If Winter Comes Part 56

Sabre, after Hapgood on the visit on which he had begun "to tell him things", had left him, was sitting propped up in bed awaiting who next might come. The nurse had told him he was to have visitors that morning.

He sat as a man might sit at daybreak, brooding down upon a valley whence slowly the veiling mists dissolved. These many days they had been lifting; there were becoming apparent to him familiar features about the landscape. He was as one returned after long absence to his native village and wondering to find forgotten things again, paths he had walked, scenes he had viewed, places and people left long ago and still enduring here. More than that: he was to go down among them.

The door opened and one came in. Nona.

She said to him, "Marko!"

He had no reply that he could make.

She slipped off a fur that she was wearing and came and sat down beside him. She wore what he would have thought of as a kind of waistcoat thing, cut like his own waistcoats but short; and opened above like a waistcoat but turned back in a white rolled edging, revealing all her throat. She had a little closefitting hat banded with flowers and a loose veil depended from it. She put back the veil. Beauty abode in her face as the scent within the rose, Hapgood had said; and, as perfume deeply inhaled, her serene and tender beauty penetrated Sabre's senses, propped up, watching her. He had something to say to her.

"How long is it since I have seen you, Nona?"

"It's a month since I was here, Marko."

"I don't remember it."

"You've been very ill; oh, so ill."

He said slowly, "Yes, I think I've been down in a pretty deep place."

"You're going to be splendid now, Marko."

He did not respond to her tone. He said, "I've come on a lot in the last few weeks. I'd an idea you'd been about me before that. I'd an idea you'd be coming again. There's a thing I've been thinking out to tell you."

She breathed, "Yes, tell me, Marko."

But he did not answer.

She said, "Have you been thinking, in these weeks, while you've been coming on, what you are going to do?"

His hands, that had been crumpling up the sheet, were now laid flat before him. His eyes, that had been regarding her, were now averted from her, fixed ahead. "There is nothing I can do, in the way you mean."

She was silent a little time.

"Marko, we've not talked at all about the greatest thing--of course they've told you?--the Armistice, the war won. England, your England that you loved so, at peace, victorious; those dark years done. England her own again. Your dear England, Marko."

He said, "It's no more to do with me. Frightful things have happened to me. Frightful things."

She stretched a hand to his. He moved his hands away. "Marko, they're done. I would not have spoken of them. But shall I.... Your dear England in those years suffered frightful things. She suffered lies, calumnies, hateful and terrible things--not in one little place but across the world. Those who loved her trusted her and she has come through those dark years; and those who know you have trusted you _always_, and you are coming through those days to show to all. Time, Marko; time heals all things, forgets all things, and proves all things. There's that for you."

He shook his head with a quick, decisive motion.

She went on. "There's your book--your 'England.' You have that to go to now. And all your plans--do you remember telling me all your plans? Such splendid plans. And first of all your 'England' that you loved writing so."

He said, "It can't be. It can't be."

She began again to speak. He said, "I don't want to hear those things.

They're done. I don't want to be told those things. They have nothing to do with me."

She tried to present to him indifferent subjects for his entertainment.

She could not get him to talk any more. Presently she said, with a movement, "I am not to stay with you very long."

He then aroused himself and spoke and had a firmness in his voice. "And I'll tell you this," he said. "This was what I said I had to tell you.

When you go, you are not to return. I don't want to see you again."

She drew a breath, steadying herself, "Why not, Marko?"

"Because what's been has been. Done. I've been through frightful things.

They're on me still. They always will be on me. But from everything that belongs to them I want to get right away. And I'm going to."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. Only get right away."

She got up. "Very well. I understand." She turned away. "It grieves me, Marko. But I understand. I've always understood you." She turned again and came close to him. "That's what you're going to do. Do you know what I'm going to do?"

He shook his head. He was breathing deeply.

"I'm going to do what I ought to have done the minute I came into the room. I hadn't quite the courage. This."

She suddenly stooped over him. She encircled him with her arms and slightly raised him to her. She put her lips to his and kissed him and held him so.

"You are never going to leave me, Marko. Never, never, never, till death."

He cried, "Beloved, Beloved," and clung to her. "Beloved, Beloved!" and clung to her....

_Postscript...._ This went through the mail bearing postmark, September, 1919:

"And seeing in the picture newspaper photograph with printing called 'Lady Tybar, widow of the late Lord Tybar, V.C., who is marrying Mr. Mark Sabre (inset)' and never having been in comfortable situation since leaving Penny Green, have expected you might be wishing for cook and house parlourmaid as before and would be most pleased and obliged to come to you, which if you did not remember us at first were always called by you hi! Jinks and lo!

Jinks, and no offence ever taken, as knowing it was only your way and friendly. And so will end now and hoping you may take us and oblige, your obedient servants

"Sarah Jinks (hi!) "Rebecca Jinks (lo!)"

The End