They had gone, Katie and her baby, in a private ambulance, and Nick had
arranged with the doctor for the child’s reception. It seemed as if a
terrible storm had come and gone, leaving an unnatural calm. He sat in
the little hole Katie called her “parlour,” with its dirty lace
curtains, its little gilt table, the two broken rocking chairs with
“tidies” fastened to their backs by stained red ribbons.
Rosaleen tried to explain to him. She tried, in her tongue-tied way, to
draw for him a picture of all these lives. Katie, she told him, was a
wonderful woman, a wife of unlimited loyalty, a mother of passionate and
ceaseless devotion. Her husband was a shipping clerk; he had worked in
various department stores, but he was very unlucky; he was always
hurting himself, straining his back, crushing his fingers, dropping
crates on his feet. And with the three children, and big Pete laid up so
often, you could see....
“And I don’t make much,” she said, simply. “Sometimes we think we
_can’t_ get on. But we do.”
She sighed, with all that dreadful resignation of hers.
But Nick had nothing to say to that recital of hers; he sat in complete
silence for a long time. Rosaleen watched him covertly; she worshipped
him; she thought, that in his evening dress, he was the most
distinguished, the most magnificent creature she had ever seen. Oh,
there was no one like him! Her Nick, who never failed her, who always
understood her, who never took advantage of her misfortunes.... He did
not look at her; how was she to know that _he_ was worshipping _her_,
abashed and humble before her matchless compassion and unselfishness.
She suffered all things, endured all things, and was kind....
In squalor, poverty and incessant anxiety, she had kept her spirit
tranquil and true. Her affection which never criticised, made no
demands, seemed to him to sanctify this place. He remembered that when
he had first learned of her origin, in Miss Amy’s violent words, he had
believed himself “disillusioned”; and had been bitter and angry toward
her. That was nearly eight years ago; she was thirty now; the best of
her youth was over, had passed in cruel and thankless servitude. No
matter what happened in the future, that couldn’t be effaced, those
wrongs could never be repaired. Lawrence had exploited her shamelessly,
Miss Amy had exploited her, her sister in her blind and pitiful
motherhood would have drained her dry of blood for the benefit of her
children; he himself had repudiated and deserted her. And she had no
rancour, no bitterness even toward life in the abstract. She was simply
resigned, a little sorrowful, but brave, patient, enduring to the
uttermost end.
He got up suddenly and held out his hand.
“Good night!” he said, brusquely. “You’ll hear from me very soon.”