The Heart of Denise, and Other TalesLevett Yeats, S. (Sidney)
General
The Heart of Denise, and Other Tales
Levett Yeats, S. (Sidney)
Fiction; Short stories
"Thank God!" I felt a load lifted from my heart, the shadows had
passed from my soul. I lay back, my eyes closed and a peace upon me.
And then I prayed for the first time in many a long day, and whilst I
prayed I fell once more asleep. There came to me in that sleep a dream
of Nelly--of Nelly robed in white with a glory around her, and she
smiled and beckoned me to come.
Well, I was once more in England, and because she wished it I was
allowed to see Nelly. She lay on her cushions very pale and white, but
for the red spot on each cheek, and an unnatural brightness of the
eyes. I knew it was a matter of time, and all that we could do was to
wait and hope.
It came at last, one dreary evening, when the lamps were burning dimly
in the streets through the ceaseless, insistent drizzle. I cannot
linger over this or my heart would break. We stood by her, sad and
silent, waiting for the end. It was not long in coming. She had been
as it were asleep, when suddenly she awoke and her voice was strong
with the strength of death. She called to me:
"Mr. Thring, you know that story about John. Is--is it true?"
Oh, the chattering ape who had killed her! Her mother's eyes met mine;
but I could see nothing but Nelly--Nelly looking at me with a wistful
entreaty. I could not; right or wrong, I could not.
"It is not true, dear. He will come back to you."
"Say that again."
"He will come back to you, Nelly."
"He must follow," and she closed her eyes with a sweet smile on her
lips.
Then my dear's hand went out to clasp mine in thanks, and I held the
chill fingers in my grasp.
"Mother--kiss me. John--you will come," and she was gone.
* * * * *
I had stolen out of the house, leaving them with their dead. As I
closed the gate, and stepped on to the pavement a ragged figure came
out of the mist and, standing beside the lamp-post, looked towards the
house and the drawn blinds. The light fell on the wasted form and
haggard features. I could not mistake; it was John Mazarion.
I went up to him and touched him on the shoulder. He started back and
stared at me vacuously.
"She lies there dead," I said.
"Dead!"
"Ay, dead. She died with your name on her lips."
He looked at me stupidly. Then something like a sob burst from him,
and with bowed head and shambling steps he turned, and crossing the
road went from my life.
THE END.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Elsewhere in the archive
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account