Lucy Crosby was dead. One moment she was of the quick, moving about the
house, glancing in at David, having Minnie in the kitchen pin and unpin
her veil; and the next she was still and infinitely mysterious, on her
white bed. She had fallen outside the door of David's room, and lay
there, her arms still full of fresh bath towels, and a fixed and intense
look in her eyes, as though, outside the door, she had come face to face
with a messenger who bore surprising news. Doctor Reynolds, running up
the stairs, found her there dead, and closed the door into David's room.
But David knew before they told him. He waited until they had placed her
on her bed, had closed her eyes and drawn a white coverlet over her, and
then he went in alone, and sat down beside her, and put a hand over her
chilling one.
"If you are still here, Lucy," he said, "and have not yet gone on, I
want you to carry this with you. We are all right, here. Everybody is
all right. You are not to worry."
After a time he went back to his room and got his prayer-book. He could
hear Harrison Miller's voice soothing Minnie in the lower hall, and
Reynolds at the telephone. He went back into the quiet chamber, and
opening the prayer-book, began to read aloud.
"Now is Christ risen from the dead, and become the first fruits of them
that slept--"
His voice tightened. He put his head down on the side of the bed.
He was very docile that day. He moved obediently from his room for
the awful aftermath of a death, for the sweeping and dusting and clean
curtains, and sat in Dick's room, not reading, not even praying, a
lonely yet indomitable old figure. When his friends came, elderly men
who creaked in and tried to reduce their robust voices to a decorous
whisper, he shook hands with them and made brief, courteous replies.
Then he lapsed into silence. They felt shut off and uncomfortable, and
creaked out again.
Only once did he seem shaken. That was when Elizabeth came swiftly in
and put her arms around him as he sat. He held her close to him, saying
nothing for a long time. Then he drew a deep breath.
"I was feeling mighty lonely, my dear," he said.
He was the better for her visit. He insisted on dressing that evening,
and on being helped down the stairs. The town, which had seemed inimical
for so long, appeared to him suddenly to be holding out friendly hands.
More than friendly hands. Loving, tender hands, offering service and
affection and old-time friendship. It moved about sedately, in
dark clothes, and came down the stairs red-eyed and using
pocket-hand-kerchiefs, and it surrounded him with love and loving
kindness.