A terrible stillness came into the room, and he dared
not move. It seemed a long time before Jeanne lifted her head,
slowly, tenderly, as if fearing to awaken a sleeping child. She
turned to him, and he read the truth in her face before she had
spoken. Her voice was low and calm, filled with the sweetness and
tenderness and strength that come only to a woman in the final
moment of a great sorrow.
"Leave us, Philip," she said. "Pierre is dead."
XXIII
For a moment Philip bowed his head, and then he turned and went
noiselessly from the room, without speaking. As he closed the door
softly behind him he looked back, and from her attitude beside
Pierre he knew that Jeanne was whispering a prayer. A vision
flashed before him, so quick that it had come like a ray of light
--a vision of another hour, years and years ago, when Pierre had
knelt beside HER, and when he had lifted up his wild, half-thought
prayer out in the death-chill of the snowy barrens. And this was
his reward, to have Jeanne kneel beside him as the soul which had
loved her so faithfully took its flight.
Philip could not see when he turned his face to the light of the
office. For the first time the grief which he had choked back
escaped in a gasping break in his voice, and he wiped his eyes
with his pocket-handkerchief.
Pages:
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298