Part 3 — CHAPTER V THE CALL OF A FRIEND

"O God, bring her back to me! Bring her back!"

Through nights and days of fruitless wandering that prayer hung upon Bobby's lips, and while her body agonized in fiery suffering such as she had never before dreamed of, her spirit went from one darkness to another on its eternal quest. Of the physical pain that racked her she took small note. It was all part of that hell of vain endeavour to which it seemed she had been condemned. Sometimes indeed, she fought it with all her strength, struggling against overwhelming odds to overthrow the barrier that separated her from her darling. But always there were arms of pitiless strength, holding her back. At other times, brokenly and with tears, she would entreat to be allowed her freedom to pursue that endless search.

"I must go myself," she would plead wistfully to that compelling force that restrained her. "She might hide from anyone but me. But I know—I know she would come to me when once I was within reach. My little baby-girl! My Rosemary!"

But all her prayers and strivings were in vain. She could not pass the barrier.

Sometimes there came periods of exhaustion when she could not strive, long spaces of nerveless inertia when pain alone held sway. At such times as these, when life was at its lowest ebb, there would come to her the long heave and roll of the Eternal as it were a sea of infinite blankness waiting to engulf her, and all she had ever known of life and all she had believed of immortality hovered on the edge of an immense and terrifying abyss into which her very individuality was about to be hurled. Stark terror held her then because she knew that in that awful void she might wander for ever and ever in anguish of soul and never again find the remotest link that could re-connect her with the world she knew—the world in which Rosemary would some day so sorely need her.

In those terrible hours of blind weakness, prayer was an impossibility to her; but sometimes, feebly aware of a human presence vaguely near her, she would gasp a piteous request that someone would pray in her stead. For a long time that plea of hers went unanswered, but in the end out of the darkness there came a voice that prayed and hands that gathered and held her own.

Sometimes the voice would tremble a little, but it always went bravely on again:

In all her anguish those words never failed to reach and comfort Bobby—to open out the way to her, as it were. Struggling on like the wanderer in the darkness, some faint gleam of light would come like a far-distant torch shining dimly over the desert of her night, and the awful void would recede before it, leaving her a measure of peace.

It was possible that at these times she slept, but it was never for long, and with the first feeble renewal of strength the old futile striving would return, the restlessness that nothing could still, the eternal urging within her to search the length and breadth of the world for her lost treasure. And so on again from one darkness to another in a fiery anguish of yearning that nothing could ever satisfy or quench.

It wore her down, that wandering, until at last the power to struggle further went from her, and there came a time when for a space all conscious existence ceased. That time was for Bobby the dividing of two eras in her life. When it passed, all illusions passed with it. She came to herself as one emptied of all that she had ever possessed, completely weak, helpless as an infant, but aware—in some ways acutely aware—of all that was passing around her. She could neither move nor speak, such was the state to which her long agony had brought her. Neither could she suffer intensely any more. She could only lie helpless, feebly breathing, feeling that even that was beyond her strength, an exertion that caused her the most deadly weariness she had ever known.

Very near to death was Bobby in those days, and she knew it, but was no longer afraid. For her the darkness was past. Suffering had taught her that even the grief she had endured was but a "light affliction." By a means wholly unfathomable but beyond all question, she knew herself to be nearer to God. It was as though a door had been opened to her tired soul, admitting her to a quiet sanctuary, and loss and pain had been shut outside. She did not mind the thought of death any more. She did not grieve for Rosemary. She knew in the depths of her being that in some fashion inexplicable to her all would be well. She viewed life no longer by ordinary standards; but as from an immense height and as though by a flashlight from the Eternal suddenly thrown upon the little span of mortality in which she still lingered, she saw the ultimate end of pain and sin—the gradual but certain renewal of all things into which God had breathed the Breath of Life. She saw the fires of suffering producing the perfect gold....

