His Spirit Could Not Be Happy Until He
Restored Happiness to the One He Loved
The Dark Interval
By J. B. POWELL
HARGROVE thought: "Pray—pray—why don't I pray? Can’t—never learned. Well, what's the difference? Why don't I get frightened? Whisky—it's got me now. I've been a fool. Anne—Anne—where is Anne? The will—Anne—Anne—"
The man was dying. At first he had thought the attack was simply another spell with his heart. He had gotten up out of bed and poured himself a whisky and soda, as was his habit when he had these sudden heart pains. He had then returned to bed to await relief and finally sleep. But the stimulant had failed, and as time went on he felt his fat body grow limp and weak. The sharp pains crept nearer to his heart, and his brain felt numb and tired.
He had checked an impulse to ring for a servant. He knew he was dying, beyond aid. And he wanted no hysterical old man tottering about the room and wringing his useless hands. He had thought it strange that one should feel the approach of death so definitely, and so calmly. He had sometimes wondered just what the sensation would be like. He had wondered if those who lead so-called blameless lives would die more easily than men of his own type. He decided not. Funny, no regrets, no fright, no desire to hang on to life. Strange, too, that one could face the unknown so fearlessly when the time came. Well, he had gotten more out of life than most people. He had lived!
Death was a promise, he had thought—a promise of release, of rest; but only a promise. He had tried to turn this last thought over in his mind, but he felt his senses blurring, and his thoughts became vague and disconnected.
And then, "Anne—Anne—."
He tried to call but the words froze on his cold lips. John Hargrove was dead.
2
"Will you be goin' in right away, ma'am?"
"Please, Mary."
"I kinda looked for you yisterdee, but I guess you was so fur away an' everythin'."
"Yes, Mary."
"They put him in the big room. I thought it would be best with all his friends an' all. I bin keepin' the door locked agin his relations and such. They come yisterdee. I wanted to wait till you got here, ma'am. He's bin in there two days now."
The servant unlocked a pair of large oak doors, and the two women stepped into the darkened room.
"Them candles are a-burnin' low agin. I bin keepin' 'em lit but seems like they burn down mighty quick. He's over here by the grate, ma'am."
The women stopped suddenly and peered down into the black coffin.
