But as it happened, she did not. Other things happened.
There was almost total silence during the rest of the meal. Mrs. Knapp did not eat another mouthful of food after her husband’s news. The others made a pretense of cutting up food and swallowing it. Helen and Henry cleared off the table and brought in the dessert.
“Be careful about holding the meat-platter straight, Henry,” cautioned his mother. “I scrubbed on those last grease spots till nearly five o’clock this afternoon. It makes it very hard for Mother when you and Helen are careless.” Her voice was carefully restrained.
“How is your eczema, tonight, Eva?” asked her husband.
“Oh, about the same,” she said. She served out the golden preserved peaches, passed the homemade cake, but took none herself. After sitting for a few moments, she pushed back her chair and said: “I don’t care for any dessert tonight. I’ll just go and start on the dishes. You can come out to help when you finish eating.”
Her husband looked up at her, his face pale and shadowed. He tried to catch her eyes. But she averted them, and without a glance at him walked steadily out into the kitchen.
Her presence was still as heavy in the room as though she sat there, brooding over them. They conscientiously tried to eat. They did not look at each other.
They heard her begin to pile up the dishes at the sink, working rapidly as she always did. They heard her step swiftly back towards the kitchen table as though to pick up a dish there. They heard her stop short with appalling abruptness; and for a long moment a silence filled the little house, roaring loudly in their ears as they gazed at each other, across the table. What could have happened?
And then, with the effect of a clap of thunder shaking them to the bone, came a sudden rending outburst of sobs, strangled weeping, the terrifying sounds of an hysteric breakdown.
They rushed out into the kitchen. Mrs. Knapp stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, both hands pressed over her face, trying in vain to restrain the tears which rained down through her fingers, the sobs which convulsed her tall, strong body. From her feet to the dining-room door stretched a fresh line of grease spots. Henry had once more tilted the meat-platter as he carried it.
She heard them come in; she gave a muffled inarticulate cry, half pronounced words they could not understand, and, rushing past them, still shaking with sobs, she ran upstairs to her room. They heard the door shut, the click of the latch loud and distinct in the silent house.
“I want another help of peaches,” said Stephen greedily, taking instant advantage of his mother’s absence. “I like peaches.”
His father thought sometimes that Stephen was like the traditional changeling, hard, heartless, inhuman.
Henry’s face had turned very white. He stood looking dully at his father and sister, his lips hanging half-open. He turned from white to a yellow-green, and a shudder shook him. He whispered hastily, thickly, unintelligibly (but they understood because they had seen those signs many times before), he murmured, his hand clapped over his mouth, his shoulders bowed, “… ’mfraid goin’ be sick,” and ran upstairs to the bathroom.
They followed and found him vomiting, leaning over the bowl, his legs bending and trembling under him. His father put one arm around the thin little body and held his head clumsily with the other hand. Helen stood by, helplessly sympathetic. Henry looked so awfully sick when he had those fits of nausea!
Henry vomited apologetically, as it were, trying feebly not to spatter any of the ill-smelling liquid on the bathroom wall or floor. In an instant’s pause between spasms he rolled his eyes appealingly at Helen, who sprang to his side.
“… ’mfraid got shome shstairs,” he said thickly, the words cut short by another agonizing fit of retching.
Helen darted away. Her father called her back. “What is it? What did Henry say?” he asked anxiously. “I’ll get him his medicine as soon as he is over this. I don’t believe you can reach it. It’s on that highest shelf.” Helen stood up on tiptoe and whispered in her father’s ear, “He said he was afraid he got some on the stairs, and I’m going to wipe it up.”
Her father nodded his instant understanding. The little girl flew to the corner closet where the cleaning cloths were hung and disappeared down the stairs.
The door to the bedroom opened and Mrs. Knapp appeared. Her eyes were still red, and her face very pale; but her expression was of strong, kind solicitude. She came straight into the bathroom where Henry stood, half-fainting, wavering from side to side.
“Oh, poor Henry!” she said. “Here, I’ll take care of him.”
Mr. Knapp stepped back, self-effacingly, and with relief. She picked the child up bodily in her strong arms and carried him into the bedroom where she laid him on the bed. In an instant she had whisked out a basin which she held ready with one hand. “Bring me a wet washcloth, cold,” she said to her husband, “and a glass of water.” When it came she wiped Henry’s lips clean, so that with a sigh of relief he closed his mouth; she held the glass to his lips, “Rinse out your mouth with this, dear. It’ll make you feel better.” When the next spasm came, she supported his forehead firmly, laying his head back on the pillow afterwards; and, sprinkling a little eau-de-cologne on a fresh handkerchief, she wiped the cold sweat from his face.
To lie down had relieved the strain on Henry. The eau-de-cologne had partly revived him. He began to look
