Nelly went up to him and bent down above him — ‘Father!’ she whispered. And then in a louder tone, a tone full of a sudden desperate fear, ‘Father!’
Her voice seemed to reach the dying man’s ears; for he made a little feeble movement with his hands.
The young doctor drew a step back.
‘Can’t anything be done to make that breathing easier?’ whispered Richard with something like a tone of reproach. ‘It must hurt him to breathe like that.’
Suddenly John Moreton opened his eyes and gazed at his daughter. The girl fell upon her knees and kissed his hand as it stirred faintly on the counterpane. Wildly and strangely the old man looked at her. His breathing grew shriller, harsher, huskier. It became the most dominant thing in the room. It became a living separate entity, a palpable horror that pressed with a ghastly weight upon them all; that tyrannized over them all. It was as if, in that repulsive sound, Death itself — the old eternal antagonist — was mocking them, was menacing them with an unintelligible threat.
Nelly spread out her arms over the bed and hid her face. It was not easy for her to look into those bewildered wild eyes with their inexplicable appeal. An unnatural longing suddenly seized Richard that he might rush from the room and escape, escape into the largeness of the evening, from this pitiful struggle. He felt as if every breath the dying man drew rent and tore at his own throat. He felt stifled; as if it were he himself that were wrestling there with an invisible enemy.
The impassive young doctor contemplated the scene with serene detachment. He had seen hundreds of deaths in France and this particular death had less effect upon his emotional capacity than the shooting of an aged dog.
Nelly’s head, buried in the white counterpane, was full of a turmoil of remorse. Why hadn’t she been a better, a kinder, a more considerate girl? Her sobs shook the bed and mingled with the horrible rattling in the old man’s throat.
Suddenly John Moreton jerked up his head from the pillow and held it erect. The young doctor was reminded of a similar movement in the neck of a frightened tortoise.
Inside the old man’s mind, at that moment everything was absolutely clear. In a flash he saw the whole scene. He saw the impassive doctor. He saw the weeping servant. He saw his daughter lift her tear-stained face from the bed and gaze at him with desperate love. He caught in Richard’s eye a look of fidgety irritation, a look that said ‘let’s get this melancholy business over and go for a walk on the Downs’.
And in a flash he knew that this was his last moment of what is called life. He gathered up in a bundle all his inveterate thoughts — the Eidolon Vulgaris popped up on its pedestal before him as he had grown accustomed to envisage it. It nodded at him amiably from the top of his bookcase like a leering Punchinello. He did not think of it as the great illusion of humanity. He saw it as a whimsical but not unfriendly goblin whose feelings he had hurt by his contempt. He felt inclined to bid it goodbye and to apologize to it.
Yes, his brain was clearer than it had ever been in his life. The only thing that puzzled him was that the human arms of that crucifix which hovered just above poor Gracie’s head were not fastened to anything but were waving in the air like the wings of a butterfly. What butterfly was it? That was the one thing that troubled him. He would like to know that, before darkness covered his eyes. He felt extremely happy, happier than he ever remembered feeling. Was that because Cecily and Betty were making it up? He knew they were making it up, though he could not see them. Those butterfly wings were doing it. They were hidden under the shelter of those wings; and as the wings waved they were growing smaller and smaller and smaller.
Everything was growing smaller now, smaller and further away. And yet they were not leaving him. They were leaving themselves. He himself was getting further away — a stupid old man breathing like a cracked steam engine. He was there, and they were there, far off, far away — four unhappy people bending over a grotesque old entomologist stretched out on a bed. Why couldn’t he communicate to them what a delicious thing it was to be fanned by butterfly wings?
Never had his brain been more clear. But it was annoying that he couldn’t remember the name of that butterfly! And it was annoying that he couldn’t remember what his opinions were about the immortality of the soul. He ought to be thinking about that now; not enjoying this unphilosophical happiness!
He was just on the point of dying. That was certain. This happiness was nothing less than death. What a curious discovery! And he was quite unable to explain this to any of these dear agitated young people. This was the queerest experience he had ever had in his life; it was teasing not to be able to speak.
The immortality of the soul? What was his view upon that problem? He hadn’t the least idea. He had no idea of anything except of floating in a lovely blue space — a blue space that grew darker and darker. Then he recalled one single word out of a great many. It was the word annihilation.
That was the secret then; John Moreton was being annihilated. He wished this being annihilated would never stop. It was the happiest sensation he had ever known. He loved everyone; only he couldn’t speak to tell them so. Annihilation had something to do with love, then? It must have. And it was beautiful beyond expression. But what was the connection between annihilation and the immortality of the soul? He wished he could remember what the immortality of the soul meant. It was a musical sentence. It must have meant something once to him when his brain was clouded. But his brain was clear now and it meant nothing at all!
How heavy his eyelids were growing; and how nice it was to love everyone, every single person — even foreman Pringle! Yes, his eyelids were very heavy. It would be still nicer when this blue space in which he floated got quite dark! He was going to sleep now; going to sleep upon velvet-black butterfly wings.
Someone was weeping. It wasn’t Cecily or Betty or Nelly. Who was it? It was the darkness of space. No! it was his mother.
At that moment he uttered a strange croaking cry like the cry of a bullfrog in a swamp. It seemed to himself that he shouted ‘Mother!’ in an ecstasy of indescribable peace; but to the four figures watching his death it sounded as if he had uttered the meaningless syllables ‘Blub-blub’. His head sank back on the pillow after that; the young doctor in a quiet discreet voice informed them that he was dead.
Chapter 11
The day following the old naturalist’s death was a day of supreme discomfort for Richard. His feelings were those of natural sympathy with Nelly; on his own account he felt a certain sense of loss and bewilderment. The little cottage seemed to have changed its character. The old man lying upstairs dominated every corner of it with his silent presence; and it was difficult to understand exactly how Nelly was reacting to that wordless motionless appeal.
She went about her domestic duties as usual. She comforted poor Grace and kept her from any further outburst of grief. But what, all the while, was going on in her own mind it was impossible for Richard to guess.
Canyot came round in the morning after breakfast, and Nelly took him up at once to the dead man’s room. A little later, when they were all three loitering miserably and awkwardly together in the little garden, ostensibly engaged in picking flowers to make ‘that room’ as cheerful as it could be made, they were disagreeably startled by the appearance outside the gate of Mrs Shotover’s dogcart.
Richard went to help her down.