In the morning she died—lay there haggard, death-smeared, with her lovely white hair smeared also, and disorderly: she who had been so beautiful and clean always.
Alvina knew death—which is untellable. She knew that her darling carried away a portion of her own soul into death.
But she was alone. And the agony of being alone, the agony of grief, passionate, passionate grief for her darling who was torn into death—the agony of self-reproach, regret; the agony of remembrance; the agony of the looks of the dying woman, winsome, and sinisterly accusing, and pathetically, despairingly appealing—probe after probe of mortal agony, which throughout eternity would never lose its power to pierce to the quick!
Alvina seemed to keep strangely calm and aloof all the days after the death. Only when she was alone she suffered till she felt her heart really broke.
“I shall never feel anything any more,” she said in her abrupt way to Miss Frost’s friend, another woman of over fifty.
“Nonsense, child!” expostulated Mrs. Lawson gently.
“I shan’t! I shall never have a heart to feel anything any more,” said Alvina, with a strange, distraught roll of the eyes.
“Not like this, child. But you’ll feel other things—”
“I haven’t the heart,” persisted Alvina.
“Not yet,” said Mrs. Lawson gently. “You can’t expect—But time—time brings back—”