“Yes, Peneluna.” Then Mary-Clare started back.
She was in the presence of the dead. He lay rigid and carefully prepared for burial on the narrow bed. He looked decent, at peace, and with that unearthly dignity that death often offers as its first gift.
Peneluna drew two chairs close to the bed; waved Mary-Clare majestically to one and took the other herself. She was going to lay her secrets before the one she had chosen––after that the shut-out world might have its turn.
“I’ve sent word over to the Post Office,” Peneluna began, “and they’re going to get folks, the doctor and minister and the rest. Before they get here––” Peneluna paused––“before they get here I want that you should act for the old doctor.”
This was the one thing needed to rouse Mary-Clare.
“I’ll do my best, Peneluna,” she whispered, and clutched the prayer-book.
“The ole doctor, he knew ’bout Philander and me. He said”––Peneluna caught her breath––“he said once as how it was women like me that kept men believing. He said I had a right to hold my tongue––he held his’n.”
Mary-Clare nodded. Not even she could ever estimate the secret load of confessions her beloved foster-father bore and covered with his rare smile.
“Mary-Clare, I want yer should read the marriage service over me and him!” Peneluna gravely nodded to her silent dead. “I got this to say: If Philander ain’t too far on his journey, I guess he’ll look back and understand and then he can go on more cheerful-like and easy. Last night he hadn’t more than time to say a few things, but they cleared everything, and if I’m his wife, he can trust me––a wife wouldn’t harm a dead husband when she might the man who jilted her.” The words came through a hard, dry sob. Mary-Clare felt her eyes fill with hot tears. She looked out through the one open window and felt the warm autumn breeze against her cheek; a bit of sunlight slanted across the room and lay brightly on the quiet man upon the bed. “Read on, Mary-Clare, and then I can speak out.”