Part 41 (2/2)
”It is over, dearest,” I said. ”It is gone for ever. Nothing remains but the memory of your sorrow and your n.o.ble courage and patience.”
”I can't realise it yet,” she murmured. ”It has been like a frightful, interminable dream.”
”Let us put it away,” said I, ”and think only of the happy life that is opening.”
She made no reply, and only a quick catch in her breath, now and again, told of the long agony that she had endured with such heroic calm.
We walked on slowly, scarcely disturbing the silence with our soft foot-falls, through the wide doorway into the second room. The vague shapes of the mummy-cases standing erect in the wall-cases, loomed out dim and gigantic, silent watchers keeping their vigil with the memories of untold centuries locked in their shadowy b.r.e.a.s.t.s. They were an awesome company. Reverend survivors from a vanished world, they looked out from the gloom of their abiding-place, but with no shade of menace or of malice in their silent presence; rather with a solemn benison on the fleeting creatures of to-day.
Half-way along the room a ghostly figure, somewhat aloof from its companions, showed a dim, pallid blotch where its face would have been.
With one accord we halted before it.
”Do you know who it is, Ruth?” I asked.
”Of course I do,” she answered. ”It is Artemidorus.”
We stood, hand in hand, facing the mummy, letting our memories fill in the vague silhouette with its well-remembered details. Presently I drew her nearer to me and whispered:
”Ruth! do you remember when we last stood here?”
”As if I could ever forget!” she answered pa.s.sionately. ”Oh, Paul! The sorrow of it! The misery! How it wrung my heart to tell you! Were you _very_ unhappy when I left you?”
”Unhappy! I never knew, until then, what real, heart-breaking sorrow was. It seemed as if the light had gone out of my life for ever. But there was just one little spot of brightness left.”
”What was that?”
”You made me a promise, dear--a solemn promise; and I felt--at least I hoped--that the day would come, if I only waited patiently, when you would be able to redeem it.”
She crept closer to me and yet closer, until her head nestled on my shoulder and her soft cheek lay against mine.
”Dear heart,” I whispered, ”is it now? Is the time fulfilled?”
”Yes, dearest,” she murmured softly. ”It is now--and for ever.”
Reverently I folded her in my arms; gathered her to the heart that wors.h.i.+pped her utterly. Henceforth no sorrows could hurt us, no misfortunes vex; for we should walk hand in hand on our earthly pilgrimage and find the way all too short.
Time, whose sands run out with such unequal swiftness for the just and the unjust, the happy and the wretched, lagged, no doubt, with the toilers in the room that we had left. But for us its golden grains trickled out apace and left the gla.s.s empty before we had begun to mark their pa.s.sage. The turning of a key and the opening of a door aroused us from our dream of perfect happiness. Ruth raised her head to listen, and our lips met for one brief moment. Then, with a silent greeting to the friend who had looked on our grief and witnessed our final happiness, we turned and retraced our steps quickly, filling the great, empty rooms with chattering echoes.
”We won't go back into the dark-room--which isn't dark now,” said Ruth.
”Why not?” I asked.
”Because--when I came out I was very pale; and I'm--well, I don't think I am very pale now. Besides, poor Uncle John is in there--and--I should be ashamed to look at him with my selfish heart overflowing with happiness.”
”You needn't be,” said I. ”It is the day of our lives and we have a right to be happy. But you shan't go in, if you don't wish to,” and I accordingly steered her adroitly past the beam of light that streamed from the open door.
”We have developed four negatives,” said Thornd.y.k.e, as he emerged with the others, ”and I am leaving them in the custody of Doctor Norbury, who will sign each when they are dry, as they may have to be put in evidence. What are you going to do?”
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