IXThey came in, a pathetic little procession, three golden-haired couples, holding one another’s hands.First, Arty and Emmy, then Catty and Baby, then Willie and Dick, all solemn and shy. Baby turned his back on the strange aunt and burrowed into his mother’s lap. They were all silent but Dick. Dick wanted to know if his Auntie liked birfdays, and if people gave her fings on her birfday—pausing to simulate a delicate irrelevance before he announced thathisbirfday was to-morrow.“Dickie, dear,” said his mother,nervously, “we don’t talk about our birthdays before they’ve come.”She could not bear Susie to be able to say that one of her children had given so gross a hint.The children pressed round her, and her hands were soon at their proud and anxious work: coaxing stray curls into their place; proving the strength of the little arms; slipping a sock, to show the marbled rose of the round limbs.“Just feel Emmy’s legs. She’s as firm as firm. And look at Baby, how beautifully he’s made. They’re all healthy. There isn’t an unsweet, unsound spot in one of them.”A woman sits surrounded by 6 small children, while another woman looks on.“‘There isn’t an unsweet, unsound spot in one of them’”“No, no, they look it. They’re magnificent. And they’re you all over again.”“Barbara wasn’t. She was the very image of her father.” Her love of himconquered the stubborn silence of her grief, so that she did not shrink from the beloved name.“Susie,” she said, when the little procession had, at its own petition, filed solemnly out again, “you can’t say you’ve seen too much of them.”Susie smiled sadly as she looked at the wreck that was poor Aggie. “No, my dear; but I haven’t seen quite enough of you. There isn’t much left of you, you know.”“Me?” She paused, and then broke out again, triumphant in her justification: “No matter if there’s nothing left of me.They’realive.”She raised her head. Worn out and broken down she might be, but she was the mother of superb children. Something stronger and more beautiful than her lost youth flamed in her as she vindicated her motherhood.She struck even Susie’s dull imagination as wonderful.Half an hour later Aggie bent her aching back again over her work. She had turned a stiff, set face to Susie as she parted from her. John had come and gone, and it had not been awkward in the least. He was kind and courteous (time and prosperity had improved him), but he had, as Susie said, no eyes for any one but his wife.As Aggie worked she was assailed by many thoughts and many memories. Out of the past there rose a sublime and patient face. It smiled at her above a butchery of little lambs.Yes, Susie was right about her John. There was no weak spot in him. He had not a great intellect, but he had a great heart and a great will. Aggie remembered how once, in her thoughtfulmaiden days, she had read in one of the vicar’s books a saying which had struck her at the time, for the vicar had underlined it twice. “If there is aught spiritual in man, it is the Will.” She had not thought of John as a very spiritual person. She had dimly divined in him the possibility of strong passions, such passions as make shipwreck of men’s lives. And here was Arthur—he, poor dear, would never be shipwrecked, for he hadn’t one strong passion in him; he had only a few weak little impulses, incessantly frustrating a will weaker than them all. She remembered how her little undeveloped soul, with its flutterings and strugglings after the immaterial, had been repelled by the large presence of the natural man. It had been afraid to trust itself to his strength, lest itswings should suffer for it. It had not been afraid to trust itself to Arthur; and his weakness had made it a wingless thing, dragged down by the suffering of her body.She said to herself, “If I had known John was like that—”She stopped her brain before it could answer for her! “You wouldn’t be sitting here now stitching at that coat.”She stitched on till she could see to stitch no more; for tears came and blinded her eyes, and fell upon the coat.That was just after she had kissed it.
They came in, a pathetic little procession, three golden-haired couples, holding one another’s hands.
First, Arty and Emmy, then Catty and Baby, then Willie and Dick, all solemn and shy. Baby turned his back on the strange aunt and burrowed into his mother’s lap. They were all silent but Dick. Dick wanted to know if his Auntie liked birfdays, and if people gave her fings on her birfday—pausing to simulate a delicate irrelevance before he announced thathisbirfday was to-morrow.
“Dickie, dear,” said his mother,nervously, “we don’t talk about our birthdays before they’ve come.”
She could not bear Susie to be able to say that one of her children had given so gross a hint.
The children pressed round her, and her hands were soon at their proud and anxious work: coaxing stray curls into their place; proving the strength of the little arms; slipping a sock, to show the marbled rose of the round limbs.
“Just feel Emmy’s legs. She’s as firm as firm. And look at Baby, how beautifully he’s made. They’re all healthy. There isn’t an unsweet, unsound spot in one of them.”
A woman sits surrounded by 6 small children, while another woman looks on.“‘There isn’t an unsweet, unsound spot in one of them’”
“‘There isn’t an unsweet, unsound spot in one of them’”
“No, no, they look it. They’re magnificent. And they’re you all over again.”
“Barbara wasn’t. She was the very image of her father.” Her love of himconquered the stubborn silence of her grief, so that she did not shrink from the beloved name.
“Susie,” she said, when the little procession had, at its own petition, filed solemnly out again, “you can’t say you’ve seen too much of them.”
Susie smiled sadly as she looked at the wreck that was poor Aggie. “No, my dear; but I haven’t seen quite enough of you. There isn’t much left of you, you know.”
“Me?” She paused, and then broke out again, triumphant in her justification: “No matter if there’s nothing left of me.They’realive.”
She raised her head. Worn out and broken down she might be, but she was the mother of superb children. Something stronger and more beautiful than her lost youth flamed in her as she vindicated her motherhood.She struck even Susie’s dull imagination as wonderful.
Half an hour later Aggie bent her aching back again over her work. She had turned a stiff, set face to Susie as she parted from her. John had come and gone, and it had not been awkward in the least. He was kind and courteous (time and prosperity had improved him), but he had, as Susie said, no eyes for any one but his wife.
As Aggie worked she was assailed by many thoughts and many memories. Out of the past there rose a sublime and patient face. It smiled at her above a butchery of little lambs.
Yes, Susie was right about her John. There was no weak spot in him. He had not a great intellect, but he had a great heart and a great will. Aggie remembered how once, in her thoughtfulmaiden days, she had read in one of the vicar’s books a saying which had struck her at the time, for the vicar had underlined it twice. “If there is aught spiritual in man, it is the Will.” She had not thought of John as a very spiritual person. She had dimly divined in him the possibility of strong passions, such passions as make shipwreck of men’s lives. And here was Arthur—he, poor dear, would never be shipwrecked, for he hadn’t one strong passion in him; he had only a few weak little impulses, incessantly frustrating a will weaker than them all. She remembered how her little undeveloped soul, with its flutterings and strugglings after the immaterial, had been repelled by the large presence of the natural man. It had been afraid to trust itself to his strength, lest itswings should suffer for it. It had not been afraid to trust itself to Arthur; and his weakness had made it a wingless thing, dragged down by the suffering of her body.
She said to herself, “If I had known John was like that—”
She stopped her brain before it could answer for her! “You wouldn’t be sitting here now stitching at that coat.”
She stitched on till she could see to stitch no more; for tears came and blinded her eyes, and fell upon the coat.
That was just after she had kissed it.