4
On Saturday morning, his fifth day at the hospital, Clive came, bringing Felix his pay-envelope from the Chronicle.
“When do you get out?” he asked.
“Some time today,” said Felix. “The doctor has to formally discharge me, or something. This afternoon, I guess.”
“Well, come out to my place in Woods Point, and rest up for a week before you go back to the office.... I’ll have something special for dinner tonight in your honour. I have a neighbour woman come in, you know, to cook for me whenever I dine at home; you needn’t be afraid you’ll have to depend on my culinary abilities. All right? Good!... I must get to the office now and finish some work. Oh, I forgot, here’s a letter for you. Good-bye—see you this afternoon!”
The letter was from Rose-Ann.
“I couldn’t write,” it opened abruptly, “till today. Mother died Sunday. There is something very strange about death—you can’t quite believe it, or adjust yourself to it. I’ve had all sorts of queer feelings about it all. But I know now why people go through the ceremonial of funerals—it always seemed to me absurd before. But in some queer pagan way it seems to make up for all one’s ingratitude to the dead—for all the things you’ve forgotten, and only remember when it’s too late. It is, as people say, ‘all you can do.’ And in some queer way, it suffices. It enables you to think of other things again—to go back to ordinary life.
“I shan’t have to ever quarrel with my brothers again now—that’s one of the other things I think of. I mean—I’ve a tiny legacy, enough at any rate to make me independent of them forever. Father was very nice to me—I don’t think I’ve ever told you about my father; he’s a clergyman, and I suppose perhaps I didn’t want to be known as a clergyman’s daughter. But he does understand me.
“Felix, I am worried about you. I suppose it’s absurd, but I keep thinking you’re in trouble of some kind. And your letters tell me nothing at all—except—But we will talk about that when I see you.
“I’m coming back to Chicago as soon as ever I can.”
Book Three
Woods Point