“—a tradition that the coat is immortal,” went on the singing voice of the interpreter.... “And one day there shall come from the East—a woman—a woman out of the East.... And her sons shall cherish the coat!”
Eleanor More stirred a little.
The voice of the interpreter took on a high sing-song note, alternating with the low, gentle phrasing of the Chinese woman’s words.... “Her sons and her sons’ sons—forever.”
The voice ceased and the room was very still. From somewhere in the house came a rustling sound that rose and died away.
Eleanor More raised her eyes and looked steadfastly at the other woman. She moved a step—and half held out her hands. But the other did not stir and she crossed the space between them.... They were of equal height. As Richard More turned a startled glance, he was aware of something curiously alike in the two figures—a lift of the head, an air of quiet endurance—but more than all, a kind of dignity—something regal—that stirred vague memories.... When had he stood before and seen two women thus?... Surely in some other life—in some other age and time, he had looked on at a supreme moment of joy and abnegation.
For a long moment, the two women confronted each other, gazing deep into the other’s eyes. Then with a little gesture, the Oriental, in her softly rustling garments, moved to the platform and lifted the Chinese coat in her hands and placed it in Eleanor More’s.
Were there tears in the eyes that gazed... or only a deep, still joy?
Before Richard More could question—the look was gone. The Oriental woman was moving from them and the door closed softly behind her.
He watched it swing together, with a sense that something irretrievable had passed—a mystery and wonder—out of life.... Then he turned and saw his wife’s face.
She was gazing down at the coat with a look almost of fear. “Her sons and her sons’ sons—forever,” flashed through his mind.... She lifted her eyes and smiled at him, holding out the coat.