“Why, what are you talking of? You’re crazy!”
“I’m not crazy; but I will be if I leave you.”
“Oh, Matt, Matt—” he groaned.
She tightened her fierce hold about his neck. Her face lay close to his face.
“Ethan, where’ll I go if I leave you? I don’t know how to get along alone. You said so yourself just now. Nobody but you was ever good to me. And there’ll be that strange girl in the house... and she’ll sleep in my bed, where I used to lay nights and listen to hear you come up the stairs....”
The words were like fragments torn from his heart. With them came the hated vision of the house he was going back to—of the stairs he would have to go up every night, of the woman who would wait for him there. And the sweetness of Mattie’s avowal, the wild wonder of knowing at last that all that had happened to him had happened to her too, made the other vision more abhorrent, the other life more intolerable to return to....
Her pleadings still came to him between short sobs, but he no longer heard what she was saying. Her hat had slipped back and he was stroking her hair. He wanted to get the feeling of it into his hand, so that it would sleep there like a seed in winter. Once he found her mouth again, and they seemed to be by the pond together in the burning August sun. But his cheek touched hers, and it was cold and full of weeping, and he saw the road to the Flats under the night and heard the whistle of the train up the line.
The spruces swathed them in blackness and silence. They might have been in their coffins underground. He said to himself: “Perhaps it’ll feel like this ...” and then again: “After this I sha’n’t feel anything....”
Suddenly he heard the old sorrel whinny across the road, and thought: “He’s wondering why he doesn’t get his supper....”
“Come!” Mattie whispered, tugging at his hand.