HE Rev. James Morton seated himself at the breakfast-table, said grace, sighed inaudibly, and addressed himself to his porridge. He had done this for so many mornings that now it was an automatic sequence to which he seemed to contribute nothing but modulated sounds and certain dignified motions. Presently, as always, Maria Morton repeated the parochial duties for the day, repeated them in that deliberate monotone which the Reverend James had long recognized as the voice of destiny. There was the Girls' Friendly Society, the Dorcas Society, the committee on food values for the poor; and the deputation to the city council in the matter of playgrounds.
He listened, or rather his ears received it, while his brain plodded along, keeping always exactly one sentence ahead. To the silence that followed he contributed nothing; but a breath of spring air that drifted through the open window set his mind wandering till it reached back to another spring day, now long past, when Maria had sat at his breakfast-table for the very first time. Slowly she became transfigured. He saw again the pink-and-white of her cheeks, the adorable curls on her neck, the entrancing curve of shoulder and arm, the unspeakable light in her dancing blue eyes. Ah,
"Your coffee, James!"
He returned with a thud. The vision vanished, to be replaced by a small, brisk woman with quick, agile eyes, slightly compressed lips, cheeks that retained a pink oasis in their somewhat sallow curves, and brown hair tightly drawn back into a small convolvulated hump.
He smiled mechanically. "Thank you, my dear," then paused with the cup in his hand. "You forgot Mrs. Berryman."
Maria glanced over the coffee-pot. "Oh, are you going there?"
"She telephoned last night that she would like me to call."
His wife hesitated. It was almost imperceptible—that is, it would have been in any other woman. But to James Morton hesitation in Maria was notable.
"What's the matter with her?"
"I don't know, my dear. She didn't say."
Maria sniffed. For the rest of the meal she said little, but shot curious glances at her husband. Words seemed to tremble on her lips, only to be gulped hurriedly down.
The Reverend James rose and went into his study. Two hours later he descended to the hall, grasped his hat and stick, and stepped thoughtfully out into the sunshine. Maria watched him from her bedroom window. Her cheeks were flushed, her mouth twitched. It seemed almost as if some other Maria were demanding utterance. Her eyes followed to the corner, then, as his slim black shoulders vanished, she threw herself on the bed and put her face between her hands.
Mabel Berryman heard the door-bell and leaned languidly back in an invalid-chair. She really looked extremely well. Her natural pallor heightened the effect of her large, dark eyes, and just now her eyes were larger and darker than ever. She had, a week or so before, decided—and the decision had a touch of deliciousness in it—to set her house in order. This visitation was the immediate outcome of those elusive springtime sensations in which one is translated, as it were, to more intimate communion with a more beautiful universe. To these she had yielded with something akin to abandonment. They all pointed to the probability of her not being long in this world. She had gone even further, and called up pleasing and pathetic visions of the scenes that would follow her most sad demise. Transported thus to a plane which she was convinced was the loftiest plane of all, she put on her prettiest tea-gown, had the room dusted and filled with flowers, and then sent, as one most naturally would send, for the Rev. James Morton.
Her smile of greeting was meant to be one of resignation. It touched her to think that the very small white and smooth hand which she extended to him was that of a woman poised almost between earth and heaven, that this visit of his was but the precursor of other visits, each successively more intimate, more soulful. She felt very fragile, like a Dresden cup perilously near the edge of the shelf.
She had rehearsed her side of this interview and dwelt with transitory unction on the gradual unfolding of her precarious condition, her joy in the life that now paused in its comfortable voyage, her recognition of the ephemeral side of things in general, and her ultimate desire to get in touch with matters transcendental. It had all seemed very good, and she had felt that it was even touching. But now, surveying James Morton's matter-of-fact face and somewhat non-ethereal manner, she experienced a fluttering of doubt.
"It's very good of you to come and see me."
"Not at all. I'm very glad to come. Not ill, I hope?"