He said, in a deep, trembling, solemn voice, "Marise, my darling, I want you always to do what is best for you to do."
He drew a deep, deep breath as though it had taken all his strength to say that; and went on, "What is deepest and most living in you . . . that is what must go on living."
He released one hand and held it out towards her as though he were taking an oath.
CHAPTER XXV
MARISE'S COMING-OF-AGE
July 23. Dawn
Even after the old child, Agnes, had been soothed and reassured, over and over, till she had fallen asleep, and the house lay profoundly quiet, Marise felt not the slightest approach of drowsiness or even of fatigue. She lay down on her bed, but could not close her eyes. They remained wide open, looking not at a wild confusion of incoherent images as they had the night before, but straight into blackness and vacancy.
It was strange how from the brawling turmoil of impressions which had shouted and cried out to her the night before, and had wrought her to frenzy by their insane insistence, not an echo reached her now. Her mind was as silent and intent as the old house, keeping its last mute watch over its mistress. Intent on what? She did not know. On something that was waiting for her, on something for which she was waiting.
In an immense hush, like the dusky silence in a cathedral aisle or in the dark heart of the woods, there was something there waiting for her to go and find it.