"Death goes before all," he said. "Before death all doors are opened. Therefore my wife must pardon me for doing a thing she will not easily understand. It would be well if we pardoned oftener where we don't understand, Jacob."
The other was staring from the window and hardly heard.
"What is that to me? See you to that yourself," he answered.
The slow train seemed bent on torturing both men by its delay. It stopped to pick up a cattle-truck and a horse-box at Ivybridge. It dawdled again outside Plymouth. Nearly an hour had passed before they reached Millbay and took a cab.
"You must prepare for the worst, for I think she's gone," said Barlow. "I feel terrible certain that it is so, Jacob; and if that has happened, I beg and pray you'll make no great upstore about it."
The younger shook his head.
"You cannot know she's gone. We may be in time."
At the moment he spoke Margery, indeed, still lived, but was on the brink of death and only drew faint and fitful breaths. Her mother sat by her and held her hand. She did not know if any measure of consciousness remained, but spoke without ceasing in a flood of texts and exhortations. She was very white and drawn. She stopped presently and put down her head to listen; but still the woman's breast flickered, though the breath could not be heard.
"You'll soon be with the Lamb; you'll soon be with the Lamb. You'll soon wear your heavenly crown, my pretty," Judith kept saying. She longed for the end, but felt no fear now. Then, upon her security, came the sound of wheels over the cobbled street. They stopped at the door and, instantly alert, fearing harm, she hastened to the window and saw, first Jacob, then her husband, alight. Jacob pushed straight into the house, but Barlow stopped a moment to pay the cabman.
Mrs. Huxam rushed to the door and screamed to her brother who was below.