"'. . . Who was not his friend who had heard him speak once?' she was saying. 'He drew men towards him by what was best in them.' She looked at me with intensity. 'It is the gift of the great,' she went on, and the sound of her low voice seemed to have the ac-companiment of all the other sounds, full of mystery, desolation, and sorrow, I had ever heard--the ripple of the river, the soughing of the trees swayed by the wind, the murmurs of wild crowds, the faint ring of incom-prehensible words cried from afar, the whisper of a voice speaking from beyond the threshold of an eternal darkness. 'But you have heard him! You know!' she cried.
"'Yes, I know,' I said with something like despair in my heart, but bowing my head before the faith that was in her, before that great and saving illusion that shone with an unearthly glow in the darkness, in the triumphant darkness from which I could not have de-fended her--from which I could not even defend myself.
"'What a loss to me--to us!'--she corrected herself with beautiful generosity; then added in a murmur, 'To the world.' By the last gleams of twilight I could see the glitter of her eyes, full of tears--of tears that would not fall.
"'I have been very happy--very fortunate--very proud,' she went on. 'Too fortunate. Too happy for a little while. And now I am unhappy for--for life.'
"She stood up; her fair hair seemed to catch all the remaining light in a glimmer of gold. I rose too.
"'And of all this,' she went on, mournfully, 'of all his promise, and of all his greatness, of his generous mind, of his noble heart, nothing remains--nothing but a memory. You and I--'
"'We shall always remember him,' I said, hastily.
"'No!' she cried. 'It is impossible that all this should be lost--that such a life should be sacrificed to leave nothing--but sorrow. You know what vast plans he had. I knew of them too--I could not perhaps under-stand,--but others knew of them. Something must re-main. His words, at least, have not died.'
"'His words will remain,' I said.
"'And his example,' she whispered to herself. 'Men looked up to him,--his goodness shone in every act. His example--'
"'True,' I said; 'his example too. Yes, his example.
I forgot that.'
"'But I do not. I cannot--I cannot believe--not yet.
I cannot believe that I shall never see him again, that nobody will see him again, never, never, never.'
"She put out her arms as if after a retreating figure, stretching them black and with clasped pale hands across the fading and narrow sheen of the window. Never see him! I saw him clearly enough then. I shall see this eloquent phantom as long as I live, and I shall see her too, a tragic and familiar Shade, resembling in this ges-ture another one, tragic also, and bedecked with power-less charms, stretching bare brown arms over the glitter of the infernal stream, the stream of darkness. She said suddenly very low, 'He died as he lived.'
"'His end,' said I, with dull anger stirring in me, 'was in every way worthy of his life.'
"'And I was not with him,' she murmured. My anger subsided before a feeling of infinite pity.
"'Everything that could be done--' I mumbled.
"'Ah, but I believed in him more than anyone on earth--more than his own mother, more than--himself.
He needed me! Me! I would have treasured every sigh, every word, every sign, every glance.'
"I felt like a chill grip on my chest. 'Don't,' I said, in a muffled voice.
"'Forgive me. I--I--have mourned so long in silence --in silence. . . . You were with him--to the last?
I think of his loneliness. Nobody near to understand him as I would have understood. Perhaps no one to hear. . . .'
"'To the very end,' I said, shakily. 'I heard his very last words. . . .' I stopped in a fright.
"'Repeat them,' she said in a heart-broken tone. 'Iwant--I want--something--something--to--to live with.'
"I was on the point of crying at her, 'Don't you hear them?' The dusk was repeating them in a persistent whisper all around us, in a whisper that seemed to swell menacingly like the first whisper of a rising wind. 'The horror! the horror!'
"'His last word--to live with,' she murmured. 'Don't you understand I loved him--I loved him--I loved him!'
"I pulled myself together and spoke slowly.
"'The last word he pronounced was--your name.'
"I heard a light sigh, and then my heart stood still, stopped dead short by an exulting and terrible cry, by the cry of inconceivable triumph and of unspeakable pain. 'I knew it--I was sure!' . . . She knew. She was sure. I heard her weeping; she had hidden her face in her hands. It seemed to me that the house would collapse before I could escape, that the heavens would fall upon my head. But nothing happened. The heavens do not fall for such a trifle. Would they have fallen, I wonder, if I had rendered Kurtz that justice which was his due? Hadn't he said he wanted only jus-tice? But I couldn't. I could not tell her. It would have been too dark--too dark altogether. . . ."Marlow ceased, and sat apart, indistinct and silent, in the pose of a meditating Buddha. Nobody moved for a time. "We have lost the first of the ebb," said the Di-rector, suddenly. I raised my head. The offing was barred by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil water-way leading to the uttermost ends of the earth flowed somber under an overcast sky--seemed to lead into the heart of an immense darkness.
The End _
