'
'Perhaps,' Jerry said. 'I don't know; only this, as I grow older, the
things way back come to me, and the others fade away. The dark woman; my
mother,'--she spoke the name very low--'is not half as real to me as the
pale, sick face, on which the firelight shines. It is a small house, and
a low room, a poor room, I think, with a big, white stove in the corner,
and somebody is putting wood in it; a dark woman; she stoops; and from
the open door the firelight falls upon the face in the chair--the woman
who is always writing when she is not in bed; and I am there, a little
child; and when the pale face cries, I cry, too; and when she dies--oh,
Harold! but you saw me play it once, and wondered where I got the idea.
I saw it. I know I did; I was there, a part of the play. I was the
little child. Then, there is a blur, a darkness, with many people and a
crying--two voices--the dark woman's and mine; then, a river, or the
sea, or both, and noisy streets, and a storm, and cold; and _you_ taking
me into the sunshine.'
As she talked she had unconsciously laid her hand on Harold's knee, and
he had taken it in his, and was holding it fast, when she startled him
with the question:
'Do you--did you--ever think--did anybody ever think it possible, that
the woman found dead in here, was not my mother?'
'Not your mother!' Harold exclaimed, dropping her hand in his surprise.
Pages:
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433