There remained nothing more. Except that ever darkening horizon where, at the earth’s ends, those grave shapes of cloud closed out the vista of remote skies.
There seemed to be no shelter anywhere in the vast nakedness of the scheme of things––no shadow under which to crouch––no refuge.
Dim visions of cloistered forms, moving in a blessed twilight, grew and assumed familiar shape amid the dumb desolation reigning in her brain. The spectral temptation passed, repassed; processional, recessional glided by, timed by her heart’s low rhythm.
But, little by little, she came to understand that there was no refuge even there; no mystic glow in the dark corridors of her own heart; no source of light save from the candles glimmering on the high altar; no aureole above the crucifix.
Always, everywhere, there seemed to be no shelter, no roof above the scheme of things.
She heard the telephone. As she slowly rose from the sofa she noted the hour as it sounded;––four o’clock in the morning.
A man’s voice was speaking––an unhurried, precise, low-pitched, monotonous voice:
“This––is––the––Memorial Hospital. Doctor––Willis––speaking. Mr.––John––Estridge––died––at––ten minutes––to––four. Miss Westgard––wishes––to––go––to––your––residence––and––remain––over––night––if––convenient.... Thank you. Miss––Westgard––will––go––to––you––immediately. Good-night.”