PART III
Avery stood irresolute. "It is one of those hallucinations," he thought. "This shock—following the wreck—has confused me." The voice was not repeated; and after a few moments' hesitation he opened the door of his wife's room.
It was neither dark nor light in the chamber; something like twilight filled the room, which, unlike the house, was not heavy with the excessive perfume of flowers. A handful of violets (modest, winning, and like Jean) was all that had been admitted; these stood on a table beside her Bible and prayer-book, her little portfolio, and her pen and inkstand.
In his wretchedness Marshall duly perceived the delicate thought which had ordered that his should be the first flowers to touch her dear body.
He came up with his poor roses in his hand. Jean seemed to have waited for them. He could have said that she uttered a little, low laugh when she saw him cross the room.... Impossible to believe that she did not see him! She lay so easily, so vitally, that the conviction forced itself upon him that there was some hideous mistake. "Perhaps I am still in the water," he thought, "and this is one of the visions that come to drowning people."
"I may be dead, myself," he added. "Who knows? But Jean is not dead." He thrust up the shade, and let the November day full into the room. It fell strongly upon her bright hair and her most lovely face. He called her by her name two or three times. It might be said that he expected her to stir and stretch out her hands to him.
"I never thought you would die," he argued. "You know I did n't, Jean. Why, you told me yourself you should live for years.... Jean, my girl! they 've blundered somehow. You could n't die, you would n't die, Jean, while I was on that cruel trip.... I was sorry I went. I was ashamed of myself for leaving you.... I hurried back—and I was shipwrecked—I was almost drowned. I 'll never leave you again, dear darling! I 'll never leave you again as long as I live!"
These words ached through his mind. He could hardly have said whether he spoke them aloud or not. He sat down on the edge of the bed beside her. By some carefulness, probably Helen Thorne's, the usual ghastly circumstance of death was spared Jean. She lay quite naturally and happily in her own bed, in her lace-frilled night-dress, with her bright hair braided as she used to braid it for the night. Except for her pallor—and she had been a little pale so long that this was not oppressive—she wore one of her charming looks. The conviction that she was not dead persisted in the husband almost to the point of pugnacity. It occurred to him that if he lifted her she would cling to him, and comfort herself against his heart.
"Come, Jean!" he said. He held out his arms. "Forgive me, Jean.... I shall never forgive myself."