Drifting about in Mary-Clare’s thought a scrap of old scandal stirred, but it had little to feed on and passed.
“Then a woman got mixed up ’twixt him and me. In her young days she’d been French and you know yer can’t get away from what’s born in the blood, and the Frenchiness was terrible onsettling. Philander was side-twisted. Yer see, Mary-Clare, when a man ain’t had nothing but work and working folks in his life, a creature that laughs and dances 80 and sings gets like whiskey in the head, and Philander didn’t rightfully know what he was about.”
Peneluna drew the end of her crêpe veil up and wiped her eyes.
“They went off together, him and the furriner. Least, the furriner took him off, and the next thing I heard she’d taken to her heels and Philander drifted here to the mines. I knew he needed me more than ever––he was a dreadful creature about doing for himself, not eating at Christian hours, just waiting till he keeled over from emptiness, so I came logging along after him and––stayed. He was considerable upset when he saw me and he never got to, what you might say, speaking to me, but he was near and he ate the food I left on his steps and he washed the plates and cups and that meant a lot to Philander. If I’d been his proper wife he wouldn’t have washed ’em. Men don’t when they get used to a woman.
“And then”––here Peneluna caught her breath––“then last night he called from his winder and I came. He said, holding my hand like it was the last thing left for him to hold: ‘I didn’t think I had a right to you, Pen’––he used to call me Pen––‘after what I did. And I’ve just paid for my evil-doing up to the end, not taking comfort and forgiveness––just paying!’ I never let on, Mary-Clare, how I’d paid, too. Men folks are blind-spotted, we’ve got to take ’em as they are. Philander thought he had worked out his soul’s salvation while he was starving me, soul and body, but I never let on and he died smiling and saying, ‘The food was terrible staying, Pen, terrible staying.’”
Mary-Clare could see mistily the long, rigid figure on the bed, her eyes ached with unshed tears; her heart throbbed like a heavy pain. Here was something she had never understood; a thing so real and strong that no earthly touch could kill it. What was it?
But Peneluna was talking on, her poor old face twitching.
“And now, Mary-Clare, him and me is man and wife before God and you. You are terrible understanding, child. With all the fol-de-rol the old doctor laid on yer, he laid his own 81 spirit of knowing things on yer, too. Suffering learns folks the understanding power. I reckon the old doctor had had his share ’fore he came to the Forest––but how you got to knowing things, child, and being tender and patient, ’stead of hot and full of hate, I don’t know! Now read, soft and low, so only us three can hear––the last service.”
Solemnly, with sweet intonations, Mary-Clare read on and on. Again the bird came to the window ledge, looked in, and then flew off singing jubilantly. Peneluna smiled a fleeting wintry smile and closed her eyes; she seemed to be following the bird––or was it old Philander’s soul?
When the service came to an end, Peneluna arose and with grave dignity walked from the room, Mary-Clare following.