Nor wintry leaves nor vernal;
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night.”
The murmuring voice ended the poem. Sylvester drew the old man's withered brown hand to his lips.
“Forgive me for not understanding, father,” he said brokenly. “I am glad I know. I love you and my mother more than I have ever done. Would to God I had been a tenderer son to you!”
Matthew's clasp tightened, and a smile hovered over his face. He knew that the awkward words came from his son's heart.
“We understand each other, Syl. 'Tout comprendre, et cetera.... I am happy. I have never been so happy in all my life—'the burden has fallen from me—fallen into the sea.' I'm sleepy, Syl—stay by me—it comforts me.”
So Sylvester, still holding the dear hand in a warm clasp, and fearing to move lest he should disturb the quiet slumber into which the old man had fallen, remained by his father's side, his face hidden in the pillow. And as he lay, there was accomplished one of those integral spiritual changes that can only be wrought once in the lifetime of a man here and there. The White Dove of the Divine Pity overshadowed him with its wings, and he saw deeply into the mysteries of life. He beheld the unutterable pathos of man, his clogged aspirations, his heroic weakness, his piteous fortitude, his everlasting struggles. It was revealed to him that there may be more of the warm spiritual essence of humanity, in a single passionate sin than in a hundred austere virtues.
His father, mother, Constance, Leroux, Ella, all of whom he, the upright, stainless man, had condemned, stood before him clothed in a new light; and by reason of their warm humanity, their struggles, their sufferings, they stood higher in the scale of being than he.