Someone came to her and knelt beside her, clasping the hand she was too weak to raise. She looked into the dark, rough-hewn face of Silas Hickory, and very feebly smiled a recognition. She was glad to have Silas near her. She would never forget that trusty friend of hers.

He did not speak, only knelt there watching her with eyes of grave intentness. There were lines on his face which she had never noticed before. He looked as if he had not slept for a very long time, and a strange impulse to comfort him arose within her. With a great effort she stirred the fingers that he held and weakly pressed his hand.

In a moment his expression changed. His eyes softened, and she saw his smile. The next instant he stooped and laid his face down upon her wrist.

When he looked up again she saw that his lips were oddly trembling. He spoke to her in a whisper.

"Hold on, Bobby!—Hold on—for God's sake!"

She knew what he meant. Her brain was crystal-clear just then. She knew that he was imploring her to cling to the chain that bound her to mortal life—that chain that had worn so thin in the long struggle. For some reason which for the moment eluded her, he did not want her to go. He could not see what she saw—the complete insignificance of worldly things. He had not reached the heights on which she stood—or realized the wonders that lay beyond.

She wanted to tell him so, but she lacked the strength for speech. Already she was turning from the fading vista that lay behind her to the infinitely greater prospect that lay before. She had no desire to linger. She wanted to go on into the vast Eternity unhampered by earthly burdens. Her spirit was slowly but surely freeing itself from all restraining shackles, like a bright-winged insect newly-born to the sunlight out of depths unknown.

The thought of turning back was repugnant to her, yet like a rising cloud it grew and spread upon her horizon, dimming the glory that had begun to dawn upon her. She had the feeling of someone calling to her, desperately holding her back, frantically needing her. Silas it was—not Rosemary! Had it been Rosemary she would have turned without question and left the heights to minister to her. But Silas—surely Silas had no right to hamper her thus!

Yet there he was, kneeling beside her, clasping her cold hand, brokenly praying her to hold on to the little futile mortal existence of which she was so weary.

"Only try!" he was saying. "I'll help you. See! I am holding you. I will take all your troubles and burdens, and you shall never suffer again."

Vain promises! She knew them as such, yet she did not smile. Who could smile at the anguish of a child wildly offering up everything within its scope of thought that it might not be deprived of the only thing that mattered? Only pity and that growing desire to comfort stirred in answer to his cry, and again very weakly she pressed his hand. If only—oh, if only—she might have gone into peace!

But—the cloud grew and spread—the distant peaks of Eternity began to fade. The hand that clung, the voice that called, gradually filled her consciousness with the knowledge that something yet remained for her to do ere the Vision could be fulfilled. Slowly, with an unspeakable regret, she turned back to the shadows she had so nearly left behind.

"You will try to get better!" urged the low voice beside her. "You will stay!"

It came upon her, listening to that earnest entreaty, that perhaps after all he had some right to ask—her staunch and loyal friend who had never before asked aught of her save to be allowed to serve her. And he did not know what he was asking of her, never would realize until his own time came how great was the sacrifice to her.

The habit of service was very strong upon her. For many years she had surrendered herself to it. Through an apprenticeship which had not been without its bitterness she had attained the measure of ease which comes from long practice. It had become second nature with her to serve the needs of others, and her own needs had been put aside. It was that habit which influenced her now. The cry for help had never been passed unheeded by her. She could not pass it now. Inexplicable as it might be, here was someone who needed her, and from such she could not turn away. Certainly he had the right to ask. He was the only friend who had ever offered her help in all the long hard years.

Because of that, her spirit stirred in answer. Because of that, she put away her own desire and faced the darkness again.

Feebly, with fluttering breath, she spoke. "Yes—Silas—I will—stay."

He would never know what it cost her, and that glimpse of the Eternal had already taught her that life and death were so merged together that the Infinite was but "a step into the open air." Regret faded with the glory that had barely begun to dawn as she turned back again at the call of a friend.