After that she sat on her weather-beaten porch through many
afternoons, gazing down across the fields that undulated in a slow
descent to the white and green town. She was wondering what she would
do with her life. She was thirty-six--handsome, strong, and free. The
years had eaten up Jeffrey’s insurance; she had reluctantly parted
with the acres to right and left of her, and had even placed a small
mortgage on the house.
With her husband’s death had come a great physical restlessness. She
missed having to care for him in the morning, she missed her rush to
town, and the brief and therefore accentuated neighborly meetings in
the butcher’s and grocer’s; she missed the cooking for two, the
preparation of delicate liquid food for him. One day, consumed with
energy, she went out and spaded up the whole garden, a thing that had
not been done for years.
And she was alone at night in the room that had seen the glory of her
marriage and then the pain. To meet Jeff again she went back in spirit
to that wonderful year, that intense, passionate absorption and
companionship, rather than looked forward to a problematical meeting
hereafter; she awoke often to lie and wish for that presence beside
her--inanimate yet breathing--still Jeff.
One afternoon six months after his death she was sitting on the porch,
in a black dress which took away the faintest suggestion of plumpness
from her figure. It was Indian summer--golden brown all about her; a
hush broken by the sighing of leaves; westward a four o’clock sun
dripping streaks of red and yellow over a flaming sky. Most of the
birds had gone--only a sparrow that had built itself a nest on the
cornice of a pillar kept up an intermittent cheeping varied by
occasional fluttering sallies overhead. Roxanne moved her chair to
where she could watch him and her mind idled drowsily on the bosom of
the afternoon.
Harry Cromwell was coming out from Chicago to dinner. Since his
divorce over eight years before he had been a frequent visitor. They
had kept up what amounted to a tradition between them: when he arrived
they would go to look at Jeff; Harry would sit down on the edge of the
bed and in a hearty voice ask:
“Well, Jeff, old man, how do you feel to-day?”
Roxanne, standing beside, would look intently at Jeff, dreaming that
some shadowy recognition of this former friend had passed across that
broken mind--but the head, pale, carven, would only move slowly in its
sole gesture toward the light as if something behind the blind eyes
were groping for another light long since gone out.
These visits stretched over eight years--at Easter, Christmas,
Thanksgiving, and on many a Sunday Harry had arrived, paid his call on
Jeff, and then talked for a long while with Roxanne on the porch. He
was devoted to her. He made no pretense of hiding, no attempt to
deepen, this relation. She was his best friend as the mass of flesh on
the bed there had been his best friend. She was peace, she was rest;
she was the past. Of his own tragedy she alone knew.
He had been at the funeral, but since then the company for which he
worked had shifted him to the East and only a business trip had
brought him to the vicinity of Chicago. Roxanne had written him to
come when he could--after a night in the city he had caught a train
out.
They shook hands and he helped her move two rockers together.
“How’s George?”
“He’s fine, Roxanne. Seems to like school.”
“Of course it was the only thing to do, to send him.”
“Of course--”
“You miss him horribly, Harry?”
“Yes--I do miss him. He’s a funny boy--”
He talked a lot about George. Roxanne was interested. Harry must bring
him out on his next vacation. She had only seen him once in her
life--a child in dirty rompers.
She left him with the newspaper while she prepared dinner--she had
four chops to-night and some late vegetables from her own garden. She
put it all on and then called him, and sitting down together they
continued their talk about George.
“If I had a child--” she would say.
Afterward, Harry having given her what slender advice he could about
investments, they walked through the garden, pausing here and there to
recognize what had once been a cement bench or where the tennis court
had lain....
“Do you remember--”
Then they were off on a flood of reminiscences: the day they had taken
all the snap-shots and Jeff had been photographed astride the calf;
and the sketch Harry had made of Jeff and Roxanne, lying sprawled in
the grass, their heads almost touching. There was to have been a
covered lattice connecting the barn-studio with the house, so that
Jeff could get there on wet days--the lattice had been started, but
nothing remained except a broken triangular piece that still adhered
to the house and resembled a battered chicken coop.
“And those mint juleps!”
“And Jeff’s note-book! Do you remember how we’d laugh, Harry, when
we’d get it out of his pocket and read aloud a page of material. And
how frantic he used to get?”
“Wild! He was such a kid about his writing.”
They were both silent a moment, and then Harry said:
“We were to have a place out here, too. Do you remember? We were to
buy the adjoining twenty acres. And the parties we were going to
have!”
Again there was a pause, broken this time by a low question from
Roxanne.
“Do you ever hear of her, Harry?”
“Why--yes,” he admitted placidly. “She’s in Seattle. She’s married
again to a man named Horton, a sort of lumber king. He’s a great deal
older than she is, I believe.”
“And she’s behaving?”
“Yes--that is, I’ve heard so. She has everything, you see. Nothing
much to do except dress up for this fellow at dinner-time.”
“I see.”
Without effort he changed the subject.
“Are you going to keep the house?”
“I think so,” she said, nodding. “I’ve lived here so long, Harry, it’d
seem terrible to move. I thought of trained nursing, but of course
that’d mean leaving. I’ve about decided to be a boarding-house lady.”
“Live in one?”
“No. Keep one. Is there such an anomaly as a boarding-house lady?
Anyway I’d have a negress and keep about eight people in the summer
and two or three, if I can get them, in the winter. Of course I’ll
have to have the house repainted and gone over inside.”
Harry considered.
“Roxanne, why--naturally you know best what you can do, but it does
seem a shock, Roxanne. You came here as a bride.”
“Perhaps,” she said, “that’s why I don’t mind remaining here as a
boarding-house lady.”
“I remember a certain batch of biscuits.”
“Oh, those biscuits,” she cried. “Still, from all I heard about the
way you devoured them, they couldn’t have been so bad. I was _so_
low that day, yet somehow I laughed when the nurse told me about those
biscuits.”
“I noticed that the twelve nail-holes are still in the library wall
where Jeff drove them.”
“Yes.”
It was getting very dark now, a crispness settled in the air; a little
gust of wind sent down a last spray of leaves. Roxanne shivered
slightly.
“We’d better go in.”
He looked at his watch.
“It’s late. I’ve got to be leaving. I go East tomorrow.”
“Must you?”
They lingered for a moment just below the stoop, watching a moon that
seemed full of snow float out of the distance where the lake lay.
Summer was gone and now Indian summer. The grass was cold and there
was no mist and no dew. After he left she would go in and light the
gas and close the shutters, and he would go down the path and on to
the village. To these two life had come quickly and gone, leaving not
bitterness, but pity; not disillusion, but only pain. There was
already enough moonlight when they shook hands for each to see the
gathered kindness in the other’s eyes.