The Purple Heights | Page 9

sorry, but I'm afraid
I'm too sick to stay up any longer." Nobody guessed how slight was her
hold upon life. When the neighbors came in, after the kindly Carolina
custom, she was cheerful enough, but quiet. But then, Maria
Champneys was always quiet.
There came a day when she was unusually quiet, even for her. Toward
dusk the neighbor who had watched with her went home. At the door
she said hopefully:

"You'll be better in the morning."
"Yes, I'll be better in the morning," the sick woman repeated. After a
while Emma Campbell, who had been looking after the house, went
away to her cabin across the cove. Peter and his mother were alone.
It was a darkish, gusty night, and a small fire burned in the open
fireplace. Shadows danced on the walls, and every now and then the
wind came and tapped at the windows impatiently. On the closed
sewing-machine an oil lamp burned, turned rather low. Peter sat in a
rocking-chair drawn close to his mother's bedside and dozed fitfully,
waking to watch the face on the pillow. It was very quiet there in the
poor room, with the clock ticking, and the soft sound of the settling log.
Just before dawn Peter replenished the fire, moving carefully lest he
disturb his mother. But when he turned toward the bed again she was
wide awake and looking at him intently. Peter ran to her, kissed her
cheek, and held her hand in his. Her fingers were cold, and he chafed
them between his palms.
"Peter," said she, very gently, "I've got to go, my dear." There was no
fear in her. The child looked at her piteously, his eyes big and
frightened in his pale face.
"And now I'm at the end," said she bravely, "I'm not afraid to leave you,
Peter. You are a brave child, and a good child. You couldn't be
dishonorable, or a coward, or a liar, or unkind, to save your life. You
will always be gentle, and generous, and just. When one is where I am
to-night, that is all that really matters. Nothing but goodness counts."
Peter, with her hand against his cheek, tried not to weep. To conceal his
terror and grief, and the shock of this thing come upon him in the
middle of the night, to spare her the agony of witnessing his agony, was
almost intuitive with him. He braced himself, and kept his self-control.
She seemed to understand, for the hand he held against his cheek tried,
feebly, to caress it. It didn't tire her to talk, apparently, for her voice
was firm and clear.

"You're a gifted child, as well as a good child, Peter. But--our people
here don't understand you yet, my dearest. Your sort of brightness is
different from theirs--and better, because it's rarer and slower. Hold fast
to yourself, Peter. You're going to be a great man."
Peter stroked her hand. The two looked at each other, a long, long,
luminous look.
"My son,--your chance is coming. I know that to-night. And when it
comes, oh, for God's sake, for my sake, for all the Champneyses' sake,
take it, Peter, take it!" Her voice rose at that, her hand tightened upon
his; she looked at him imploringly.
"Take it for my sake," she said with terrible earnestness and intensity.
"Take it, darling, and prove that I was right about you. Remember how
all my years, Peter, I toiled and prayed--all for you, my dearest, all for
you! Remember me in that hour, Peter, and don't fail me, don't fail
me!"
"Oh, Mother, I won't fail you! I won't fail you!" cried Peter, and at that
the tears came.
His mother smiled, exquisitely; a smile of faith reassured and hope
fulfilled, and love contented. That smile on a dying mouth stayed, with
other beautiful and imperishable memories, in Peter's heart. Presently
he ventured to ask her, timidly:
"Shall I go for somebody, Mother?"
"Are you afraid, dear?"
"No," said Peter.
"Then stay by me. Just you and me together. You--you are all I have--I
don't need anybody else. Stay with me, Son,--for a little while."
Outside you could hear the wind moving restlessly, and the trees
complaining, and the tide-water whispering. The dark night was filled

with a multitudinous murmuring. For a long while Peter and his mother
clung to each other. From time to time she whispered to him--such
pitiful comfortings as love may lend in its extremity.
The black night paled into a gray glimmer of dawn. Peter held fast to
the hand he couldn't warm. Her face was sharp and pale and pinched.
She looked very little and thin and helpless. The bed seemed too big for
so small a woman.
More gray light stole through the windows. The lamp