Towards morning the girl fell naturally asleep. The mother regarded her
closely, lightly touched her forehead with her lips, and went away,
having blown out the candle. She found her husband kneeling in his
nightshirt by the bed. He muttered a few swift syllables, and looked up
as she entered.
“She is asleep,” whispered the wife hoarsely.
“Is it a—a natural sleep?” hesitated the husband.
“Yes. I think it is. I think she will be all right.”
“Thank God!” whispered the father, almost inaudibly.
He held his wife’s hand as she lay by his side. He was the comforter.
She felt as if now she might cry and take comfort and sleep. He, the
quiet, obliterated man, held her hand, taking the responsibility upon
himself.
XXX
Beatrice was careful not to let the blow of Siegmund’s death fall with
full impact upon her. As it were, she dodged it. She was afraid to meet
the accusation of the dead Siegmund, with the sacred jury of memories.
When the event summoned her to stand before the bench of her own soul’s
understanding, she fled, leaving the verdict upon herself eternally
suspended.
When the neighbours had come, alarmed by her screaming, she had allowed
herself to be taken away from her own house into the home of a
neighbour. There the children were brought to her. There she wept, and
stared wildly about, as if by instinct seeking to cover her mind with
confusion. The good neighbour controlled matters in Siegmund’s house,
sending for the police, helping to lay out the dead body. Before Vera
and Frank came home, and before Beatrice returned to her own place, the
bedroom of Siegmund was locked.
Beatrice avoided seeing the body of her husband; she gave him one swift
glance, blinded by excitement; she never saw him after his death. She
was equally careful to avoid thinking of him. Whenever her thoughts
wandered towards a consideration of how he must have felt, what his
inner life must have been, during the past six years, she felt herself
dilate with terror, and she hastened to invoke protection.
“The children!” she said to herself—“the children. I must live for the
children; I must think for the children.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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