Chapter 42: The Sorrows of Her Changing Face

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

"When You Are Old" By William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

Later that night, Erik awoke to the soft sound of sobs. His eyes flashed open and he froze with fear that the older man's time had already come. The moment he dreaded was upon them, but he realized that the sound he heard was in his room. Confused, he rose up on one arm and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. There was a sharp intake of breath and then silence.

"Christine?"

The word hung in the wintry cold air of the room like an icicle from the eaves of a roof before the soft reply came.

"Yes, Erik. It is me."

A soft sniffle sounded.

"How long have you known?"

"Of all the questions she could ask, why that one? If I answer this question with the wrong words, this could push her away from me. She might hate me. What should I say? Mon Dieu!"

"Erik?"

He sighed and sat up in his bed. Running his hand through his sleep tousled hair; he closed his eyes and answered her.

"Your father told me the first night I stayed here. The night I slept on the settee. He wanted me to know that I could not stay with the two of you indefinitely as his health was failing."

The small shadow crept closer to Erik's bed.

"Did he tell you that you should not tell me?"

Erik's eyes flashed open.

"Of course not, why would he do that?"

Erik felt his mattress press down as Christine clambered onto the bed.

"I do not know, perhaps, the same reason that made him wait so long to tell me. He did not wish to upset me."

"Did it work?"

"Of course not, I am so upset with him, I feel like punching him right in his big, fat nose, except for the fact that he is so very sick ... that is the only thing saving him right now. Why did he do this? I feel like he punched me in the stomach. It hurts so badly and I feel sick. He should have told me. I feel like I could have spent so much more of my time with him. I have lost so much time that I can never have back. I am so angry with him. He left me all alone and I wanted to die..."

"Wait! She is talking about her father as if he has already died. What is happening? She sounds older, too!"

"Erik?"

The voice had taken on the softness of childhood once more and Erik silently sighed in relief.

"Yes, Christine?"

"Can you sing to me? I do not think I can go back to sleep unless you do. Everything hurts too much."

"Of course, mon ange, what would you like me to sing?"

The small form scooted closer to him and snuggled against his chest.

"Please sing the first song you ever sang to me. Will you sing it for me, Erik?"

"I could never deny you anything, ma petite."

Hush a bye
Don't you cry
Go to sleep my little baby
When you wake
You shall have
All the pretty little ponies.

In your bed
Momma said
Baby's riding off to dreamland
One by One
They've begun
Dance and prance for little baby.

Black and bays
Dapples and grays
Running in the night
When you wake
You shall have
All the pretty little ponies.

Can you see the little ponies
Dance before your eyes
All the pretty little ponies
Will be there when you arise. ¹

About midway through the song, Erik felt the girl's body slacken against his and he realized she was asleep. He finished the song and then just sat there holding the child that he knew would grow to be his wife one day. His hands stroked and calmed her torrent of dark curls as his heart wept for the child in his arms. The morning promised to be gloomy and gray as Erik at last drifted into a fitful slumber.

The young man's eyes drifted open and he felt as if he were missing something. He sat up confused and then remembered that Christine had climbed into his bed the night before. He looked around his room, but she had gone. He listened carefully and thought he could hear her singing outside.

"She is such a silly little thing! She does so love to go looking for crocus. Crocuses are the things that she loves most about winter; something about those delicate ivory and purple blossoms that she just adores. I wonder ... I know what it is. It is the hope of spring."

He smiled and stood up. Allowing his arms to rise above his head, he arched his back and stretched. It was morning, a morning like all the other mornings he had shared with Christine and Gustave. But something niggled away at the back of his mind, something ominous in its familiarity and he found it greatly unsettled him. He lost the last vestiges of his good mood as realization flooded his consciousness.

"Crocus! Oh no, Gustave, please, not yet! Do not let today be the day! Allow us to have one more day!"

Suddenly, Erik froze as the sound of Christine's voice rose from her father's bedroom. Her song, while beautiful, echoed cold, hollow and lifeless throughout the house. He wanted to run to her side, but the music held him firmly rooted to the spot.

"No! I must go to her! Now is the moment she needs me. Am I to fail her? I think not. So, move, Destler! Move!"

Without another thought, Erik raced from his bedroom, out the door, down the hall, through the open door of Gustave's bedroom and into the man's room. He halted at the foot of the bed, taking in the sight of Christine's small body lying snuggled against her father's unmoving chest. Erik bowed his head for the briefest of moments to say a small prayer before walking to the bedside and closing the man's staring, lifeless eyes. With that act accomplished, he placed his hand on the unmoving girl's shoulder and shook her slightly.