HOWEVER, my attention was suddenly
snatched from such matters;
our child began to lose
ground again, and we had to go to sitting up with her,
her case became so serious. We couldn't bear to
allow anybody to help in this service, so we two stood
watch-and-watch, day in and day out. Ah, Sandy,
what a right heart she had, how simple, and genuine,
and good she was! She was a flawless wife and
mother; and yet I had married her for no other particular reasons, except that
by the customs of chivalry
she was my property until some knight should win her
from me in the field. She had hunted Britain over for
me; had found me at the hanging-bout outside of
London, and had straightway resumed her old place at
my side in the placidest way and as of right. I was a
New Englander, and in my opinion this sort of partnership would compromise her,
sooner or later. She couldn't
see how, but I cut argument
short and we
had a wedding.
Now I didn't know I was drawing
a prize, yet that was what I
did draw. Within the twelvemonth
I became her worshiper; and ours
was the dearest and perfectest
comradeship that ever was. People
talk about beautiful friendships
between two persons of the same
sex. What is the best of that
sort, as compared with the friendship
of man and wife, where the best
impulses and highest ideals of
both are the same? There is no
place for comparison between
the two friendships; the one
is earthly, the other divine.
In my dreams, along at first,
I still wandered thirteen centuries
away, and my unsatisfied spirit
went calling and harking all
up and down the unreplying vacancies
of a vanished world. Many a time
Sandy heard that imploring cry
come from my lips in my sleep.
With a grand magnanimity she
saddled that cry of mine upon
our child, conceiving it to be
the name of some lost darling
of mine. It touched me to tears,
and it also nearly knocked me
off my feet, too, when she smiled
up in my face for an earned reward,
and played her quaint and pretty
surprise upon me:
"The name of
one who was dear to thee is
here preserved, here
made holy, and the music of it
will abide alway in our ears.
Now thou'lt kiss me, as knowing
the name I have given the child."
But I didn't know it, all the
same. I hadn't an idea in the
world; but it would have been
cruel to confess it and spoil
her pretty game; so I never let
on, but said:
"Yes, I know,
sweetheart -- how dear and
good it is of you,
too! But I want to hear these
lips of yours, which are also
mine, utter it first -- then
its music will be perfect."
Pleased to the marrow, she
murmured:
"HELLO-CENTRAL!"
I didn't laugh -- I am always
thankful for that -- but the
strain ruptured every cartilage
in me, and for weeks afterward
I could hear my bones clack when
I walked. She never found out
her mistake. The first time she
heard that form of salute used
at the telephone she was surprised,
and not pleased; but I told her
I had given order for it: that
henceforth and forever the telephone
must always be invoked with that
reverent formality, in perpetual
honor and remembrance of my lost
friend and her small namesake.
This was not true. But it answered.
Well, during two weeks and
a half we watched by the crib,
and in our deep solicitude we
were unconscious of any world
outside of that sick-room. Then
our reward came: the center of
the universe turned the corner
and began to mend. Grateful?
It isn't the term. There ISN'T
any term for it. You know that
yourself, if you've watched your
child through the Valley of the
Shadow and seen it come back
to life and sweep night out of
the earth with one all-illuminating
smile that you could cover with
your hand.
Why, we were back in this world
in one instant! Then we looked
the same startled thought into
each other's eyes at the same
moment; more than two weeks gone,
and that ship not back yet!
In another minute I appeared
in the presence of my train.
They had been steeped in troubled
bodings all this time -- their
faces showed it. I called an
escort and we galloped five miles
to a hilltop overlooking the
sea. Where was my great commerce
that so lately had made these
glistening expanses populous
and beautiful with its white-winged
flocks? Vanished, every one!
Not a sail, from verge to verge,
not a smoke-bank -- just a dead
and empty solitude, in place
of all that brisk and breezy
life.
I went swiftly
back, saying not a word to
anybody. I told
Sandy this ghastly news. We could
imagine no explanation that would
begin to explain. Had there been
an invasion? an earthquake? a
pestilence? Had the nation been
swept out of existence? But guessing
was profitless. I must go --
at once. I borrowed the king's
navy -- a "ship" no bigger than
a steam launch -- and was soon
ready.
The parting -- ah, yes, that
was hard. As I was devouring
the child with last kisses, it
brisked up and jabbered out its
vocabulary! -- the first time
in more than two weeks, and it
made fools of us for joy. The
darling mispronunciations of
childhood! -- dear me, there's
no music that can touch it; and
how one grieves when it wastes
away and dissolves into correctness,
knowing it will never visit his
bereaved ear again. Well, how
good it was to be able to carry
that gracious memory away with
me!
I approached England the next
morning, with the wide highway
of salt water all to myself.
There were ships in the harbor,
at Dover, but they were naked
as to sails, and there was no
sign of life about them. It was
Sunday; yet at Canterbury the
streets were empty; strangest
of all, there was not even a
priest in sight, and no stroke
of a bell fell upon my ear. The
mournfulness of death was everywhere.
I couldn't understand it. At
last, in the further edge of
that town I saw a small funeral
procession -- just a family and
a few friends following a coffin
-- no priest; a funeral without
bell, book, or candle; there
was a church there close at hand,
but they passed it by weeping,
and did not enter it; I glanced
up at the belfry, and there hung
the bell, shrouded in black,
and its tongue tied back. Now
I knew! Now I understood the
stupendous calamity that had
overtaken England. Invasion?
Invasion is a triviality to it.
It was the INTERDICT!
I asked no questions; I didn't
need to ask any. The Church had
struck; the thing for me to do
was to get into a disguise, and
go warily. One of my servants
gave me a suit of clothes, and
when we were safe beyond the
town I put them on, and from
that time I traveled alone; I
could not risk the embarrassment
of company.
A miserable journey. A desolate
silence everywhere. Even in London
itself. Traffic had ceased; men
did not talk or laugh, or go
in groups, or even in couples;
they moved aimlessly about, each
man by himself, with his head
down, and woe and terror at his
heart. The Tower showed recent
war-scars. Verily, much had been
happening.
Of course, I meant to take
the train for Camelot. Train!
Why, the station was as vacant
as a cavern. I moved on. The
journey to Camelot was a repetition
of what I had already seen. The
Monday and the Tuesday differed
in no way from the Sunday. I
arrived far in the night. From
being the best electric-lighted
town in the kingdom and the most
like a recumbent sun of anything
you ever saw, it was become simply
a blot -- a blot upon darkness
-- that is to say, it was darker
and solider than the rest of
the darkness, and so you could
see it a little better; it made
me feel as if maybe it was symbolical
-- a sort of sign that the Church
was going to KEEP the upper hand
now, and snuff out all my beautiful
civilization just like that.
I found no life stirring in the
somber streets. I groped my way
with a heavy heart. The vast
castle loomed black upon the
hilltop, not a spark visible
about it. The drawbridge was
down, the great gate stood wide,
I entered without challenge,
my own heels making the only
sound I heard -- and it was sepulchral
enough, in those huge vacant
courts.
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