EPILOGUE
The white-skirted, clean-looking doctor came briskly andnoiselessly into the little room that opened off Ward No. IV inthe Westminster Hospital as the clock pointed to nine o'clock inthe morning, and the nursing-sister stood up to receive him.
"Good morning, sister," he said. "Any change?"
"He seemed a little disturbed about an hour ago by the bells,"she said. "But he hasn't spoken at all."
Together they stood and looked down on the unconscious man. Helay there motionless with closed eyes, his unshaven cheek restingon his hand, his face fallen into folds and hollows, colourlessand sallow. The red coverlet drawn up over his shoulder helped toemphasize his deadly pallor.
"It's a curious case," said the doctor. "I've never seen coma insuch a case last so long."
He still stared at him a moment or two; then he laid the backof his hand gently against the dying man's cheek, then againhe consulted through his glasses the chart that hung over thehead of the bed.
"Will he recover consciousness before the end, doctor?"
"It's very likely; it's impossible to say. Send for me ifthere's any change."
"I mayn't send for a priest, doctor?" she saidhesitatingly. "You know---"
He shook his head sharply.
"No, no. He distinctly refused, you remember. It's impossible,sister. . . . I'm very sorry."
When he had gone, she sat down again, and drew out her beadsfurtively upon her lap.
It was a horrible position for her. She, a Catholic, knew nowpretty well the history of this man--that he himself was a priestwho had lost the faith, who had associated himself with anhistorian who was writing a history of the Popes from what hecalled an impartial standpoint, who had, as the doctor said,distinctly and resentfully refused the suggestion that anotherpriest should be sent to help him to make his peace before he died.And, for her, as a convinced Catholic, the position had a terrorthat is simply inconceivable to those of a less positive faith.
She could do nothing more. . . . She said her beads.
* * * * *
There was a curious mixture of silence and sound here on thisEaster Sunday in this bare, airy little ward, with the doorclosed, and the windows open only at the top. The room had aremote kind of atmosphere about it, obtained perhaps partly bythe solidity of the walls, partly by the fact that it looked outon to a comparatively unfrequented lane, partly by thesuggestiveness of a professional sick-room. The world was allabout it; yet it seemed rather to this nurse, sitting alone ather prayers and duties, as if she had a window into the commonworld of life rather than that she actually was a part of it.Even the sounds that entered here had this remote tone aboutthem; the footsteps and talking of strayed holiday-makers,occasional fragmentary peals of bells, the striking of the clockin the high Victoria Tower--all these noises came into the roomdelicately and suggestively rather than as interruptions, yetdistinct and noticeable because of the absence of the usual rushof traffic across the great square outside.
The nurse dozed a little over her beads. (She had been on dutysince the evening before, and would not be relieved for anotherhour yet.) And it seemed to her, as so often in that half-sleep,half-wakefulness, when the drowsy brain knows all necessarythings and awakes alert again in an instant at any unusualmovement or sound, as if these sounds began to take on them tonesof other causes than those of themselves.
It seemed, for example, as if the steady murmur were the shoutingof phantom crowds at an immeasurable distance, punctuated nowagain by the noise of distant guns, as, somewhere round a cornera vehicle passed over a crossing of cobble-stones; as if thebells of the churches rang with a deliberate purpose, to welcomeor rejoice over some event . . . some entry of a king, shefancied, in a far-off city. Once even, so deep grew herdrowsiness, she fancied herself looking down on some such city,herself up in the sunlight and air, floating on the cloudy vesselof her own sleep. . . .
"Pray for us sinners," she murmured, "now and in the hour of our death."
Then she awoke in earnest, and saw the eyes of the patient fixedintelligently upon her.
"Fetch a priest," he said.
* * * * *
"Father," said the dying man an hour later, "is that all?Have you finished?"
"Yes, my dear father--thank God!" . . .
"Well; sit down a minute or two. I want to talk to you."
The young priest, sent for nearly an hour ago in haste from theCathedral, finished putting up again into his little leather casethe tiny stocks of holy oil with which he had just anointed thedying man. He had heard his confession . . . he had returnedagain to fetch the _Viaticum_ and the oils; and now all was done;and the old priest was reconciled and at peace. The young man wasstill a little tremulous; it was his first reconciliation of adying apostate, and it seemed to him a marvellous thing that aman could come back after so long, and so simply--and an apostatepriest at that! He had heard this man's name before, and heardhis story. . . .
But he was intensely anxious to know what it was that had wroughtthe miracle. The sister had told him that until this moment thepatient had steadily refused even the suggestion to send for apriest. And then, when he had come, there had been nopreliminaries. He had simply slipped on his stole as the sisterwent to the door, sat down by the bedside, heard the confession,and undertaken one or two little acts of restitution on hispenitent's behalf.
He sat down again now and waited.
The man in the bed lay with closed eyes, and an extraordinarypeace rested over him. It was almost impossible to believe, sowhite were the reflections of these clean walls, so white thelinen, that there was not a certain interior luminosity thatshone over his features. His chin and lips and jaws were coveredwith a week's stubble, his eyelids were sunk in the sockets, andthe temples looked shrunken and hollow; yet there was a clearnessof skin, not yet dusky with the shadow of death, that appearedalmost supernatural to this young man who looked at him.
"The sign of the Prophet Jonas," said the dying priestsuddenly. . . . "Resurrection."
"Yes?"
"That is what I have seen," he said. . . "No; I know it was adream. . . But it is possible; the Church has the power withinher. It may happen some day; or it may not. But there is noreason why it should not."
The other leant over him.
"My dear father----" he began. The older priest smiled.
"It is a long time since I heard that," he said. . . . "What'syour name, father?"
"Jervis . . . Father Jervis. I come from the Cathedral."
The eyes opened and looked at him curiously.
"Eh?"
"Father Jervis," said the young priest again.
"Any relations?"
"Some nephews--children. That's all of my name."
"Ah well! Perhaps-" (He broke off). "Did they tell me your name,before I became unconscious?"
"It's very likely. I'm the visiting chaplain here."
"Ah well! Who knows---? But that doesn't matter. . . . Father, howlong have I to live?"
The young priest leaned forward and laid his hand on the other's arm.
"A few hours only, father," he said gently. . . . "You are notafraid?"
"_Afraid?_"
His eyes closed, and he smiled naturally and easily.
"Well; listen. Lean closer. . . . No . . . call the sister in.I want her to hear too."
"Sister----"
She came forward, her eyes heavy with sleep, but they were brighttoo with an immense joy.
"Can you wait up a little longer, sister?" said Father Jervis."He wants us both to hear what he has to say."
"Why, of course."
She sat down on the other side of the bed.
Still the sounds from outside went on--the footsteps and thevoices and the bells. They were beginning to ring for the Eastermorning service in the Abbey; and still, within this room, wasthis air of silence and remoteness.
"Now, listen carefully," said the dying man. . . .
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