no more uncomfortable feeling) to Philip who was impatient to be gone, and to Hilda who … well, what did Hilda want? She was only a child, and how could they take a child away from school to Troy to Ravenna (it was important, Philip had said, that they should go to Ravenna). The water was bad to drink; they kept strangecompany; they lived like vagabonds; there were marshes; it would be unhealthy, quite unsuitable for a child; later, said Philip vaguely. So the mother excused herself to herself but did not convince herself. “Darling,” she said uneasily, “we’ll soon be back – you’ll see – and then we’ll have a wonderful time.”
“Yes,” said Hilda.
But the revolver went everywhere.
There, now, on the table, lay the Swamp Angel, the little survivor of three revolvers, which in her adolescence Hilda had grown to hate. By then the climate of her childhood had become the little-changed climate of her adolescence which now was an east wind in the climate of her womanhood. Something which was both proud and intuitive had prevented her from bursting into hurt and angry disclosure when she saw her mother habitually toying with the Swamp Angel, the little survivor. Her mother would have looked at Hilda in shocked surprise. She would have said nothing and she would have suffered for Hilda, too late, endlessly, all wasted now, and she would – without fuss but with remorse – have put the Angel out of sight. All its pleasure would have perished, and its company, its memory, would have been lost to her. So the Angel had been suffered to remain as the symbol of years of life gone away, and had so remained, and was, thus, Hilda’s unique gift to her mother, although her mother did not know that. And now – did Hilda really care much, any more? Perhaps not. Perhaps it was a source of pride that she held this gift voluntarily in an uneasy reserve of which her mother knew nothing. Yet Hilda could not ignore the Swamp Angel which was her mother’s habitual companion.
Having made the tea, she went to her mother’s bedroom, but Mrs. Severance had gone to sleep.
ELEVEN
W ell, just to think; to have been that boy in the store; and then the young man with fallen arches who could not go to the war; and so to have taken the load off old Macgregor and been, really, the store manager, knowing all the country people, and knowing Mr. Macdonald at the fishing lodge, who was such an educated man, and his daughter, who had gray eyes and cooked and ran the lodge and gave the big orders at the store. Up and up and up, the industrious apprentice. And then, in the tightening of everything as the war went on, the closing and loss of the lodge, and Mr. Macdonald ailing badly. His daughter had married Tom Lloyd who went off as a flyer, and Tom Lloyd was shot down. Things like that were happening all round the countryside, losses and tension. Eddie Vardoe had become pretty bossy and bumptious, people thought, running the store and saying No to people like that. It was too bad, Mrs. Lloyd’s little girl died when the polio came, and Mrs. Lloyd went about as if she were made of stone, and then Mr. Macdonald died too. It was very very hard to get help in the store, and Mrs. Lloyd, moving more like a machine than a person, came and worked in thestore and Eddie Vardoe was very respectful because she had been Miss Macdonald whose father was such an educated man, and then Mrs. Tom Lloyd….
And now look into this terrible gulf that had opened between the time that Mr. and Mrs. Edward Vardoe were married (to everyone’s surprise), and came west – and this very night when Eddie had sat in front of Mrs. Severance, and was now driving home from the show in terrified obedience just as, once, he used to retreat from a tongue-lashing from old Macgregor when he – Eddie Vardoe – was just the boy in the store; poor boy.
TWELVE
U p in the hinterland of the North Thompson River far from the ordinary habitations of man was a place called Table
“Yes,” said Hilda.
But the revolver went everywhere.
There, now, on the table, lay the Swamp Angel, the little survivor of three revolvers, which in her adolescence Hilda had grown to hate. By then the climate of her childhood had become the little-changed climate of her adolescence which now was an east wind in the climate of her womanhood. Something which was both proud and intuitive had prevented her from bursting into hurt and angry disclosure when she saw her mother habitually toying with the Swamp Angel, the little survivor. Her mother would have looked at Hilda in shocked surprise. She would have said nothing and she would have suffered for Hilda, too late, endlessly, all wasted now, and she would – without fuss but with remorse – have put the Angel out of sight. All its pleasure would have perished, and its company, its memory, would have been lost to her. So the Angel had been suffered to remain as the symbol of years of life gone away, and had so remained, and was, thus, Hilda’s unique gift to her mother, although her mother did not know that. And now – did Hilda really care much, any more? Perhaps not. Perhaps it was a source of pride that she held this gift voluntarily in an uneasy reserve of which her mother knew nothing. Yet Hilda could not ignore the Swamp Angel which was her mother’s habitual companion.
Having made the tea, she went to her mother’s bedroom, but Mrs. Severance had gone to sleep.
ELEVEN
W ell, just to think; to have been that boy in the store; and then the young man with fallen arches who could not go to the war; and so to have taken the load off old Macgregor and been, really, the store manager, knowing all the country people, and knowing Mr. Macdonald at the fishing lodge, who was such an educated man, and his daughter, who had gray eyes and cooked and ran the lodge and gave the big orders at the store. Up and up and up, the industrious apprentice. And then, in the tightening of everything as the war went on, the closing and loss of the lodge, and Mr. Macdonald ailing badly. His daughter had married Tom Lloyd who went off as a flyer, and Tom Lloyd was shot down. Things like that were happening all round the countryside, losses and tension. Eddie Vardoe had become pretty bossy and bumptious, people thought, running the store and saying No to people like that. It was too bad, Mrs. Lloyd’s little girl died when the polio came, and Mrs. Lloyd went about as if she were made of stone, and then Mr. Macdonald died too. It was very very hard to get help in the store, and Mrs. Lloyd, moving more like a machine than a person, came and worked in thestore and Eddie Vardoe was very respectful because she had been Miss Macdonald whose father was such an educated man, and then Mrs. Tom Lloyd….
And now look into this terrible gulf that had opened between the time that Mr. and Mrs. Edward Vardoe were married (to everyone’s surprise), and came west – and this very night when Eddie had sat in front of Mrs. Severance, and was now driving home from the show in terrified obedience just as, once, he used to retreat from a tongue-lashing from old Macgregor when he – Eddie Vardoe – was just the boy in the store; poor boy.
TWELVE
U p in the hinterland of the North Thompson River far from the ordinary habitations of man was a place called Table
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