So did Marigold pass through the second fire, and came out partly purified.
Timothy lingered a few weeks in bed, suffering now more from actual weakness than pain, and every day for hours the doctor would come and sit with him.
During this time Marigold would sit silently sewing at the foot of the bed, ready to smile if ever Patches looked at her--content to be ignored by the doctor, whom she felt came purposely for so long a period, so that she might slip further back in the child’s memory. It was a bitter thought to Marigold, yet she stifled it bravely. What a tale of silence those neat little stitches might have told!
“I think, Princess,” said Alice one morning, “you ought to take a holiday to-day. You look simply worn out. We’ll have you ill next. Suppose you take a holiday to-day, and I’ll go in to Patches; he’ll take on properly if you’re laid up through him.”
“I don’t think perhaps he’d care, Alice. He has taken so little notice of any one these last few days--except--except the doctor. But I cannot stay away; it can’t be much longer now. And I don’t know what I’ll do when he has gone. I’ve got so used to him, I love him so.”
And so saying, she got up and went into the next cottage, for Patches had got past breakfasts now, and the nurse had had hers long since. She went upstairs with a curious tight feeling in her heart and throat, the little cottage seemed somehow so empty and forsaken and quiet, and even Patches’ breathing that met her on the stairs seemed different this morning.
But when Marigold came to the door of the bedroom, she understood where the difference was. The little child was lying on his back, propped up with a pillow, and on his face were the unmistakable signs of fast-approaching death. The nurse was sitting watching him, and, as Marigold entered, she rose from her chair and came toward her softly.
“I’m afraid he won’t last much longer--only an hour or two at most. He took this turn just after twelve last night.”
“Why--why didn’t you come for me?”
“The Master’s orders. No one was to be disturbed at night.”
“And his mother--is she here?”
“No--another order. She was not to be kept from her work on any account. I thought she would have wished to stay, but she did not seem to notice that the child was worse.”
“Have you not been nervous all alone?”
“No. I’m used to it. Would you care for me to stay with you?”
“Yes, I should like you to. I don’t understand much about it. I think it would be best for us both to stay--I--I----”
She did not finish, but moved over to the bedside.
Patches’ half-closed eyes opened for the second, and he smiled--that smile that almost breaks the heart of the hungering watcher--and he moved his arm feebly along the folded sheet for her to take his hand. She took the hand and kissed it, then held it in her own, and her heart seemed bound in by a strong band of iron that prevented her moving or crying at all.
Thus for a long time they sat in silence, the nurse back in her accustomed seat, only the quick, troubled breathing, with its occasional pause and jerking, sounding through the little house.
Then the door downstairs opened, a step on the staircase, the nurse rose again, Marigold sat still, her back to the bedroom door, and with the doctor’s entry the tension seemed broken--perhaps because he spoke naturally enough, not in a whisper.
“You here still, Nurse? I thought you went off duty at nine o’clock.”
“He is so much worse I thought I had better stay till the end.”
“You will not be needed--or, if so, I’ll send on for you. Good-morning!”
She took up her belongings, and quietly retired.
Patches still lay with his eyes closed, Marigold sitting by him.
The doctor knelt down by the bedside, and she half-turned her head to look at him--jealously, yet with admiration.
For what a contrast there was in these two figures before her! One, broad-shouldered, tall, the very embodiment of life and strength and intellect; the other, tiny and feeble, past thought, past all exertion--only a few little sparks of love left in his tiny frame.
The doctor took his other hand and bent over him carefully, so as not to exclude what air there was in the room.
“Timothy,” he said very clearly, and a little louder than he generally spoke, “I’ve come for you--to take you. Won’t you give me both your hands?”
Again the feeble smile and the half-opening of his eyes, and then he raised his hand with Marigold’s, and drew it across.
Her heart beat with a certain triumphant pleasure, for his fingers had tightened over hers, almost miraculously, considering his weak state.
And the doctor took the two clasped hands, and he smiled, and very gently, very firmly, unclasped them from each other. It was the first time that her hand had come in contact with his, and in the thrill, as he took her hand in both of his, Marigold forgot the harsh presence of Death, and scarcely understood what he was doing, till her hand fell almost heavily upon the bed, and the little hand she coveted was lost within another’s.
