In the overwhelming grief which had come to me, life appeared a void; a vacuous, heavy-footed thing, with moments of suspended thought, a merciful numbness of despair, a sound, a familiar sight, a rush of memory, a freshet of tears, each overlapped the other, so fast they followed. One of the unpardonable and most resented slights to those in affliction is the even tenor with which the world wags on its way, callous and indifferent. One would have it stop, take heed, upheave.... So, when Will announced that it were expedient to rejoin his company almost immediately I felt a sacrilege was about to be committed. His rôle was being played by an understudy, who, after the manner of understudies, was neither prepared nor equal to the emergency which had suddenly confronted him. Will urged me to accompany him, pointing out that to remain in the apartment alone with ever-present reminders of my loss were to nurse my grief and keep the wound always fresh
"Unnumbered cords, frail strands full fraught with pain, That join the soul to things of time and sense."
The thought of leaving all that held the nearness of his spirit was repugnant to me. I wanted to be alone with my grief. Gradually I came to realize that it was for the best. Experience, too--simple, honest soul--was shaken by the suddenness and swiftness of our loss. I decided to send her to her home for a rest and change of scene. After all, what did it matter where I went?... Boy was not there....
The season dragged by, drab and comfortless. Will's devotion to me was the only ray of light in the murkiness of my spirit. Our common grief had bridged the gulf between us. All the gentleness, the tenderness in his nature seemed to revive. He never left me to accept invitations in which he knew I could not share; something like the old camaraderie was restored between us. I found a kind of balm in the thought that, if the death of my son had been the means of bringing my husband and me closer together, the sacrifice had not been in vain--and yet--and yet ... in the inner consciousness of my heart I knew the truth: had I been called upon to choose, the sacrifice had not been Boy. Truly, life is a continuous compromise.
The season ended, we returned to New York. Because we could not afford to move--there being the usual deficit in the family budget--we opened the apartment. To dwell upon the resurging pain which the reminders in my home undammed were to make fetish of my grief. Neither did I ask Experience to return. She, too, belonged to the past of things.