“I suppose we shouldn’t have made Una
fast,” said Faith remorsefully. “When
I think of it, only Jerry and I should have been punished.
WE got up the concert and we were the oldest.”
“I sang Polly Wolly just the same as
the rest of you,” said Una’s weak little
voice, “so I had to be punished, too.”
Mrs. Clow came with a glass of milk, Faith and Jerry
and Carl sneaked off to the pantry, and John Meredith
went into his study, where he sat in the darkness
for a long time, alone with his bitter thoughts.
So his children were bringing themselves up because
there was “nobody to do it”—struggling
along amid their little perplexities without a hand
to guide or a voice to counsel. Faith’s
innocently uttered phrase rankled in her father’s
mind like a barbed shaft. There was “nobody”
to look after them—to comfort their little
souls and care for their little bodies. How
frail Una had looked, lying there on the vestry sofa
in that long faint! How thin were her tiny hands,
how pallid her little face! She looked as if
she might slip away from him in a breath—sweet
little Una, of whom Cecilia had begged him to take
such special care. Since his wife’s death
he had not felt such an agony of dread as when he
had hung over his little girl in her unconsciousness.
He must do something—but what? Should
he ask Elizabeth Kirk to marry him? She was a
good woman—she would be kind to his children.
He might bring himself to do it if it were not for
his love for Rosemary West. But until he had
crushed that out he could not seek another woman in
marriage. And he could not crush it out—he
had tried and he could not. Rosemary had been
in church that evening, for the first time since her
return from Kingsport. He had caught a glimpse
of her face in the back of the crowded church, just
as he had finished his sermon. His heart had
given a fierce throb. He sat while the choir
sang the “collection piece,” with his bent
head and tingling pulses. He had not seen her
since the evening upon which he had asked her to marry
him. When he had risen to give out the hymn
his hands were trembling and his pale face was flushed.
Then Una’s fainting spell had banished everything
from his mind for a time. Now, in the darkness
and solitude of the study it rushed back. Rosemary
was the only woman in the world for him. It
was of no use for him to think of marrying any other.
He could not commit such a sacrilege even for his
children’s sake. He must take up his burden
alone—he must try to be a better, a more
watchful father—he must tell his children
not to be afraid to come to him with all their little
problems. Then he lighted his lamp and took up
a bulky new book which was setting the theological
world by the ears. He would read just one chapter
to compose his mind. Five minutes later he was
lost to the world and the troubles of the world.
