“Poor old mama!” said Helen, beginning to weep. “She’ll never get over this. She’s scared to death! Did you see her eyes? She knows, of course she knows!”
Then suddenly, with mad brooding face, she said: “Sometimes I think I hate her! I really think I hate her.” She plucked at her large chin, absently. “Well, we mustn’t talk like this,” she said. “It’s not right. Cheer up. We’re all tired and nervous. I believe he’s going to get all right yet.”
Day came gray and chill, with a drear reek of murk and fog. Eliza bustled about eagerly, pathetically busy, preparing breakfast. Once she hurried awkwardly upstairs with a kettle of water, and stood for a second at the door as Bessie Gant opened it, peering in at the terrible bed, with her white puckered face. Bessie Gant blocked her further entrance, and closed the door rudely. Eliza went away making flustered apologies.
For, what the girl had said was true, and Eliza knew it. She was not wanted in the sickroom; the dying boy did not want to see her. She had seen him turn his head wearily away when she had gone in. Behind her white face dwelt this horror, but she made no confession, no complaint. She bustled around doing useless things with an eager matter-of-factness. And Eugene, choked with exasperation at one moment, because of her heavy optimism, was blind with pity the next when he saw the terrible fear and pain in her dull black eyes. He rushed toward her suddenly, as she stood above the hot stove, and seized her rough worn hand, kissing it and babbling helplessly.
“O mama! Mama! It’s all right! It’s all right! It’s all right.”
And Eliza, stripped suddenly of her pretenses, clung to him, burying her white face in his coat sleeve, weeping bitterly, helplessly, grievously, for the sad waste of the irrevocable years—the immortal hours of love that might never be relived, the great evil of forgetfulness and indifference that could never be righted now. Like a child she was grateful for his caress, and his heart twisted in him like a wild and broken thing, and he kept mumbling:
“It’s all right! It’s all right! It’s all right!”—knowing that it was not, could never be, all right.
“If I had known. Child, if I had known,” she wept, as she had wept long before at Grover’s death.
“Brace up!” he said. “He’ll pull through yet. The worst is over.”
“Well, I tell you,” said Eliza, drying her eyes at once, “I believe it is. I believe he passed the turning-point last night. I was saying to Bessie—”
The light grew. Day came, bringing hope. They sat down to breakfast in the kitchen, drawing encouragement from every scrap of cheer doctor or nurse would give them. Coker departed, non-committally optimistic. Bessie Gant came down to breakfast and was professionally encouraging.
“If I can keep his damn family out of the room, he may have some chance of getting well.”
They laughed hysterically, gratefully, pleased with the woman’s abuse.
“How is he this morning?” said Eliza. “Do you notice any improvement?”
“His temperature is lower, if that’s what you mean.”
They knew that a lower temperature in the morning was a fact of no great significance, but they took nourishment from it: their diseased emotion fed upon it—they had soared in a moment to a peak of hopefulness.
“And he’s got a good heart,” said Bessie Gant. “If that holds out, and he keeps fighting, he’ll pull through.”
“D-d-don’t worry about his f-f-fighting,” said Luke, in a rush of eulogy. “That b-b-boy’ll fight as long as he’s g-g-got a breath left in him.”
“Why, yes,” Eliza began, “I remember when he was a child of seven—I know I was standing on the porch one day—the reason I remember is Old Mr. Buckner had just come by with some butter and eggs your papa had—”
“O my God!” groaned Helen, with a loose grin. “Now we’ll get it.”
“Whah—whah!” Luke chortled crazily, prodding Eliza in the ribs.
“I’ll vow, boy!” said Eliza angrily. “You act like an idiot. I’d be ashamed!”
“Whah—whah—whah!”
Helen sniggered, nudging Eugene.
“Isn’t he crazy, though? Tuh-tuh-tuh-tuh-tuh.” Then, with wet eyes, she drew Eugene roughly into her big bony embrace.
“Poor old ’Gene. You always got on together, didn’t you? You’ll feel it more than any of us.”
“He’s not b-b-buried yet,” Luke cried heartily. “That boy may be here when the rest of us are pushing d-d-daisies.”
“Where’s Mrs. Pert?” said Eugene. “Is she in the house?”
A strained and bitter silence fell upon them.
“I ordered her out,” said Eliza grimly, after a moment. “I told her exactly what she was—a whore.” She spoke with the old stern judiciousness, but in a moment her face began to work and she burst into tears. “If it hadn’t been for that woman I believe he’d be well and strong today. I’ll vow I do!”
“Mama, in heaven’s name!” Helen burst out furiously. “How dare you say a thing like that? She was the only friend he had: when he was taken sick she nursed him hand and foot. Why, the idea! The idea!” she panted in her indignation. “If it hadn’t been for Mrs. Pert he’d have been dead by now. Nobody else did anything for him. You were willing enough, I notice, to keep her here and take her money until he got sick. No, sir!” she declared with emphasis. “Personally, I like her. I’m not going to cut her now.”
“It’s a d-d-d-damn shame!” said Luke, staunch to his goddess. “If it hadn’t been for Mrs. P-P-P-Pert and you, Ben would be S.O.L. Nobody else around here gave a damn. If he d-d-d-dies, it’s because he didn’t get the proper care when it would have done him some good. There’s always been too d-d-damn much thought of saving a nickel, and too d-d-damn little about flesh and blood!”
“Well, forget about it!” said Helen wearily. “There’s one thing sure: I’ve done everything I could. I haven’t been to bed for
