Chapter 13

THE LOVE THAT NEVER FAILS

Go in peace, soul beautiful and blest!

Yet high above the limits of our seeing,
And folded far within the inmost heart,
And deep below the deeps of conscious being,
Thy splendor shineth! There O God! Thou art.

When John reached London it was in the gray misty dawning. The streets
were nearly deserted, and an air of melancholy hung over the long rows
of low dwellings. At Harlow House he saw at once that every window was
shrouded, and he turned heartsick with the fear that he was too late. A
porter, whose eyes were red with weeping, admitted him, and there was an
intolerable smell of drugs, the odor of which he recollected all the
days of his future life.

"She is still alive, sir--but very ill."

John could not answer, but his look was so urgent and so miserable the
man divined the hurry of heart and spirit that he was possessed by and
without another word led him to the room where the child lay dying. The
struggle was nearly over and John was spared the awful hours of slow
strangulation which had already done their work. She was not insensible.
She held tight the hand of her mother, kneeling by her side, and gazed
at John with eyes wearing a new, deep look as if a veil had been rent
and she with open face saw things sweet and wonderful. Her pale, mute
mouth smiled faintly and she tried to stretch out her arms to him. There
she lay, a smitten child, fallen after a bewildering struggle with a
merciless foe. John with a breaking heart lifted her in his arms and
carried her gently to-and-fro. The change and motion relieved her a
little and what words of comfort and love he said in that last communion
only God knows. But though he held her close in his strong arms, she
found a way to pass from him to God. Quivering all over like a wounded
bird, she gave John her last smile, and was not, for God took her. The
bud had opened to set free the rose--the breathing miracle into silence
passed. Weeping passionately, his tears washed her face. He was in an
agony of piteous feeling in which there was quite unconsciously a strain
of resentment.

"She is gone!" he cried, and the two physicians present bowed their
heads. Then Jane rose and took the body from the distracted father's
arms. She was white and worn out with suffering and watching, but she
would allow no one to make the child's last toilet but herself. For this
ceremony she needed no lace or satin, no gilt or mock jewelry. She
washed the little form free of all earth's stain, combed loose the
bright brown hair, matted with the sweat of suffering, and dressed her
for the last--the last time, in one of the pretty white linen nightgowns
she had made for her darling but a few weeks