“Are you all right, mother?” asked Robert’s voice. “I saw your light.”
“Perfectly all right, dear boy!” she answered brightly. “I’m very comfortable. Good night!”
“Sure?” he asked.
She wanted to jump up and go to him and kiss him—her dear, solemn, anxious Robert; but that wouldn’t do. Never, never, while she had a trace of dignity and honor, would she turn to her children for reassurance. She was the mother. She could not always be strong, but she could at least hide her weakness from her children. She could endure her bad moments alone.
“Quite sure!” she answered, and snapped out the light. “There! I’m going to sleep! Good night, my own dear, dear boy!”
“Good night, mother!” he answered.
His voice touched her so! If only she could let go, and be frail and helpless, and allow her children to take care of her! They would be so glad to do it—they would be so dear and kind!
“Shame on you, Jessica Champney!” she said to herself. “You weren’t an old lady before you came here, and you’re not going to be one now. You’re only fifty, and you’re well and strong. There must be any number of things a healthy woman of fifty can do. Find them!”
And then, as if by inspiration, she thought of Emily Lyons.
The next morning, as soon as Robert had gone, she told Molly that she wanted to “see about something”; and off she went, dressed in her best again, and took the train to a near-by town. She was going to see Miss Lyons. She had not met this old school friend for a good many years, but she remembered her with affection and respect, and perhaps with a little pity, because Emily had never married. She had devoted her life to charitable work—an admirable existence, but, Mrs. Champney thought, rather a forlorn one.