James T. Boulton

Elizabeth, who had sobbed herself weary, looked up. Then
she put her arms round him, and kissed him again on the smooth
ripples below the breasts, and held him to her. She loved him
very much now -- so beautiful, and gentle, and helpless. He
must have suffered! What must he have suffered! Her tears
started hot again. Ah, she was so sorry, sorrier than she could
ever tell. She was sorry for him, that he had suffered so, and
got lost in the dark places of death. But the poignancy of her
grief was that she loved him again -- ah, so much! She did not
want him to wake up, she did not want him to speak. She had
him again, now, and it was Death which had brought him.
She kissed him, so that she might kiss Death which had taken
the ugly things from him. Think how he might have come
home -- not white and beautiful, gently smiling... Ugly,
befouled, with hateful words on an evil breath, reeking with
disgust. She loved him so much now; her life was mended
again, and her faith looked up with a smile; he had come home
to her, beautiful. How she had loathed him! It was strange
he could have been such as he had been. How wise of death
to be so silent! If he spoke, even now, her anger and her scorn
would lift their heads like fire. He would not speak -- no, just
gently smile, with wide eyes. She was sorry to have to disturb
him to put on his shirt -- but she must, he could not lie like that.
The shirt was aired by now. But it would be cruel hard work
to get him into it. He was so heavy, and helpless, more helpless
than a baby, poor dear! -- and so beautiful.

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