“Poor Dick, he’s taking it hard,” he said and returned to the destruction of the rose.
After all the petals lay plucked on the coverlet, he gathered them up in both hands. His gaze, too, settled on the sight of the crimson life-leaves sifting through his pale fingers.
“See, they look prettier—and smell sweeter—than before,” he urged, his voice loudening from his effort to reassure them. “The rose isn’t wasted. Nothing ever is. Even I—am not wasted. I’ve never been what other boys—are. But I’m glad I’ve lived long enough to ’preciate you, John. Maybe if I hadn’t—you and ’Lores——”
His voice was cut by a hurting gasp. They hovered close over him, watching the changes—from physical pain to mental relief—which drifted like sunshine after shadows over his face.
Dolores would gladly have died to save him one pang; yet all she could do was to share his suffering. Her heart stopped beating from relief when the dark, appealing lashes swept back again. From far away, yet intensely, he looked up at them.
“Remember, John and ’Lores, nothing’s—ever—wasted”
As he spoke, a light not from the night lamp was shafted into the room. Direct as a search-ray it found his face and settled there.
At its touch Jack lifted to one elbow on the pillow, forgetful of pain; gazed with an alert look into its unearthly radiance; leant his head to one side, as if listening.
“I will come. I am coming,” he said.
“No, not yet, Jack—don’t go yet!” At last moved from his outer calm, the father threw forward his body to screen off the sourceless shaft. But not the faintest shadow showed. Through his brawn the light glowed steadily. With a groan he slid to his knees beside the ancestral bed and stretched clutching hands across the counterpane as if longing, yet not daring to drag back into the semi-gloom the last of the line.