The twilight had passed away in the dazzling white light.
But yonder, in the big, dark, chilly house, the old woman sat waiting. She had sent the maids to bed and told them to put out all the lights, but she herself did not go to bed; she waited. She sat in her big, dark room, with just a candle flickering on the table beside her.
It seemed to her that she was waiting a long time. She felt very cold, though she had put her little black shawl round her shoulders. And she peered into the frowning shadow, which quivered with dancing black ghosts and with the flickering of the candle. It was a dance of ghosts, hovering silently round the room, and they seemed to have come from the distant past to haunt her, to have come out of the things of long ago, of very long ago: far-off, forgotten years of childhood and girlhood; the young man whom she had married; their long life together; their children, young around them. . . . Then the rise of their greatness; the rise of the white palaces in tropical climes; the glitter around them and their children of all the glittering vanity of the world. . . . Then the children growing up and moving farther and farther away from her. . . . And she saw it all looming so darkly and so menacingly in the long, dark rooms, while she sat waiting and watching by the flickering flame of the candle.
Then her old head nodded very slowly up and down, as if to say that she recognized all the things of long ago which loomed so darkly and threateningly, that there was not a ghost which she did not recognize, but that she did not understand why they all thronged round her to-night, like a vision of menace, a dance of death. . . . And, while she sat and wondered, it was as if each dancing phantom blacked out something of the room and the present that she still saw faintly gleaming, blacked out one outline after the other with dancing phantom after dancing phantom, until at last all was black around her . . . and not only the room and the present had become black, but also the pale visions of the past: the years of childhood and girlhood; the young man whom she had married; and the children; and all the life, yonder, in the white palaces amid the tropical scenery: black, everything became black, until everything was blotted out, until the dance of all those phantoms was obliterated in shadow and the old woman, nodding her head, still sat peering into the dark, with the flickering candle beside her.
Thus she sat and waited; and, with the darkness before her, it was as if she did not see the candle, now that everything had become black. Thus she sat and waited and wondered whether many and many nights would still drag their blackness over her: how many black hours, how many black nights could the black future still drag along? . . . Until at last she heard a bell, clanging like a shrill alarm through the livid darkness. And mechanically—because she was waiting—she rose painfully and took her candle. Through the dark room and the dim passage she went; and the faint light went with her, so faint that she did not see it, that she just groped her way painfully through the passage and down the stairs, still holding high the candle. . . . The stairs seemed steep to her and she went cautiously, waiting on each step; at each step the faint light of the candle descended with her; and behind her the night accumulated with each step that she left behind her. . . . She had now reached the foot of the stairs; and, slowly and painfully, with the dragging tread of age, she went through the hall to the front door, whence the alarm had rung.
And her trembling hand opened the door. Addie entered:
"Granny, is that you yourself? . . ."
"Yes, child."
"I came, Granny dear, because Mamma said that you expected us."
"Yes."
"Were you waiting up for us, Granny?"
"Yes."
He took the candle out of her hand:
"I have come to say, Granny . . . that there's nothing wrong with Uncle Gerrit. . . ."
She nodded her head wisely.
"Now you won't wait any longer for Mamma, Granny . . . and you'll go to bed, won't you? . . . Can I do anything more for you?"
She nodded her head:
"Yes," she said.
"What, Granny dear? Shall I hold the candle for you and will you go to bed then?"
"No, no. . . ."
"What do you want to do then, Granny dear?"
"Wait. . . ."
"Are you still waiting for Mamma?"
"Yes."
"But perhaps she won't come. . . ."
She nodded her head again.
He gently led her away from where she stood and up the stairs:
"So you are not going to bed yet?"
She shook her head.
"Are you still expecting Mamma?"
She nodded.
"Shall I light the gas, Grandmamma?"
She put her hand on his arm to prevent him:
"No, no," she said. "It's dark. There is no light."
"But won't you have the gas lit, Grandmamma?"
"There is no light."
"You would do better to go to bed."
"Mamma's coming."
"She will hardly come now, Granny."
"She's coming."
A bell rang; and Addie started.
"She's coming," repeated the old woman.
Addie went downstairs and opened the door. It was Constance, with a cab, in the driving snow.
"Mamma! . . ."
"I've come. . . . I left the doctor and Papa . . . with Aunt Adeline. . . ."
"Grandmamma is expecting you . . ."
They went in. And it semed to Constance as though, after the whiteness outside and all the despair yonder, she saw it snowing here, inside the house, snowing black, with dark, black snow-flakes, inside the hall, inside the rooms; and the face of her mother, sitting beside the candle, stared at her, like a ghost, with glassy eyes. . . .
"Mamma! . . ."
"Constance, there's nothing wrong . . . with Gerrit?"
"No, oh no, Mamma!"
"I'm glad, I'm glad, dear. And there's nothing wrong . . . with Ernst either?"
"No, oh no, Mamma!"
"So there's nothing wrong with any of them?"
"No, they're all well, Mamma!"
"All well . . . all well. I'm glad, dear . . . especially as to-night . . ."
"What, Mamma?"
"Is the last time. The last Sunday. I am too tired, dear . . . and they . . . they are all too far. . . . And, if there's nothing wrong with any of them . . . if they're all well . . ."
"Then . . . ?"
"Then . . . then no more . . . Sundays. . . . And this house . . . is too big . . . and the house is so cold, so cold. The house is so cold and so big. . . . And the cold house is so dark. . . . And Mamma wants . . ."
"What do you want, Mamma?"
"To come to you, dear . . . now that you are back . . . from Brussels. . . . To you, dear . . . Mamma . . . Mamma wants to come . . . to you. . . ."
"Do you want to come to us, Mamma?"
"Yes, to you . . . dear. . . . To you, dear. . . . So Gerrit . . . is well?"
"Oh yes, Mamma . . . he's well. . . ."
"Then . . . then all is well. . . ."
Suddenly the candle flared up and went out.
Then they lit the gas and took the old woman up to bed. She submitted like a child. For around her, after her last glimmer of light, the twilight had deepened into black night.
THE END