CHAPTER XX

DIANA A NIGHT-WATCH IN THE CHAMBER OF DEATH

He stepped into the room, and thrilled to hear the quiet voice beside the bed:  ‘Who is it?’

Apologies and excuses were on his tongue.  The vibration of those grave tones checked them.

‘It is you,’ she said.

She sat in shadow, her hands joined on her lap.  An unopened book was under the lamp.

He spoke in an underbreath:  ’I have just come.  I was not sure I should find you here.  Pardon.’

‘There is a chair.’

He murmured thanks and entered into the stillness, observing her.

‘You have been watching . . . .  You must be tired.’

‘No.’

‘An hour was asked, only one.’

‘I could not leave him.’

‘Watchers are at hand to relieve you’

‘It is better for him to have me.’

The chord of her voice told him of the gulf she had sunk in during the night.  The thought of her endurance became a burden.

He let fall his breath for patience, and tapped the floor with his foot.

He feared to discompose her by speaking.  The silence grew more fearful, as the very speech of Death between them.

’You came.  I thought it right to let you know instantly.  I hoped you would come to-morrow’

‘I could not delay.’

‘You have been sitting alone here since eleven!’

‘I have not found it long.’

‘You must want some refreshment . . . tea?’

‘I need nothing.’

‘It can be made ready in a few minutes.’

‘I could not eat or drink.’

He tried to brush away the impression of the tomb in the heavily-curtained chamber by thinking of the summer-morn outside; he spoke of it, the rosy sky, the dewy grass, the piping birds.  She listened, as one hearing of a quitted sphere.

Their breathing in common was just heard if either drew a deeper breath.  At moments his eyes wandered and shut.  Alternately in his mind Death had vaster meanings and doubtfuller; Life cowered under the shadow or outshone it.  He glanced from her to the figure in the bed, and she seemed swallowed.

He said:  ’It is time for you to have rest.  You know your room.  I will stay till the servants are up.’

She replied:  ‘No, let this night with him be mine.’

‘I am not intruding . . .?’

‘If you wish to remain . . .’

No traces of weeping were on her face.  The lampshade revealed it colourless, and lustreless her eyes.  She was robed in black.  She held her hands clasped.

‘You have not suffered?’

‘Oh, no.’

She said it without sighing:  nor was her speech mournful, only brief.

‘You have seen death before?’

’I sat by my father four nights.  I was a girl then.  I cried till I had no more tears.’