There was, after all, something in Isabel’s face that the poet had seen only there, something “fairy” that he had never ceased loving better than anything else in the world. But Life had had its way with them. Strong currents beyond the control of either had torn them apart, brought them together again, and then again torn them apart. Still, they had never really lost faith in each other’s natures, and though an impertinent world had misunderstood their mutual forbearance, they had never misunderstood each other.
“Isabel!” said the poet, still holding her face like a star in his hands, “I am going to die, and I have called you to congratulate me—as I know so wise a girl will. For we both know, better than any one, that it is best.”
Isabel’s eyes filled with tears, and releasing her face from his hands, she buried it in the bedclothes. Presently mastering her feeling, she raised her head again, and looking with infinite pity into the poet’s eyes, she said:
“O my dear boy—cannot you be human at last: just once before you die? I have always thought of you like some Undine, a beautiful, gentle, elemental being—lacking only a human soul. Indeed, sometimes I have thought of you as a god—sitting aloof from our little every day interests—but God knows I have loved you all the time, and you only shall I love in all my life....”
The poet once more took her face in his hands, and looking into her nereid eyes, he said: “Wife, dear wife—forgive the sorrow I have brought you. If there was any joy, remember that. Life is very difficult, very strange. It was all no fault of ours, not even mine. I see it now very clearly—now that I am dying. I see how wrong I have been—I see how right. I see how right you have been—I see how wrong. Let us forgive each other. Let us be in love again before I die. Give me your eyes. Let me kiss them once before I die....”
Then, a sudden thought taking him, “I wonder, dear,” he said, “if you can find my “Euripides.” There is a passage I am thinking of in ‘The Alcestis.’ It would comfort me to hear it again....”
Presently his wife brought him the volume, and turning over the pages, the poet at last found the passage he was in search of.
“Yes! this is it,” he said:
“‘Now have I moored my bark of life in a happier haven than before, and so will own myself a happy man.’”
Then leaning back on his pillow, “Tell me Isabel,” he said, “why is there so mysterious a comfort in words?”