At four o'clock there came another message—which set Pearl's heart dancing, and spotted her cheeks with a glowing color—the operation was over—apparently successful—and they were driving back to town. The other train might be late too, so it would be impossible for him to come out—but would she still wait? Did the thousand year limit still hold?
There was just a hint of fatigue in his voice, which awakened all the maternal instincts in Pearl, and made her heart very tender to him.
"I will wait—forever," said Pearl.
"Just until tomorrow," came back the voice—"just till tomorrow—and it will be fine tomorrow—won't it, Pearl! Say it will be fine."
"Finer still," she replied, with her cheeks like the early roses in
June.
The day went by on satin wings—with each minute so charged with happiness that Pearl could well believe that heaven had slipped down to earth, and that she was walking the streets of the new Jerusalem. She sang as she worked in the house, her sweet, ribbony voice filling the room with a gladness and rapture that made her mother, with her mystical Celtic temperament almost apprehensive.
"She's a queer girl, is Pearlie," she said that night, when Pearl had gone upstairs to arbitrate a quarrel which had broken out between Bugsey and Danny as to whose turn it was to split the kindling wood. "Day about" it had been until Bugsey had urged that it be changed to "week about," and the delicate matter in dispute now was as to the day on which the week expired. Danny, who had been doing the kindling, was certain that the date of expiry had arrived, but Bugsey's calendar set the day one day later, and the battle raged, with both sides ably argued, but unfortunately not listened to by the opposing forces.
"She's a queer child, is Pearlie," said Mrs. Watson, as she beat up the bread-batter downstairs, "she's that light-hearted and free from care, and her eighteen years old. She's like somethin' that don't belong on earth, with her two big eyes shinin' like lamps, and the way she sings through the house, settin' the table or scourin' the milk pails or mendin' a coat for the boys—it don't seem natural. She's too happy, whatever its' about, and it makes me afraid for her. She's the kind that sees nothin' wrong, and won't see trouble comin' till its too late. I often feel afraid she's too good and happy for this world. She's always been the same, liltin' and singin' and makin' everyone happy around her."
Jimmy was washing his face in the enamel basin which stood on a box below the mirror, and looking around with a dripping wet face, felt with a wildy swinging motion of his arms for the towel. When he had secured it, and all danger of soapsuds getting into his eyes was removed, he joined the conversation.
"Gosh, Ma!" he said, "you don't know Pearl, she's not the saint you take her for. I'll bet the Tucker kids don't think she's too good to live. Not much! They know she can hold up her end of a row as well as any one. When she found out they had killed the cat they got from us, and tanned the skin to make a rim on a cap, you should have seen Pearl. She just cut loose on the two of them, and chased them through the sloughs and up the road clear home—larrupin' them with a binder whip, as fast as she could swing it—the yowls out of them would have done your heart good!"