The Return of the Soul | Page 5

Her lips were thin and dry, and moved perpetually in a silent
chattering, as if her mind were talking and her voice were already dead.
The tide of life was retreating from her body. I could almost see it
visibly ebb away. The failing waves made no sound upon the shore.
Death is uncanny, like all silent things.
Her maid wished her to stay entirely in bed, but she would get up,
muttering that she was well; and the doctor said it was useless to hinder
her. She had no specific disease. Only the years were taking their last
toll of her. So she was placed in her chair each day by the fire, and sat
there till evening, muttering with those dry lips. The stiff folds of her
silken skirts formed an angle, and there the cat crouched hour after hour,
a silent, white, waiting thing.
And the waves ebbed and ebbed away, and I waited too.
One afternoon, as I sat by my grandmother, the servant entered with a

letter for me just arrived by the post. I took it up. It was from
Willoughby, my school-friend. He said the term was over, that he had
left school, and his father had decided to send him out to America to
start in business in New York, instead of entering him at Oxford as he
had hoped. He bade me good-bye, and said he supposed we should not
meet again for years; "but," he added, "no doubt you won't care a straw,
so long as you get the confounded money you're after. You've taught
me one of the lessons of life, young Ronald--never to believe in
friendship."
As I read the letter I set my teeth. All that was good in my nature
centred round Willoughby. He was a really fine fellow. I honestly and
truly loved him. His news gave me a bitter shock, and turned my heart
to iron and to fire. Perhaps I should never see him again; even if I did,
time would have changed him, seared him--my friend, in his wonderful
youth, with the morning in his eyes, would be no more. I hated myself
in that moment for having stayed; I hated still more her who had kept
me. For the moment I was carried out of myself. I crushed the letter up
in my burning hand. I turned fiercely round upon that yellow,
enigmatic, dying figure in the great chair. All the fury, locked within
my heart for so long, rose to the surface, and drove self-interest away. I
turned upon my grandmother with blazing eyes and trembling limbs. I
opened my mouth to utter a torrent of reproachful words, when--what
was it?--what slight change had stolen into the wrinkled, yellow face? I
bent over her. The eyes gazed at me, but so horribly! She sat so low in
her chair; she looked so fearful, so very strange. I put my fingers on her
eyelids; I drew them down over the eyeballs: they did not open again. I
felt her withered hands: they were ice. Then I knew, and I felt myself
smiling. I leaned over the dead woman. There, on the far side of her,
crouched the cat. Its white fur was all bristling; its blue eyes were
dilated; on its jaws there were flecks of foam.
I leaned over the dead woman and took it in my arms.
*****
That was nearly twenty years ago, and yet to-night the memory of that
moment, and what followed it, bring a fear to my heart which I must

combat. I have read of men who lived for long spaces of time haunted
by demons created by their imagination, and I have laughed at them
and pitied them. Surely I am not going to join in their folly, in their
madness, led to the gates of terror by my own fancies, half-confirmed,
apparently, by the chance utterances of a conceited Professor--a man of
fads, although a man of science.
That was twenty years ago. After to-night let me forget it. After
to-night, do I say? Hark! the birds are twittering in the dew outside.
The pale, early sun-shafts strike over the moors. And I am tired.
To-morrow night I will finish this wrestle with my own folly; I will
give the coup de grâce to my imagination.. But no more now. My brain
is not calm, and I will not write in excitement.

II.
Wednesday Night, November 4th.
Margot has gone to bed at last, and I am alone. This has been a horrible
day--horrible; but I will not dwell upon it.
After the death of my grandmother, I went back to school again. But
Willoughby was gone, and he could not forgive me. He wrote to me
once or twice from New York,