Strange how agony went out of pain when youth was gone. Sharpness of pain was gone, frantic pain was gone, sorrow was only an ache now, a deep swelling ache. Or was it that having suffered so vividly over Paul she had filled her capacity for suffering, so that now nothing could stab her again? Death seemed not sorrowful anymore, no more since she had come to think of death to free Paul. There was no other healing for Paul. So the sting was gone from any dying. When people died, they were set free. Francis was free, free of Fanny at last, free of himself. No, death could no longer wound her …
“… You understand how I could never leave my wife,” Roger wrote. “She is so defenseless — a helpless creature. You are so strong you are able to bear life as it is.”
She put his letter down and began to weep. She wept aloud, in the middle of a shining morning, in the midst of spring. For now she was mortally wounded. Because she was strong she must bear to the uttermost. Because she was strong, he said, she must again give up what she wanted. She wrote back to him wildly, out of her intolerable hurt. He answered, “I cannot make her suffer. Shall the deer suffer because it is the deer, because it is not born the lion?”
She was silent in her agony — shaking and trembling, feeding the children blindly, going blindly about the house. “Joan, you don’t laugh!” David cried. “I wish you’d laugh again about something!” Frankie was silent, watching her with great melancholy eyes.
She flung back at Roger, “And shall the lion suffer because it is the lion? It suffers the more being strong also to suffer … Let us not write anymore. You are not free. I can see it.”
She would end it. She sealed the letter and mailed it in hot hurry. Let it all be over. She was wounded to the core. He could wound her as death could not wound her, as even Paul had not the power to wound her. She walked back into her house. Let her be content with what she had. She had so much. She would stretch it to be enough.
She put a smile upon her face resolutely. Paul was walking, clinging from chair to chair, turning himself about the leg of the table, panting with his struggle to walk. Mary was already on her feet, a small nimble thing. They were all there in her house. David was frowning over his arithmetic. In the kitchen she heard Frankie moving about quietly, getting supper for her. In his delicate way he held himself aloof from the others, never quite like them, knowing himself, serving them in small ways unasked, shy of sitting down with them.
“Sit down, Frankie,” she said every day.
“Yes’m, I’m nearly ready to.” But he delayed if he could.
Then as she stood among them, Paul saw her. For the first time in his life he really saw. He looked up at the sound of her coming, and he staggered toward her, three steps, and caught her around the knees and looked up at her. Out of his dim gaze something focused in his mind for a moment and he spoke—“Mamma?”
It was his first word. She stared, incredulous with joy, into his upturned face. Why, he knew her — Paul knew his mother! She fell to her knees and seized him and began to laugh and to sob. “Children, David, Frankie, did you hear Paul? He called me!”
He pulled at the blue beads about her throat, the beads Mr. Winters had given her long ago. She had put them on this morning because of her blue dress.
They came running around her, David shouting, Mary clamoring with glee at the noise, Frankie smiling. “Say it again, Paul!” cried David.
“Say it, darling,” she urged. “Once more — Mamma — Mamma — say it, Paul!” She was avid to hear the word again, to repeat the moment.
But Paul had slipped to the floor and was staring at the beads, spreading them over his hands, as though he could not hear her. The moment had gone. “But anyway he spoke once,” she said fiercely, getting up from her knees. “I’ve heard his voice once, even if he never speaks again.”
He was mumbling over the beads. She turned away quickly.
“Now, David, do you need help with your arithmetic? Yes, Frankie, toast the bread — we’ll have toast and milk for supper, all of us.”
But Paul really had spoken to her. In the great desolation—“I have ended what was between Roger and me”—there was the little taper burning. Once Paul had spoken to her.
“Did you think I was going to let you get away from me like that?” Roger was there. She opened the door in the morning and he was there. “Your letter came last night. She and I were there alone. I saw her as I’ve always known she was — always in my heart she was — never wanting to see. You made me see her—”
He clenched his hands upon her shoulders. Across the room Mary was pausing, astonished. She saw Mary’s eyes, staring, astonished, at this stranger bursting into the house.
“Roger, it isn’t so easy—”
“No, it isn’t so easy — It’s so hard you’ve got to help me know what to do. She’s here. I brought her.”
“Roger!” she cried at him in consternation. “What have you told her?”
“Nothing at all except that you were the sister of one of my best men who was killed, and I wanted to see how things were. Come,” he said brusquely.
She followed him down the narrow grassy path to the picket gate. There in the road was a small low car. Roger’s wife sat there.
“Millicent, this is Francis Richards’ sister. You know I told you …”
She put out her hand and felt a cool slight touch upon it. “How do you do?” It was a light, pretty voice. She lifted her eyes to the face. “Will you come in?” she said quietly. This was the face Roger had once loved very much. He had said, “I was once very much in love. I was very young.” Yes, this was a helpless creature. The pretty, aging face turned to Roger, questioning, helpless.
“Yes, get out and come in,” he said. He opened the door and helped her out. She went up the path in her dainty high-heeled shoes, clinging to his arm. Behind them Joan walked, alone. She had never in all her life clung to anyone as this woman was doing, never once.
In the house they sat down, the three of them. Instinctively she drew up for this woman the comfortable chair. “Will you sit here?” She made her voice quiet, hospitable. This was her house and these were her guests. Casually the slender figure in the girlish blue suit settled into the chintz-covered chair which was her own. She sat down on a straight chair, feeling herself huge, untidy, beside this minute perfection. Roger had loved this porcelain creature. Roger’s deep passion had been poured upon this childish woman. She glanced at him. He was sitting there, gloomy, waiting.
The little creature was looking at him with pale anxiety. “I don’t believe you feel well, Roger. He hasn’t seemed well since last night.” She was gazing at him out of her pretty, china-blue eyes. “I didn’t want him to come this morning, but he would come.” She laughed with aging coquetry. “I have to fuss over him a little. I’ve never had any children, Mrs. … Mrs. …”
She did not supply a name for herself. It did not matter what her name was.
“It is right for you to take care of him,” she said gravely. Of course Roger could never leave this little creature, this little defenseless creature. The strong, the strong must suffer. “I have my four children,” she said suddenly.
“Such a comfort, I know,” the cool high voice was murmuring.
But Roger had said nothing at all. He was sitting there in his brown tweed overcoat, silent, his hat between his fingers. It was true he did not look well. There were deep circles under his eyes and his dark skin was sullen. “Beloved!” she cried to him in her heart. As though she had spoken he lifted his head and they looked at each other fully.