"No," said Vickars solemnly, "she is not ill. She is ill no longer. She is at rest."
"O Vickars!—not dead?"
"Let us use a better word—at rest. She is where she has wished to be these many weary years."
"And I did not know it. O mother!—mother!"
Vickars turned his face away from that sacred grief. After a few moments he said, "Can you bear that I should tell you about it?"
"Yes. Tell me."
"I think she was never the same after you left, Arthur. I told you she came to see us, didn't I? After that first visit she came often. She honoured us with her confidence. Little by little we learned her story—the story of a saintly heart at war with circumstance. I believe the one supreme force that enabled her to live was the purpose to redeem you from the kind of life that threatened you. She summed herself up in that purpose. When it was once achieved, her hold on life gradually relaxed. She had no wish to live longer, composed herself for the grave, and spoke cheerfully of her departure. Let this be your great comfort, my dear boy—she was absolutely sure of you, of your ability, I mean, to live the high life she had always coveted for you. Her joy in dying was that you were safe."
"When ... when did it happen?"
"On the day your father was arrested. She never knew that, God be thanked. She went quite quietly, without pain. She simply slept, and woke—somewhere else."
"O my poor father!"