“Only you, Franz. Take my love to them.”
Her voice had become the gentlest of murmurs, but the small white hand continued to stroke his face, though with a faltering movement. Then the soft caress stopped; a sigh escaped her; she appeared to slip from his grasp—to shrink within his arms.
“Margaret!” he said. “Margaret!” and his lips were ashen and tremulous.
He allowed her to fall limply to the pillow.
He waited a moment, then springing to his feet he started for the door. And as he groped his way, there burst from his quivering lips a great cry. “Margaret! Margaret!”
XIV
It was the second evening after Margaret's death, and the night of Barbara's marriage to Shelden.
To Philip the day had come, as all days must, where one exists for them alone, with no other interest in their passing than that they go swiftly. What was in store for him he wondered. Even supposing he eventually succeeded, it would be the bitter satire of success. What could fame or money give him!—he was robbed of every inspiration. At least he could turn to his work for forgetfulness. That was something, even if it yielded him no further recompense. He looked at his watch. “It must soon be over with. They must soon be married,” he thought, and slipping into his hat and coat started down-stairs. His mother heard him and came into the hall.
“Are you going out, Philip?” she asked.
“Yes, dear. I want to see Franz. I haven't been there to-day. I'll not be out late.”