Lindy held them, her own body rocking
with grief, her lips murmuring endearments, prayers, supplications.
"Miss Sally, honey, doan you know Lindy? Gawd'll let you git well, Miss
Sally, Gawd'll let you git well, honey, ter see Marse Nick--ter
see--Marse--Nick--"
The words died on Lindy's lips, the ravings of the frenzied woman ceased.
The yellowed hands fell limply to the sheet, the shrunken form stiffened.
The eyes of the mother looked upon the son, and in them at first was the
terror of one who sees the infinite. Then they softened until they
became again the only feature that was left of Sarah Temple. Now, as she
looked at him who was her pride, her honor, for one sight of whom she had
prayed,--ay, and even blasphemed,--her eyes were all tenderness. Then
she spoke.
"Harry," she said softly, "be good to me, dear. You are all I have now."
She spoke of Harry Riddle!
But the long years of penance had not been in vain. Nick had forgiven
her. We saw him kneeling at the bedside, we saw him with her hand in
his, and Helene was drawing me gently out of the room and closing the
door behind her. She did not look at me, nor I at her.
We stood for a moment close together, and suddenly the cries in the
street brought us back from the drama in the low-ceiled, reeking room we
had left.
"Ici! Ici! Voici le cheval!"
There was a loud rapping at the outer door, and a voice demanding
admittance in Spanish in the name of his Excellency the Governor.
Pages:
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754