I don't think so. He will probably live till the morning.'

They went out from the Deanery garden into the precincts. There was a large patch of green upon which the boys of Regis School played cricket at nets, but they were away for the holidays, and only the cawing rooks, flying heavily about the elm-trees, disturbed the stillness. On one side was the cathedral, adorably grey in the rosy light of evening, and the stately magnificence of the central tower rose towards heaven like a strong man's ideal turned to stone. All round were the houses of the Canons. The day had been hot and cloudless, but now a very light breeze fanned the cheeks of those two slowly sauntering. It was a spot which breathed a peace so exquisite that Frank wished dreamily his life had been cast in such pleasant ways. At intervals the cathedral bells rang out the quarters. Neither spoke, but they walked till the setting sun warned them that it grew late. When they returned to the house Miss Ley said that Herbert was awake, asking for the Dean; she proposed they should eat something, and then go to his room. He seemed slightly better, so that she asked Frank if any hope remained.

'None. It can only be a question of a few hours more or less.'

When they went into his bedroom, Herbert greeted them with a smile, for his mind at the end seemed to regain a greater lucidity. Bella turned to them.

'Father, Herbert would like you to read to him.'

'I was going to suggest it,' answered the Dean.

The night was fallen, and all the stars shone out with a vehement splendour; through the casements, wide open, entered the fresh odours of the garden, suave and unwearied. Frank sat in a window, his face in shadow, so that none could
see, and watched the lad lying so still that one might have thought him dead already. Then Bella so arranged the lamp that the Dean might be able to read; and when he sat down the light fell on his face wonderfully, and it seemed transparent as alabaster.

'What shall I read, Herbert?'

'I don't mind,' the boy whispered.

The Dean took the Bible which lay at his hand, and thoughtfully turned the pages; but a strange idea came to him, and he put it down. The perfume of the night, of the leaves and of the roses, the savour of the dew, filled that room with a subtle delicacy, as though some light spirit of a poet's fancy had taken possession of it; and by instinct he felt that the boy, who through life had loved so passionately the world's sensuous beauty, must desire other words than those of Hebrew prophets. His great love and sympathy lifted him from the common level of his calling to a plane of higher charity, and the knowledge came what reading would give Herbert the most delectable comfort; bending forward, he whispered to Bella, who gave a look of utter astonishment, but none the less rose to do his bidding. She brought him a small book bound in blue cloth, and slowly he began to read.

Courting Amaryllis with song I go, while my she-goats feed
on the hill, and Tityrus herds them. Ah, Tityrus, my dearly beloved, feed
thou the goats, and to the well-side lead them, Tityrus....

Miss Ley looked up with amazement, and even at that moment could not suppress an inward ironical laughter, for she recognized an iydll of Theocritus. Very gravely, dwelling on the pictures called up to his mind stored with classical learning, the good Dean read through the charming dialogue recounting preciously, with the elaborate simplicity of a decadent age, the amours of Sicilian shepherds. Herbert listened with quiet satisfaction, a happy smile set lightly on his pallid lips; and he too, his imagination curiously quickened by approaching death, saw the shady groves and babbling streams of Sicily, heard the piping of love-lorn goatherds, the coy responses of fair maids refusing the kisses so sweet to give only that surrender at length
might be the more complete. Even in the translation a breath of pure poetry was there, and the spirit was preserved of a life consciously free from the artifice of civilization, wherein sunshine and shade, spring and summer, the perfume of flowers, offered satisfying delights.

The Dean finished, and closed the book; and silence fell upon them all, and they sat through the night. The words whereto they had listened seemed to have left with them a singular tranquillity, so that all the stress and passion of the world were banished; and even to Bella, though her husband lay a-dying, there came a strange sense of gratitude for the fullness and the beauty of life. The hours passed marked by the deep-tongued chiming of the cathedral bells; every quarter they pealed their warning, ominous, yet not terrifying, and to all it seemed that the parting soul waited only for the day to take her flight.

The silence was extraordinary, more lovely than sweet music; it seemed a living thing that filled the chamber of death with peace unspeakable; and the night was dark, for the stars now were vanished before the full moon, but the goddess spared the room her frigid brilliancy, and left the garden tenebrous. No breath of wind touched the trees, and not a rustle of leaves disturbed the stilly calm; the muteness of the sleeping town seemed all about them, so profound that one felt some spirit had descended thereon, throwing over all things, to emphasize the wakefulness of those who watched, a shroud of death. Then a sound stole through the air, so gradual and delicate a sound that none could tell how it began; one might have thought it born miraculously of the very silence; it was a silvery, tenuous note that travelled through the stillness like light through air, and all at once, with a suddenness that startled, broke into passionate, vehement song. It was the nightingale. The placid night rang like a sounding-board, and each breath of air took up the tremulous magic; the bird sang in a hawthorn-tree below the window, and its rapture rang through the garden, rang into the large room to the ears of the dying youth. He started from his sleep, and it seemed as though he were called back from death. None stirred, all fascinated and imprisoned
by that miracle of song. Passion and anguish and exultation, rising and falling in perpetual harmony, sometimes the beauty was hardly sufferable (as though was reached at length the heart's limit of endurance) so that one could have cried out with the sorrow of it. The music was poured upon the listening air, – trembling and throbbing with pain; joyous, triumphant, and conscious of might; it hesitated like a lover who knows that his love is hopeless; it was like the voice of a dying child lamenting the loveliness it would never know; it was the mocking laughter of a courtesan for whose sake a man has died; it wept and prayed, and gloried in the joy of living; it was all sweetness and tenderness, offering pardon for sins past, and charity and peace and the rest that ever endures; it exulted in the sweet scents of the earth, the multicoloured flowers, the gentle airs, the dew, and the white beam of the moon. Inhuman, ecstatic, defiant, the nightingale warbled, drunk with the beauty that issued from his throat. To Herbert, curiously alert, all his senses gathered to one last effort of appreciation, it recalled the land which he had never seen: Hellas – Hellas with its olive-gardens and its purling streams, its grey rocks all rosy in the setting sun, and its sacred groves, its blithe airs and its sonorous speech. Passed through his mind Philomel chanting for ever her distress, and Pan the happy shepherd, and the fauns and the flying nymphs; all the lovely things whereof he had read and dreamed appeared before him in one last passionate vision of a glory that was long since set. At that moment he was happy to die, for the world had given him much, and he had been spared the disillusion of old age. But to Frank the nightingale sang of other things – of the birth which follows ever on the heel of death, of life ever new and desirable, of the wonder of the teeming earth and the endless cycle of events. Men came and went, and the world turned on; the individual was naught, but the race continued its blind journey toward the greater nothingness; the trees shed their leaves and the flowers drooped and withered, but the spring brought new buds; hopes were dead before the desired came about; love perished, the love that seemed immortal; one thing succeeded another restlessly, and the universe was ever fresh and wonderful.
He, too, was thankful for his life. And then, suddenly, in the very midst of his song, when he seemed to gather his heart for a final burst of infinite melody, the nightingale ceased, and through all the garden passed a shudder, as though the trees and the flowers and the taciturn birds of the day were distraught because they awoke suddenly to common life. For an instant the night quivered still with the memory of those heavenly notes, and then, more profoundly, the silence returned. Herbert gave a low sob, and Bella went to him quickly; she bent down to hear what he said.