XI

At midnight Dr. Adams made his last call for the day.

“He’s resting easily now and I think he’ll sleep through the night. Call me if you need me. And you’d better get a little sleep yourself or I’ll have two patients,” he advised Mimi as he left.

His words brought realization to Mimi that she was tired. She sent Mrs. Daquin to bed, telling her she would lock up the house and see that everything was attended to. She then tiptoed into Jean’s room and found him breathing gently, his face, with a smile upon it, turned towards the door.

When he called at seven the next morning Dr. Adams said that Jean had been dead about three hours. Mimi found on his face the same smile that had been there when she had seen him last. Mrs. Daquin came into the room weeping but for Mimi there were no tears. Death had come too suddenly upon her, its swift snatching away of her Jean had rendered her incapable of thought, of every emotion. She knelt by the bed, her head resting beside Jean’s, stunned, inarticulate. Dr. Adams tried to pull her away, telling her it would be better for her if she did not stay too long there.

“No, Doctor, I’m happier here. I’ve just a few more hours with Jean now. Leave me here alone, won’t you?”

He led the weeping Mrs. Daquin from the room and Mimi was alone with Jean. Jean dead? She couldn’t believe it was true. She touched his hand, stiffened, cold. It terrified her. How many times she might have held it, warm, pulsating, responsive.

No⁠—she had been too busy with her own petty affairs, her own insignificant worries, to think of him⁠—longing for his quiet old home, unhappy in an environment and among people he did not understand and whose ways were not his. She had known in an indefinite sort of way that Jean was not happy, that he and Mary grew farther and farther apart each year, each month, each day. A spasm of remorse swept through Mimi⁠—remorse that held her in an icy, terrifying grip⁠—when she realized now how she might have been of comfort, of consolation, to Jean, and instead had chased merrily after her own whims and fancies, giving little thought to him. She knew now that these later years must have been terribly lonely ones for him. She felt she would cheerfully have given ten years of her life to have him back for one year, for one month, even for one day. Then she would show him the quality of her love for him. Holy Mother, why did one see these things only when it was too late?

She was glad they had had their talk yesterday afternoon. It had been like old times, she and Jean had been so happy together. Even in his own illness his thoughts had been of her⁠—he had wanted to live not for his own sake but only for hers. “You’ll come through all right,” he had said. She wondered if she would. Without Jean’s physical presence she speculated what her relations with Mrs. Daquin would be. In his quiet way Jean had had a very real control over his wife. Mimi sensed now as she had never done before that despite his gentleness, which sometimes seemed to be almost weakness, his apparent softness had had great strength behind it⁠—strength enough to hold in check Mrs. Daquin’s aggressiveness and domineering attitude. Jean had not spoken sharply often but when he had his wife listened and obeyed. He had never had to speak twice.

Why don’t I cry, she wondered, like all women do and most men when death comes? She was conscious of a slight feeling of guilt because of her dry eyes. She wondered if she was showing proper respect. She looked at Jean’s peaceful face. Her own face was set in hard, tight lines, her teeth were clamped until the muscles of her jaws ached, but no tears came. Jean dead? No⁠—no⁠—no⁠—it couldn’t be true.⁠ ⁠…

They found her there, dry-eyed, when the undertaker came to prepare Jean for burial. She was calm until the dingy wicker basket, sagging with the weight of its load, was being carried through the door. She was thinking of that day Jean had referred to yesterday⁠—that day in the St. Louis cemetery when the funeral procession passed near them. Jean had said he felt just as though his own body were in the casket. She knew now what he had meant⁠—her own body was there in that straw container.

“Be careful!” she cried as one of the men let the basket strike against the door. A sharp physical pain shot through her body, followed by nausea as the men righted the slipping basket. Then all went dark for her. Without a sound she sank to the floor, unconscious.⁠ ⁠…

When she awoke she was in bed. Hilda sat near and smiled at her when she opened her eyes.

“Papa says you must keep quiet, absolutely. Mama is seeing after things and Mr. Hunter is taking care of all the arrangements for the funeral⁠—”

The ominous, horrifying word brought a little cry of anguish from Mimi. Hilda’s eyes filled with tears at her ineptness.

“Ask your mother if she’ll try and get some candles. And see if she can get a priest for the funeral. Jean would be happiest if he was buried that way,” begged Mimi.

When Hilda had hurried away to execute her wishes, Mimi tried to get up but found herself too weak. She was glad to sink back into the soft pillows. Yes, Jean would be happiest if he had a Catholic burial. He hadn’t been to mass for years now but he had never allowed the narrowness and prejudice of priests who after all were human and with human fear and cowardice and prejudice to destroy his faith. Reverently, Mimi made the sign of the cross.⁠ ⁠…

The morning passed before she had strength enough to rise. She talked over with Mrs. Daquin, Mrs. Adams and Mr. Hunter plans for the funeral. Jean’s sister in New York whom Mimi had never seen had been telegraphed and had wired she was leaving for Atlanta at once. They decided the services were to be held on Friday. Mrs. Daquin thought it best to have a Protestant service but Mimi was obdurate, immovable. This was the last thing she could do for Jean and she was determined that it should be done, if possible.

