Michael had no feeling of fright at all, only of longing for something
that physically could not be. And longing, only longing, once more he
said:
"Come in, mother."
He believed he heard the door whisper on the carpet, but he saw nothing.
Only, the room was full of his mother's presence. It seemed to him that,
in obedience to her, he lay down completely satisfied. . . . He felt no
curiosity to see or hear more. She was there, and that was enough.
He woke again a little after dawn. Petsy between the window and the door
had jumped on to his bed to get out of the draught of the morning wind.
For the door was opened.
That morning the coffin was carried down the long winding path above the
deep-water reach, where Michael and Francis at Christmas had heard the
sound of stealthy rowing, and on to the boat that awaited it to ferry it
across to the church. There was high tide, and, as they passed over the
estuary, the stillness of supreme noon bore to them the tolling of the
bell. The mourners from the house followed, just three of them, Lord
Ashbridge, Michael, and Aunt Barbara, for the rest were to assemble at
the church. But of all that, one moment stood out for Michael above all
others, when, as they entered the graveyard, someone whom he could not
see said: "I am the Resurrection and the Life," and he heard that his
father, by whom he walked, suddenly caught his breath in a sob.
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