Ah, but there had been a difference there! She had loved there, and
been awakened by great love. Her child's crumpled, rosy foot had come
to mean more to her than all the world had meant before. The smile, or
the frown, in her husband's eyes had been her sunshine or her storm.
Through love she had come to know the brimming life of the world, the
pathos, the comedy that is ready to spill itself over every humble
window-sill, the joy that some woman's heart feels whenever the piping
cry of the new-born sounds in a darkened room, the sorrow held by every
shabby white hearse that winds its way through a hot and unnoticing
street. She had clung to husband and sons with the tigerish tenacity
that is the rightful dower of wife and mother; she had thought the
world well lost in holding them.
And then the sordid, selfish past rose like an ugly mist before her,
and she found at her lips the bitter cup she had filled herself. She
was not so safe now, behind her barrier of love, but that the terrible
machinery she had set in motion might bring its grinding wheels to bear
upon the lives she guarded. She had flung her solemn promise aside,
once; what defence could she make for a second solemn promise now? The
world, divorce mad, spun blindly on, and the echo of her own complacent
"one in twelve" came faintly, sickly back to her after the happy years.
"Divorce has actually no place in our laws, it isn't either wrong or
right," Rachael said one autumn day when they were walking slowly to
the beach. Over their heads the trees were turning scarlet; the days
were still soft and warm, but twilight fell earlier now, and in the air
at morning and evening was the intoxicating sharpness, the thin blue
and clear steel color that mark the dying summer. Alice's three younger
children were in school, and the family came to Clark's Hills only for
the week-ends, but Rachael and her boys stayed on and on, enjoying the
rare warmth and beauty of the Indian Summer, and comfortable in the old
house that had weathered fifty autumns and would weather fifty more.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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