"Helen taught it to you. Let her hear it."
"No. She's busy downstairs, and I'm in a hurry to go to sleep."
"Then--just say it by yourself."
"It seems foolish to say it, with nobody to listen."
"Very well."
She sat on the floor beside his bed. He knelt before her, eyes closed,
hands folded as Helen had taught him. She was
listening--listening--listening. "If he came now--" thought she--one of
those sardonic fancies that leer even from a coffin. She stayed on with
the boy, getting him to tell her stories, she the while listening,
listening for sounds on the drive, on the stairs--and hearing only the
sound of the seconds splashing one by one into eternity. Winchie fell
asleep. She kissed him, fled from his room with a choke in her throat.
She composed herself, descended to the kitchen. Lizzie and Mazie were
there, and as she opened one door Jimmie entered by the other.
She became suddenly weak, but contrived to say to him, "Didn't you bring
Mr. Vaughan back?"
"Yes, ma'am--an hour ago--most. He got down at the gate and went to the
Smoke House. He wanted to see Mr. Gallatin--said for me to send him if
he was up here. But Mr. Gallatin's went out in a boat and ain't in yet.
Guess he's spending the evening over to Wenona."
She closed the door, leaned weak and sick against the wall of the
passageway. Richard knew! Back to her room. She walked, she sat, she
lay down. She watched the clock. The moments were aging her like
years. Each second was dropping into eternity with a boom that echoed
in her shuddering heart. She looked at herself in the mirror. Skin
ashen; lines round her mouth--the gauntness of age peering ghastlily
through her youth like a skeleton with a fresh young mask over its face
bones. A black band all round each eye, the eyes blazing out
feverishly. "He must not see me like this," she cried. She went down
to the dining room, trembling and listening at every step, like a thief.
She drank a glass of brandy at the sideboard, fled to her rooms again.
She took the pitcher of ice water into the bath room, emptied it into
the bowl of the stationary stand, bathed her face. She pressed a lump
of ice against her blue-black burning lids. "Why don't I wake?" she
said, for throughout she had the sense of unreality that attends but
does not lessen an impending horror.
Twelve o'clock--"I'll go to bed. I'll take Winchie into bed with me.
Not because I'm afraid but because I'm lonely." She felt a great
longing to live. She felt young and strong, and the look and the odor
of life were delicious. If only this crisis could be passed! No matter
how--no matter how! "I've the right to live!" She lifted Winchie
gently from his bed, carried him to hers. The warmth of his vivid young
body stole sweet and sad through her thin nightgown, through her flesh
into her heart. He half awakened, half put out his arms to embrace her,
murmured "Mamma"--was asleep again. She sobbed a little in self-pity,
dried her tears for shame, lay down beside her boy, nestled one hand
under his body.
For a moment she felt better. Then up she rose, bore him back to his
own bed, returned. But as she was closing the door, she
hesitated--"It's not hiding behind him. If I have him with me, it may
save him from disgrace." She was about to open the door, when she
turned away abruptly. "No! If I did that, I'd deserve to die. Why
should I hide behind Winchie? Why should I hide, at all? I may have
done wrong, but I wronged myself, not Richard. I may have done wrong.
But I had the right to do wrong." She put out the light, lay down
again, somewhat calmer. Suddenly she sat bolt upright in the darkness.
She had forgotten all about Basil! Had he rowed back, had he and
Richard met----
The hall door of her bedroom opened softly--she had intentionally left
it unlocked. She sank back against the pillows. Her heart stooped
beating as she listened. No further sound. When she could endure no
longer, she said, "Who is it?"