"Happy New Year," she whispered, and led the way down the gangplank.
On New Year's morning Jean astonished Martha by going to early church with her. Martha asked for no reason, but her heart sang its thanksgiving as they trotted along through the clean crispness of the New Day. It was only six o'clock, but the church was full. The high altar, white in its frostwork of sheerest lace, blazed with candles. The air was heavy with the odor of thick white flowers and incense that never quite died out. Through it, like a refreshing draft, came the woodsy smell of greens and berries.
Abject with gratitude and humility, Martha slipped into the last pew and Jean knelt beside her. It was like dropping back through the years into her childhood. From force of association, Jean leaned her head on the pews in front and closed her eyes. She did not pray but she felt strangely near a God.
After a moment she stole a look at Martha, just as she used to do when she was little and wanted permission to get up and sit in the seat. It was queer how a motion could start an old train of thought. As strongly as if she were feeling it now, she remembered the anger that had always stirred her when her mother went on praying, without seeing the look. She had always hated the way Martha knelt, almost crouched, in the last pew. It had always made her want to walk straight on, up to the very altar itself, and face God standing, with her eyes open. If people loved God, as they said they did, why were they so afraid of him? If this was His house, why did they sneak around in it like burglars? How furious it had made her! And now, nothing had changed: Martha still crept into the last pew and crouched before her God, and it did not make Jean angry at all. Instead, it made a lump come into her throat, and down to the depths of her she was glad that Martha had her God.
She had Gregory.
A young priest entered and the service began. Jean rose and knelt and made the proper responses. Words that she could not have recalled in any other setting, came spontaneously to her lips. While row after row of communicants went to the rail, she knelt, her head bowed. The monotonous murmur:
"Take and eat this—the body and blood of Christ which was given for thee, preserve thy body and soul to everlasting life."
Over and over, row after row, hung a background for her thoughts.
"Take, eat—preserve thy body—everlasting life."
Against it, she walked in the dark with Gregory and felt his lips seeking hers.