that ever since I knew her.”
But now it was trivial to speak of Mrs. Parsons. “What does Father say?” she asked.
There was no answer. She turned and saw her mother’s eyes downcast, but along the edges of the lids there were tears. “Mother!” she cried. She rushed to her mother and knelt beside her and put her arms about her. Strange—strange to feel her mother’s body relax in her arms! The repulsion was gone. She wrapped her arms about her mother and pressed her head down upon her shoulder. “Mother—Mother—Mother—” she said over and over. Oh, what was this disaster?
“There’s no use telling your father anything,” her mother said, choking. “He doesn’t understand anything—he never has.”
There was the closed door and the subdued passionate voices were behind it. Was this—but before she could ask the question her mother straightened herself and wiped her eyes.
“I’m a wicked woman,” she said suddenly. “I don’t know what came over me to say that. Your father is a wonderfully good man. I’ve a lot to be thankful for. I look at poor Mrs. Weeks and thank God—that awful Mr. Weeks—” she pushed Joan aside and got to her feet and took the pins out of her long hair. She went to the bureau and picked up a brush and began to brush her hair swiftly. “I haven’t anything to complain of,” she said. “Lots of women at my time of life don’t feel quite as strong as they did.”
So she pushed her daughter away, and Joan stood up quickly, shy to the heart, made ridiculous. She hesitated, and then said, “What shall I do this afternoon, Mother? I want to help.”
“Just go to the meeting for me, dear,” her mother said calmly. She coiled her hair on top of her head and thrust the gray bone pins in swiftly. “Just make a few remarks about Miss Kinney—anything you like—you know her. If you can, dear—I think I will just rest the once. I’ll be all right with an afternoon’s rest. And Rose will go—she always wants to go—”
She looked into the mirror at her mother’s face. Framed and in the bright light of the windows it looked whiter and more tired than it would when she turned around. “Of course I will,” she said to the white face. She went to the door, and there hesitated again. After all, there had been this half hour. “Just the same, you ought to see another doctor,” she said.
“Maybe I will one of these days,” her mother said tranquilly, busy about her hair.
She went out and left her mother standing before the mirror.
In the afternoon before she went to the meeting she tiptoed to her mother’s room. The door was open and she went in softly. Her mother lay asleep on the bed, covered by an old knitted afghan the Ladies’ Aid had given her, once gay, but now faded into squares of faintly varied pallors. Above it her mother’s face showed darkly pale, the mouth a little open, and ashen shadows about the nostrils and eyes. She could scarcely believe this was the same face she had watched secretly at the table, for at the noon dinner her mother had been quite herself among them. A little quiet perhaps, but then they were used to her rare stillnesses, although they loved her laughter. When they were small children and she fell into stillness they were afraid and begged her, “Mother, what’s the matter? Mother, do please be funny again and laugh!” Sometimes she roused herself, but sometimes she turned her dark eyes on them in terrible gravity and said. “May I not be still sometimes in my life? I want to be still.”
So she would be still and they could scarcely bear it. The whole house was gray with her stillness and they were burdened with it until even the father noticed it.
“Are you ill, Mary?”
“No, Paul,” she answered serenely. “Just still.”
In her stillness they clung to her in misery, not able to leave her, not able to play. When she came out of it they began to live again, and everything took on its true color once more.
But now it was trivial to speak of Mrs. Parsons. “What does Father say?” she asked.
There was no answer. She turned and saw her mother’s eyes downcast, but along the edges of the lids there were tears. “Mother!” she cried. She rushed to her mother and knelt beside her and put her arms about her. Strange—strange to feel her mother’s body relax in her arms! The repulsion was gone. She wrapped her arms about her mother and pressed her head down upon her shoulder. “Mother—Mother—Mother—” she said over and over. Oh, what was this disaster?
“There’s no use telling your father anything,” her mother said, choking. “He doesn’t understand anything—he never has.”
There was the closed door and the subdued passionate voices were behind it. Was this—but before she could ask the question her mother straightened herself and wiped her eyes.
“I’m a wicked woman,” she said suddenly. “I don’t know what came over me to say that. Your father is a wonderfully good man. I’ve a lot to be thankful for. I look at poor Mrs. Weeks and thank God—that awful Mr. Weeks—” she pushed Joan aside and got to her feet and took the pins out of her long hair. She went to the bureau and picked up a brush and began to brush her hair swiftly. “I haven’t anything to complain of,” she said. “Lots of women at my time of life don’t feel quite as strong as they did.”
So she pushed her daughter away, and Joan stood up quickly, shy to the heart, made ridiculous. She hesitated, and then said, “What shall I do this afternoon, Mother? I want to help.”
“Just go to the meeting for me, dear,” her mother said calmly. She coiled her hair on top of her head and thrust the gray bone pins in swiftly. “Just make a few remarks about Miss Kinney—anything you like—you know her. If you can, dear—I think I will just rest the once. I’ll be all right with an afternoon’s rest. And Rose will go—she always wants to go—”
She looked into the mirror at her mother’s face. Framed and in the bright light of the windows it looked whiter and more tired than it would when she turned around. “Of course I will,” she said to the white face. She went to the door, and there hesitated again. After all, there had been this half hour. “Just the same, you ought to see another doctor,” she said.
“Maybe I will one of these days,” her mother said tranquilly, busy about her hair.
She went out and left her mother standing before the mirror.
In the afternoon before she went to the meeting she tiptoed to her mother’s room. The door was open and she went in softly. Her mother lay asleep on the bed, covered by an old knitted afghan the Ladies’ Aid had given her, once gay, but now faded into squares of faintly varied pallors. Above it her mother’s face showed darkly pale, the mouth a little open, and ashen shadows about the nostrils and eyes. She could scarcely believe this was the same face she had watched secretly at the table, for at the noon dinner her mother had been quite herself among them. A little quiet perhaps, but then they were used to her rare stillnesses, although they loved her laughter. When they were small children and she fell into stillness they were afraid and begged her, “Mother, what’s the matter? Mother, do please be funny again and laugh!” Sometimes she roused herself, but sometimes she turned her dark eyes on them in terrible gravity and said. “May I not be still sometimes in my life? I want to be still.”
So she would be still and they could scarcely bear it. The whole house was gray with her stillness and they were burdened with it until even the father noticed it.
“Are you ill, Mary?”
“No, Paul,” she answered serenely. “Just still.”
In her stillness they clung to her in misery, not able to leave her, not able to play. When she came out of it they began to live again, and everything took on its true color once more.
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