How she clung to me in the passage, the dear woman! . . .
But first she shut the front door. The old habit of respect for my
unaccountable temper still swayed her. “Ah deary!” she said, “ah deary!
But you were sorely tried,” and kept her face close to my shoulder,
lest she should offend me by the sight of the tears that welled within
her.
She made a sort of gulping noise and was quiet for a while, holding me
very tightly to her heart with her worn, long hands . . .
She thanked me presently for my telegram, and I put my arm about her
and drew her into the living room.
“It’s all well with me, mother dear,” I said, “and the dark times are
over—are done with for ever, mother.”
Whereupon she had courage and gave way and sobbed aloud, none chiding
her.
She had not let me know she could still weep for five grimy years. . .
.
§ 2
Dear heart! There remained for her but a very brief while in this world
that had been renewed. I did not know how short that time would be, but
the little I could do—perhaps after all it was not little to her—to
atone for the harshness of my days of wrath and rebellion, I did. I
took care to be constantly with her, for I perceived now her curious
need of me. It was not that we had ideas to exchange or pleasures to
share, but she liked to see me at table, to watch me working, to have
me go to and fro. There was no toil for her any more in the world, but
only such light services as are easy and pleasant for a worn and weary
old woman to do, and I think she was happy even at her end.
She kept to her queer old eighteenth century version of religion, too,
without a change. She had worn this particular amulet so long it was a
part of her. Yet the Change was evident even in that persistence. I
said to her one day, “But do you still believe in that hell of flame,
dear mother? You—with your tender heart!”
She vowed she did.