Then, sometimes, she wondered how Edith's condition was going to be
kept from her mother. She had measured Mrs. Boyd's pride by that
time, her almost terrible respectability. She rather hoped that the
sick woman would die some night, easily and painlessly in her sleep,
because death was easier than some things. She liked Mrs. Boyd; she
felt a slightly contemptuous but real affection for her.
Then one night Edith heard Willy's voice below, and indicated that
she wanted to see him. He came in, stooping under the sheet which
Mrs. Boyd had heard belonged in the doorway of diphtheria, and stood
looking down at her. His heart ached. He sat down on the bed
beside her and stroked her hand.
"Poor little girl," he said. "We've got to make things very happy
for her, to make up for all this!"
But Edith freed her hand, and reaching out for paper and pencil stub,
wrote something and gave it to Ellen.
Ellen read it.
"Tell him."
"I don't want to, Edith. You wait and do it yourself."
But Edith made an insistent gesture, and Ellen, flushed and wretched,
had to tell. He made no sign, but sat stroking Edith's hand, only
he stared rather fixedly at the wall, conscious that the girl's
eyes were watching him for a single gesture of surprise or anger.
Pages:
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307