Late in the afternoon, in the lull of visitors who were called home by household duties, Carl came. To both it seemed impossible that less than twenty-four hours before they had been so happy together in that very room.

“There’s no use of my saying I’m sorry, Mimi. You know it⁠—I loved your father better than anybody except you. He seemed to understand me⁠—I⁠—I⁠—” His sudden rush of feeling made it impossible for him to speak. His eyes filled with tears as he touched Mimi’s hand, gently and but for a second.

“Yes, Carl, I know⁠ ⁠…” she whispered.⁠ ⁠…

By Thursday evening Mimi felt she could no longer stand the torture of greeting people, answering the same questions over and over again, performing the many additional tasks the death had brought. Mrs. Daquin seemed actually to be enjoying after a fashion the new importance which Jean’s death had brought to her as his widow. Not that she let it show on her face. She saw to it her eyes bore the appearance of much weeping and her general air was that of a Christian martyr about to be thrown to the lions. To Mimi she seemed to have donned the atmosphere of the sorely tried and heavily bereaved with full attention to the effectiveness of details, wearing the role as an accomplished actress would. Mimi found all her old antagonism rising again⁠—Jean’s life, she reflected bitterly, would have been much happier had his wife expended some of that energy now used in simulated grief towards happiness for Jean when alive.

There was but one place where Mimi felt at peace, and that sitting beside Jean’s casket. Tomorrow morning Jean’s sister, Mrs. Rogers of New York, would arrive. Tomorrow afternoon the funeral. Mimi crept quietly into the parlour. The room was unlighted save for the illumination from the flickering candles. Through the partly opened windows floated a warm breeze of an unusually balmy late October evening. The lace curtains swayed lazily back and forth as though bidding a languid farewell to the body in the casket just beyond their reach. In the dimness they seemed to Mimi like long slender fingers seeking vainly to caress the sides of the box which held all that remained of Jean.

The house was nearly deserted. One by one they had gone away. Mimi, wearied by the incessant stream, felt a great eagerness to find the peace she could get nowhere else save near Jean. It annoyed her to find she was not alone. Mrs. Plummer and Mrs. King sat near the window conversing in lowered voices. Mimi ignored them, drew a chair close to the casket and sat there gazing at Jean’s face. On it was unmistakable peace⁠—she almost wished that she were there beside him. The extent of her loss was creeping upon her. Without Jean she felt lost, terrified, afraid. To whom could she turn? Mrs. Daquin? Obviously, no. Mrs. Hunter? Hilda? Hilda’s mother? Carl? Each of them had his good points but none of them were so all-inclusive, so gentle, so understanding, so unselfish. Nor even was she herself, she realized. For here I am thinking only of myself⁠—had I done less of that when Jean was alive, I would have made his life and my own far happier.

“… her eyes ain’t even red⁠ ⁠… if she was so crazy about him as she pretended to be, she’d⁠ ⁠…”

Mimi suddenly became conscious of the sibilant whispers which came to her from the two women by the window. Lost in the grief bottled up within her like turbulent waters held by a great dam, she had been oblivious of comments during the days since Jean had died. Even to the undoubtedly sympathetic ones she had replied methodically, listlessly, giving little thought to the words, words, words. Now as the sinister, malevolent whisperings came to her, the inevitable reaction to the apathy she had felt flamed into being. She rose from her chair, bitter hatred welling up for the evil-tongued old women. But even as she opened her mouth to speak, an overwhelming sense of the futility of it all came over her, a sense of inappropriateness, the lack of respect for Jean if she were to engage here in what would be but little more than a fishwives’ quarrel. She checked the hot, bitter words that pressed for utterance and rushed from the room.

In the security of her own room she lay on the bed and envied the peace on Jean’s face. Again and again the picture melted into the face of Carl as he had left the house the night Jean died. She wondered if this fantastic trick of her mind were not sacrilege, if it were not in some manner disloyalty to Jean. Yet, one was living, the other gone, and she felt a comforting sense that Jean would not think her disloyal. She wondered what course her new relations with Carl would take. Now that Hilda was removed from the problem⁠ ⁠… ? Weighing, pondering, wondering, she lightly slept. They’ll surely be gone now, she thought, as she on awaking descended to the parlour once more, drawn back to Jean as iron filings are attracted by a powerful magnet.

