You, not he, will be priest at the altar. Death will
come to him like a swift and easy sleep; but you will feel its hand upon
your heart and know its hate for many a day, and bear the slow pangs of
it until your life is all crushed, and you go from the world alone, Love
crying after you and not able to save you, not even the love of
woman--weaker than death. . . . And, in my grave, when that day comes
beside a great mountain in a strange land, I will weep and pray for you;
for I was mother to you too, when yours left you alone bewhiles, never,
in this world, to come back.'
"And, Marmion, that night towards morning, as I lay in the same room with
Edward, I heard his breath stop sharply. I jumped up and drew aside the
curtains to let in the light, and then I knew that the old woman spoke
true. . . . And now! . . . Well, I am like Hamlet--and I can say with
him: 'But thou wouldst not think how ill all's here about my heart--but
it is no matter!"' . . . .
I tried to laugh and talk away his brooding, but there was little use,
his convictions were so strong. Besides, what can you do with a
morbidness which has its origin in fateful circumstances?
I devoutly wished that a telegram would come from Winnipeg to let me know
if Boyd Madras, under his new name, could be found.
Pages:
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373