Gertrude was his nurse, and very gentle with him. She was creeping about his room, thinking him asleep, with her shadow swinging to and fro as she moved. In a sudden, strangled voice, she heard him say:
“I can speak.”
She turned to him, but he lay very still, and his face looked pinched and whiter than it had done. She was alarmed and sat up with him all night. In the early morning he asked to see his wife. Gertrude fetched her, and she came huddled and bunched up in shawl and flannels and sat by his bedside. He moved his hand a little and she reached out and took it in hers. He said:
“It has been a long time, but it has been a good time. It has not all been good for you. I would be glad if you—if you could forgive me . . .”
“Oh! my dear, my dear. . . . The best . . .”
“I have always been afraid,” he went on, and his voice gained in strength. “I have always been afraid of saying too much, and I have said too little. . . . It has been best when we were old. You have much to forgive.”
Mrs. Folyat could only weep. Francis asked to be given his Bible and the amethyst cross he had worn on Sundays on his watchchain. They were laid by his side and he took the cross in his hand. He said that everything he left was to go to Mary, but she was to help the others when they needed help. . . . Then he told his wife she must go away and rest, for he desired to communicate for the last time and must have a space in which to prepare himself. Gertrude aided Mrs. Folyat out of the room.
It was All Fool’s Day.
At nine o’clock Mary was having breakfast alone when Serge walked in. She told him, and he went up at once to his father’s room. He stood by the bed for a long time before Francis opened his eyes and saw him. His eyes smiled and he said:
“My son.”