The chairs by the window were empty and Mimi was glad. She sat again by the casket and peace again came to her. How long she sat there she did not know, lost as she was in her own rambling, chaotic musings. Again there came to her a feeling she was not alone. The whispering rose once more, this time from the shadows on the other side of the casket. She sought to put them out of her mind, to lose herself again in her own thoughts. After all, she thought, they are trying to show their respect for Jean and their willingness to be of service. It is thoughtful of them to come over here and sit up. From the kitchen came the sound of voices and the aroma of coffee. Maybe they’ll leave soon if only to get something to eat.

They did not leave. Though she made every effort to close her ears and mind to the words which floated jerkily to her, Mimi found her resentment rising again. Mrs. Plummer and Mrs. King discussed the probable price of the casket, the furniture. They speculated as to what the widow and daughter would do now, in what sort of financial circumstances the deceased had left them. Mimi heard Carl’s name linked with her own⁠—followed by an appreciative chuckle from Mrs. King in response to some remark made by her companion which Mimi could not hear. It was obvious the women had not seen or heard Mimi reenter the room, for the frankness of their comment indicated their assumption they were alone. On and on they roamed, by innuendo and by unqualified assertion destroying, maligning, tearing to pieces.⁠ ⁠…

A cold, blind fury seized Mimi. She jumped to her feet. The women gasped as Mimi’s bloodless face framing flashing eyes filled with fury rose at the head of the casket, the light from the tall candles giving it a terrifying, ghostlike appearance.

“You two get out!” Mimi demanded. “You might have had enough respect for my father here to have silenced your filthy, lying tongues! Get out! Get out! Get out!”

Her voice at first was but little more than a sharp whisper. As her anger mastered her it rose until her words carried to the hall beyond. Mrs. Plummer and Mrs. King, thoroughly frightened, hastily edged around the room towards the door, keeping as great distance as was possible between them and Mimi, who slowly circled her body so that her eyes remained upon them. The two gossips hurried through the little knot which had gathered at the door, drawn there by the commotion. As the door shut behind them Mimi sank into her chair and wept as Mrs. Adams came in and put her arms about her.⁠ ⁠…

Down the street hurried two indignant, surprised women. Mrs. Plummer speculated plaintively in an aggrieved tone as she panted her way homeward.

“I wonder what was the matter with her,” she asked her companion. “We didn’t say nothing to make her r’ar and tear like that⁠—and over her dead father’s body at that! Some folks sho’ is funny!”

“Mis’ Plummer,” her companion declared portentously, “it’s the truth that hurts! You remember the old sayin’s, ‘The hit dog yelps!’ and ‘Where there’s smoke there’s fire!’ Guess we weren’t so far wrong at that⁠ ⁠… Guess that gal will bear watchin’.”⁠ ⁠…

Early the next morning Mrs. Rogers came. As she entered the house Mimi rushed to meet her. Her aunt took her in her arms, murmuring gentle words of consolation to Mimi, who felt instantly the presence of a friend and ally. Mrs. Rogers was of medium height, younger than Jean but so like her brother that Jean seemed only a replica to which white, close-cropped hair, a moustache and a little beard had been added.

“Poor, dear Mimi,” she whispered, her eyes wet. She pressed Mimi to her in a warm outpouring of real affection, affection which sprang into existence unreservedly, binding them together in a flash of understanding and love.⁠ ⁠…

Mimi and her aunt talked a long time together just before Mrs. Rogers returned to New York two days after the funeral.

“What are your plans, Mimi? What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know, Aunt Sophie⁠—this thing has come on me so suddenly I’m all upset. I suppose I’ll stay on here as long as I can get along with Mrs. Daquin⁠—”

“Why did Jean marry her? She’s not our sort at all⁠—an estimable woman, I suppose, but⁠—well, she just isn’t the sort⁠—not Margot’s type at all.”

Mimi told her the circumstances of the marriage, of the years of misunderstanding which had followed the union.

“Just like Jean to do a thing like that,” his sister observed when Mimi had finished. “Why stay on here with her? Won’t you go back to New York with me?

“Oh, Aunt Sophie, I’d love to⁠—but I can’t leave Atlanta right now⁠—”

“What’s his name?” Mrs. Rogers demanded with what to Mimi seemed uncanny shrewdness.

“Carl Hunter,” she answered frankly, her face reddening. “You see, he needs me.” And she told the story simply, fully, knowing that her aunt would understand. When she finished, Mrs. Rogers smiled sympathetically.

“I see⁠—I see. But if ever things get unpleasant here, send me a wire and come on to New York. I’ve been pretty lonely since Henry died and I’ve always wanted a daughter. I’d try to make you happy and I don’t think there’s overmuch happiness here for you with Jean’s widow. And up North you’d have a much better chance than here where all you can do is to teach school or get married. The last isn’t bad if you get the right man⁠—but, don’t hurry⁠—a girl with your looks and brains can go a long way if she only keeps her head.⁠ ⁠…”