Her ears caught a rumble, fainter than thunder, and the splash of horses' hoofs—“it's too muddy for the motor ambulance,” she thought, mechanically. “They're using the old one,” and her heart contracting, twisting, a queer dryness in her throat, she opened the door as they stopped, her hand shading the lamp against the sudden inrush of wind and rain. “In there, through the parlor,” she said dully, indicating the new room and thinking, bitterly, as she followed them, that now, when it could mean nothing to Billy, Martin would offer no objections to its being given over to him.
The scuffling of feet, the low, matter-of-fact orders of a directing voice: “Easy now, boys—all together, lift. Watch out; pull that sheet back up over him,” and a brawny, work-stooped man saying to her awkwardly: “I wouldn't look at him if I was you, Mrs. Wade, till the undertaker fixes him up,” and she was once more alone.
As if transfixed, she continued to stand, looking beyond the lamp, beyond the bed on which her son's large figure was outlined by the sheet, beyond the front door which faced her, beyond—into the night, looking for Martin, waiting for him to come home to his boy. She asked herself again and again how she had been so restrained when her Billy had been carried in. After what seemed interminable ages, she heard heavy steps on the back porch and knew that her husband had returned at last. He brought in with him a gust of wind that caused the lamp to smoke. She held it with both hands, afraid that she might drop it, and carrying it to the dining-room table set it down slowly, looking at him. He seemed huger than ever with his hulk sinking into the gray darkness behind him. There was something elephantine about him as he stood there, soaked to the skin, bending forward a little, breathing slowly and deeply, his fine nostrils distending with perfect regularity, his face in the dim light, yellow, with the large lines almost black. He was hatless and his tawny-gray hair was flat with wetness, coming down almost to his eyes, so clear and far-seeing.
“What's the matter with the lights? Fuse blown out?” he asked, spitting imaginary rain out of his mouth.
Rose did not answer.
“Awful night for visiting,” Martin announced roughly, as he took off his coat. “But it was lucky I went, or all would have been pretty bad for me. Do you know, that rascal was delivering the wheat to the elevator—wheat on which I held a chattel—and I got to Tom Mayer just as he was figuring up the weights. You should have seen Johnson's face when I came in. He knew I had him cornered. 'Here,' I said, 'what's up?' And that lying rascal turned as white as death and said something about getting ready to bring me a check. I told him I was much obliged, but I would take it along with me—and I did. Here it is—fourteen hundred dollars, plus interest. And I got it by the skin of my teeth. I didn't stop to argue with him for I saw the storm coming on. I went racing, but a half mile north I skidded into the ditch. I really feel like leaving the car there all night, but it would do a lot of damage. I'll have to get a team and drag it in. I call it a good day's work. What do you say?” He looked at her closely, for the first time noticing her drawn face and far-away look.
“What's the matter? You look goopy—”
Rose settled herself heavily in the rocker close to the table.
“You're not sick, are you?”
She shook her head a few times and answered: “He's in there—”