The Attic Guest: A Novel

by Robert E. Knowles

I had never had hour like to this. I can remember yet how, once or twice, the thought of all the revelry I had left behind floated before my eyes; the lights, the flowers, the richly appointed table, the sumptuous dinner, the circle of exalted guests in glorious array, the speech and the echoing song—but they all seemed to me now as the dust beneath my feet. Pale and tawdry, garish, did it all appear in contrast with the high reality of the scene that had succeeded it. It must have been God's miracle to my soul. I know not. But I speak only the simple truth when I say that what was about me now, the humble home, the squalid room, the dimly burning lamp, the wail of the broken-hearted, the pale light of death upon one wasted face; these stood before me as life, very life—and the other had receded into the phantom shadows of unreality and death. I felt as if I had found myself at last; I knew I had found my husband, long sundered by the cruel shadow my own foolish heart had cast; and I dimly hoped that the dear Father of us all had found us both.

An hour or two later Gordon beckoned me out into the little hall. "I guess we'll have to go now," he said; "it's almost midnight—and you'll be tired out."

"Don't," I said earnestly, "don't make me go, Gordon. How can we leave here?—she's dying. Do you think we'll ever see her again?"

Gordon's look of love was beautiful. "No," he said, "never again, here—and we'll wait, my darling," the words coming low and passionate. "Look," as he cast his eyes within the door, "she wants you—she's motioning for you."

Which was true enough, and in a moment I was bending over the dying form.

"You'll comfort mother, and Martha, won't you—and the children—when I'm gone? Poor Martha, she'll have it all to do now," the words coming faint and pitiful; "all the work, I mean—she works so hard. And she has to go to the factory, even after she sits up all night."

"I'll do all I can, dear," I promised, trying to speak calmly, though the tears were running down my cheeks. "I'll come and see them as often as I can."

"Call them all," she said, rousing herself.

I had not far to call. In a moment they were all about the bed. Then the emaciated arms stole out and laid hold of a rusty napkin, or towel, that lay upon the bed beside her. Slowly she unfolded it, producing its contents one by one.

"This is for you, Ernie," as she handed the little brother a many-coloured flashing tie; "I saved up to get it for you for Christmas—but then I knew I'd have to get it sooner. And I made this for you, Chrissie," as the thin hands held out a little pin-cushion to the younger sister. "And I want you to have my little locket for a keepsake, Martha; it's nearly new. And this is for you, mother," as the sobbing woman bent above her child; "it's my Sunday-school Bible—and it has the tickets I was saving for a prize; I can't ever use them now. And the book-marker that's in it is for you," as her eyes turned to Gordon; "I worked it for you myself, and I was going to give it to you the first Sunday you came down."