XIII
Franz knew that Margaret must die.
She weakened visibly with the moments that had the single mission—to kill.
He knew but too well what passed before him in his darkened world. He knew that since his blindness, she had sunk through stupor to stupor, each to drag her farther and farther from him.
There were intervals—seconds that might have been ages, when she would sit erect and call his name, but there were no conscious periods.
She was sinking by slow degrees, and the blind man held a dark vigil.
In the still room the other watchers came and went noiselessly, with the question continually on their lips: “Is she better?”
During those long days, when it was neither life nor death, Philip came frequently to make his inquiries, to be confronted by the vision of Mrs. Perkins' tear-stained countenance or, what was worse—to encounter Perkins.
He would wander in their company aimlessly from room to room, or with them listen at her door, seeing in his fancy Franz sitting, a blind sentinel, counting the minutes that stole up out of the lap of time to bear her away.
It was the evening of the fourth day. The doctor had just left the sick chamber to be met at the foot of the stairs by the three anxious friends.
“What are the chances?” Philip asked.
He shook his head. Then addressing Philip: “It may be well for you to stay here to-night. She is failing rapidly.”
Philip looked at him stupidly.
Perkins seized the doctor by the shoulder almost savagely: “Why don't you save her?” he demanded. “Why don't you?”
“I am doing all I can. The cure should have commenced weeks ago. I said then what should be done.”
He pushed past them, glad of the opportunity to escape that their momentary panic afforded; but Philip followed him from the house, and as the doctor turned—a lighted match between his fingers, for he was arranging to make his walk home comfortable with a cigar, Philip said, “Do you mean she will die? Is there no hope?”
“None whatever.”
“How soon will it be?” Philip questioned with a stolid curiosity which was a source of astonishment to himself.
“In an hour or so, I think.”
Philip twice essayed to speak and failed. The doctor puffed reflectively at his cigar. He added: “She was never strong, and the shock of Becker's blindness will prove too much for her. She was in no condition to meet it.”
Philip mopped his brow. It was damp and clammy. Of a sudden he dripped at every pore. “What do you mean to do?” he asked.
“I'll drop in later. I would remain if it wasn't for an old party up on the edge of town who can't last. His folks have sent for me a dozen times to-day. He insists he won't die unless I come to help him off, and I guess the family's afraid he will stick to his word.” And the man of pills laughed softly at his modest little joke. “I am of no use here. All has been done that can be—only keep an eye on Becker. He doesn't take it right. He is too undemonstrative. Good night.”
And he strode up the street, leaving an odor of tobacco smoke in his wake.
Philip went into the house, shutting the door quietly behind him. It was all like a hideous nightmare, and he felt himself as unreal as all the rest. He found Perkins seated on the lowest step of the stairs. His face was buried in his hands.
“What else did he say?” Perkins asked, shifting his position, and looking up.
“It was merely a repetition of his former statement.”
“I wish it were I!” Perkins blurted out. “I wish it were! Why can't we do something for her—for him! You love her, too, don't you?”
“Yes, I love her; maybe not with your unselfish devotion, but I have your desire to be of service.”
Perkins shook his head. “It's all up,” he sobbed. “Think of it—Margaret dying!”
Philip regarded his friend pityingly, and took to pacing back and forth in front of him.
Imperceptibly he moderated his step until he no more than tiptoed up and down the hall.
Perkins, worn and wretched with four nights of sleeplessness, slumbered against the newel post, his hands idly folded in his lap, his hair roughened and disordered, his dress creased and crumpled, his whole attitude one of utter dejection.
The solitary gas-jet in the center of the hall burned feebly.
The light, stealing through the colored globe, imparted to Perkins' features a semblance of shrunken ghastliness. More than once Philip had a compelling impulse to turn it up, and had stepped to the chandelier to do so only to be resisted by an invisible force that possessed him, a chilling apathy that revolted at any change.
The least noise had a powerful fascination for him. The ticking of a clock—and numberless clocks appeared to be ticking with jarring clangor, some close by, some far off in the distance—or the footfall of an occasional belated wayfarer on the street without, would cause him to pause and listen breathlessly with a vague unexplainable fear. His sensations were so distressing that for the sake of personal contact he wedged in at Perkins' elbow on the steps. In spite of his care he aroused his companion, who stirred fretfully to ask sleepily: “What is it? Do they want me?”
“I wished to sit down. I didn't intend to disturb you.”
“Oh! that's all right.” And almost immediately Perkins was dozing as before.
In the room above, the watcher and watched kept their place.
Franz clasped her hands fast in both of his, as though through sheer physical strength he would keep her with him. As yet she had indicated by no sign that she understood what was going on about her. It was always the same tired tossing, but with greater weakness there slowly succeeded greater calm.
With a fixed rapt look Franz's gaze sought her face and never wavered; it preserved its direction as steadily from beneath his broad straight brows as though he really saw.
She turned restlessly for the thousandth time, and as he had a thousand times already, he whispered softly, “Margaret.”
Hitherto his words had fallen on deaf ears, now the head moved upon the pillow—the sweet wan face was raised to his.
“Margaret,” he said, “Margaret, do you hear me? My little wife! My little wife!” As he spoke her eyes opened.
The room was unlighted save for the night-lamp burning on the table, and peering at her in the gloom with those sunken sightless eyes of his, was her husband.
She remembered all. “Franz! Franz!” she cried, in a voice so faint as scarcely to be audible. “It was not a dream? I meant you should have so much,—say you forgive me!”
“You must not grieve, dear,” he said tenderly. “You must not think of me now.”
“It was all so beautiful until he came,” she said dreamily; “I have been so happy with you, dear, so happy.”
There was infinite regret and infinite tenderness in her all but inarticulate speech.
They were silent for a while, then Margaret said: “It is good-by we are saying, Franz. Who would imagine there would be so little to say?”
Franz bent over her, desolation in his soul.
“What was that?” she asked, her voice fainter than before.
“I thought it very quiet, dear,” he answered. “Perhaps it is the wind.”
“How many days ago was it?” she questioned.
“You mean when you were taken ill, dear? It was four days ago.”
“So many days ago as that? Where are the others?”
“They are here. My mother, Mrs. Perkins, Ballard and Philip. Would you like to see them, dear?”
“Only you, Franz. Take my love to them.”
Her voice had become the gentlest of murmurs, but the small white hand continued to stroke his face, though with a faltering movement. Then the soft caress stopped; a sigh escaped her; she appeared to slip from his grasp—to shrink within his arms.
“Margaret!” he said. “Margaret!” and his lips were ashen and tremulous.
He allowed her to fall limply to the pillow.
He waited a moment, then springing to his feet he started for the door. And as he groped his way, there burst from his quivering lips a great cry. “Margaret! Margaret!”