“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.
“Yes, dear. I want to see Franz. I haven't been there to-day. I'll not be out late.”
She put up her lips to kiss him, then pressed her cheek to his. “I'm so sorry, Philip!” she whispered. It was the only expression of pity she had ventured.
“Don't, mother. I can't endure it. Not now—not yet.”
Ten minutes later and he stood with Perkins before the door leading into the room where Margaret lay.
Perkins nodded toward the door. “We can't induce him to leave her,” he said.
They were silent, gazing at each other, a depth of sorrow in their glance. Finally Perkins said, with a show of control:
“I had decided to keep the memory I have of her unchanged. It is as I saw her when they were married. She was so happy, poor little thing!”
“There is more than happiness in her face now,” Perkins observed thoughtfully. “Do you believe in a hereafter?”
“What odds can it be? It's in the present our lot is cast.”
“Don't you like to think you are destined to meet those you love again?”
Philip placed his hand irresolutely upon the knob.
“I shall go in. Perhaps I shall be able to determine what I do believe.”
As he entered the room, a rush of cold air met him, for the windows were partially raised—the outer shutters only being closed. The dim light filled the apartment with shadowy indistinctness.