The chamber of death is rightly judged the place for one emotion only. A hundred surged through her, pricked into life by the touch of the strong, gentle hand, and the subsequent heartlessness. Yet she sat still, her big eyes fixed on the dying face, her cheeks white as the pillow that encircled it.
“You may go,” said the doctor to her firmly, yet in a lower voice again. “You will not be needed. When I leave I will knock for you.”
But Marigold’s face had set hard and white.
“I won’t go,” she said. “I promised him once I’d stay till the end, and I will stay.”
“You are a nuisance,” he answered, evenly as before--no trace of passion in his voice.
“So are you,” and all the world of subdued passion was in hers, and with big, gleaming eyes she looked across at him.
Then, for the first time since she had known him, a change came into the doctor’s eyes as he knelt there looking at her. It was that dangerous light that brought no fear to Marigold, only a throbbing pleasure, seeing that she loved him.
And then the room went very, very still, and they both of them looked back at Timothy.
Yet there was more than the presence of Death in the room now--the presence of Love.
Marigold felt it hovering round the little child, sinking so peacefully--felt it round herself, the room full of it, and Death being vanquished. She forgot she did not hold the other hand, content to clasp her own trembling fingers each within each, and wait.
Very slowly and gradually, without hurry or haste of any kind, his breathing weakened. And then at last a little smile lit up the wan face, and he turned, with the last faint yearning of a child’s love, towards the Master.
“I’m sleepy!” From his look and attitude it was as if he asked to be taken once more in the strong arms that had so often cradled him. And very tenderly, for the last time on Lucifram, the Master drew him to him--the little head against his breast, sheltered from death and every other evil.
And so the dreamy shadows of silence crept over the fragile body--a smile of childish peace and contentment on the tender mouth. Some time passed so--Marigold watching; her whole soul in her eyes, having no thought for anything but them.
What was she expecting? She scarcely knew, but her clasped hands rested on the bed, as she leant forward, eagerly waiting. The dark head was bent over the child’s, so that she could only see one face.
Then suddenly the little face fell back slightly from the doctor’s shoulder, and, with a feeling of surprise and shock and utter pain, she realised that he was dead.
But very gently the doctor laid him back upon the bed, drawing the sheet; and then he rose to his feet, Marigold watching him.
Every emotion of love and tenderness and triumph was on his face--yet not for her, he had forgotten her--it was for Timothy.
And suddenly it was all more than she could bear, and from understanding nothing a quickened instinct taught her everything.
“I want him! I want him! He is my little baby! Take me too!”
Her own voice sounded scarcely more than that of a child, though all the abandonment of long pent-up nature rang in it--yet so pure and sweet.
And now again, for the second time that morning, the Master became aware of her presence there. Again, her eyes riveted on his, she saw the stronger light of passion rising up in them, and almost as Timothy had done, she smiled.
Then, as if she had been no heavier than a little child, he lifted her from her kneeling-place upon the bed, and all the happiness in Marigold’s nature burst out in a sweet and merry, yet half-trembling laugh--for she did not care in this moment of abandonment whether he crushed every bone in her body, or smothered her with kisses, or anything, so long as he held her close up to him in this first paroxysm of love.
How long passed thus she never knew, till suddenly she felt the strong arms slacken as by some electric chilling shock.
She knew instinctively (though how she knew--perhaps there had been some rays of triumph mixed with Marigold’s laugh) that his head had turned in the direction of the picture, but even she was not prepared for the reaction.
For the scorn and anger in his eyes were terrible, as for the moment he held her roughly at arm’s length, looking at her--scorn and anger and hatred, that sent all Marigold’s blood chilled to her heart.
And then, with a savage sound of fury, he caught hold of her white throat (the throat he had so lately kissed) with his strong fingers, and flung her from him, dashing against the wall and ground--no more.
For now Silence reigned--Silence and Death--over two lifeless forms--one on the bed, face upwards; one in a huddled heap, face down, upon the floor.
