I seemed to hear myself saying, "My child shall not die. Poverty shall
not kill her. I am going to take her into the country . . . she will
recover. . . . No, no, it is not Martin. Martin is dead. . . . But his
eyes . . . don't you see his eyes. . . . Let me go."
Then all the confused sense of nightmare seemed to be carried away as by
some mighty torrent, and there came a great calm, a kind of morning
sweetness, with the sun shining through my closed eyelids, and not a
sound in my ears but the thin carolling of a bird.
When I opened my eyes I was in bed in a room that was strange to me. It
was a little like the Reverend Mother's room in Rome, having pictures of
the Saints on the walls, and a large figure of the Sacred Heart over the
mantelpiece; but there was a small gas fire, and a canary singing in a
gilded cage that hung in front of the window.
I was trying to collect my senses in order to realize where I was when
Sister Mildred's kind face, in her white wimple and gorget, leaned over
me, and she said, with a tender smile, "You are awake now, my child?"
Then memory came rushing back, and though the immediate past was still
like a stormy dream I seemed to remember everything.
Pages:
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996