* * * * *
Weeks went into months. A winter came and then spring. The birds went
and then came back. Clarinda and Tizzia lived and waited. But no word
came from Peter. They could not tell whether the letters Clarinda had
written had reached him or not. Tizzia gave up. She thought that the
separation had been too long. That Clarinda had gone out of Peter’s
mind—that if he remembered her at all it was only as one remembers a
dream, indistinctly, without placement. She had died and been buried.
Clarinda still hoped. She could not define why this condition remained
with her. Hope kept her alive. Tizzia did not tell her that in her own
belief the thing was done. Peter would not answer.
In June, on the same date that Clarinda had been married so many years
before, on almost the same sort of day, the sun was bright. The warmth
of the weather filled all the passersby with pleasure. The boulevards
were lined with people. The little iron chairs that sat close to the
iron tables were crowded. Gaiety and life permeated everything. In the
distance here and there bands blared forth music. Clarinda sat in her
garden under the shade of a pink umbrella. There was not much change in
her beauty. It was still there. Her eyes were as bright and shone with
the same lustre. Behind them could be seen a queer knowledge. It shone
forth in bitterness. The attitude of her body was different. Her figure
was almost as slim.
Her eyes were gradually closed to the light. A soft haze came between
her and the day. She was soothed by the sound of the fountain that
played beyond her. A bird sang in a tree. Tizzia sat close to her upon a
stool at her feet. Peace, ineffable in its entirety closed about them.
Clarinda slept. Tizzia watched her, not a sound disturbed the quiet. A
gate clashed on its hinges. A window opened from the porch of the house.
It swung to again and made almost as much clatter as the gate, then
slowly and evenly two men walked down from the porch and came on through
the garden. They came as if they knew every step of the way. There was
no hesitancy in their advance. Tizzia did not hear them. She did not
move. Clarinda sighed in her sleep. A smile crept over her face. She
made a slight movement of her body as if settling herself in some deep
remembrance. The smile on her face widened, and her lips spread apart
showing her teeth. A great beauty settled down upon her. Tizzia looked
up at her, and shook her head slowly. A new hope came into her heart.
She thought that he might come. How wonderful. A probability of joy that
would come filled Tizzia with anxiety. She feared it would not happen,
it had been so long.
Tizzia sat and looked at her. Then suddenly she heard the steps of the
men, and she sprang from the stool and raised herself. She looked up the
path. Her face became pale. She shook with emotion.
“At last!” she exclaimed. Tizzia advanced towards them.
“Yes, we are here. It has been long. But we are here,” said the older
man.
“She is asleep. Shall I go to her?”
“No!” answered the older of the two men. “I will go to her.”
The younger man stopped. He looked towards Clarinda. His face was drawn.
A great anxiety seemed to bear down upon him. He seemed uncertain as he
stood beside Tizzia.
The older man, bent by the weight of his years, strode painfully over to
Clarinda. He stood in front of her. Steadily he looked down upon her.
Her lips were still parted in a smile. A faint color was spread over her
cheeks. To Peter they looked still smooth. He could only see an
indefinite change that all the years had planted upon her; he saw her as
she was the day she left him. He still remembered the cruelty of her
words. They had burnt themselves into his soul, and they came back to
him with even as great poignancy as if he had just listened to them.
Clarinda moved. Her hand stretched out in front of her as if she were
reaching for something. It fell to her side. The smile went from her
face. Peter did not move. Slowly with effort she opened her eyes. The
light dazzled her as she looked at the man standing in front of her. At
first she did not comprehend, then gradually it broke in upon her. She
saw Peter. Her breath came from her in gasps. She could not speak.
Peter said slowly, “I am here. I have brought the boy. I have come for
you, Clarinda.”
Clarinda gasped. She could not move. She lay inert in her chair, and
heard his words. But she could not comprehend them. To her they were
only words. It seemed to her as if some ghost had stepped out of the
garden and confronted her. Gradually as if she had been steeped in a
tepid bath the drops of perspiration gathered on her face.
Peter did not move, or say anything, but seemed to be waiting. Slowly
Clarinda found her voice, which was weak and uncertain. It came from her
in a whisper as she stammered.
“At last it is you! How—wonderful! And the boy.” Clarinda fell back into
her chair. A great pallor spread over her cheeks, and with an effort she
shook the tide from her. She arose from her chair, and staggered
slightly. Peter stretched out his hand as if to stay her. As his hand
came toward her, she moved slightly back.
“No!—No!—Peter,” she said. “It is not for you to forgive. My greatest
sin has not been against you but against the boy. It lies with him, so
let him think.”
Peter turned from her, and motioned to the younger man who was talking
in a low tone to Tizzia. He beckoned to him and the young man advanced.
He came until he stood quite close to his father.
Peter said quietly, “This is your mother.”
“You never told me, Father, where we were coming. I am unprepared. I
don’t understand, I am so shocked. How beautiful she is. This is the
first time in all my life I have ever heard you speak of her.”
“Yes,” answered Clarinda, “I am your mother.” She turned to Peter.
“Peter,” she said, “you are bigger than I am, and after all you are a
man. I have failed again.”
“What is done, is done,” he replied. “There are only a few years in
front of me. I am well over sixty. You and I and the boy will go back.
We will try.”
The boy knelt at his mother’s feet, and touched the hem of her dress,
then he turned his eyes up to her.
“I’ve wanted a mother so much. I’ve dreamed of a mother, and at last
I’ve found you.”
Clarinda wept. The tears went down her face, and she did not try to stem
the torrent.
“We shall be happy,” the boy went on. “Never again shall we be
separated. I am so happy! You are so beautiful—so wonderful!”
Clarinda stretched down her hand to him. He arose from the ground, and
she took him in her arms. He kissed her. It was her boy. The fruit of
her body.
Peter smiled.