As the old man came through the door, the light was dim, and only the single burner in the tall lamp shed its uncertain rays about the place. He took off his top-coat and placed his cane in a corner. Clarinda kissed him and helpfully settled him in the spot which was Peter’s.
Her father watched her during these preparations, and he felt from some reason that the atmosphere was filled with uncertainty. Feeling this he gathered himself together and pondered upon the various ways of approach by which he might help Clarinda without her suspecting. He knew. It was indicated to him by her movements.
The care with which she fixed things for his comfort were an indication and he decided to abide his time.
Presently Clarinda sat herself down beside him and leaned her head against his shoulder. He put his arm around her and drew her close to him. Clarinda sighed with satisfaction. They talked. Her father answered her various questions. It was a desultory conversation, as if both were sparring for an opening. Presently they sank into silence.
Many days had passed since Peter, on that memorable morning, had gone out of the house and had not kissed her, nor held her in his arms, nor turned at the corner and waved his hand to her. Since then he had forgotten repeatedly, and each time he went from her it left a bitter feeling in her heart. Clarinda lived on love, so when it was denied her she felt as if something vital had been taken out of her life.
Since they had been married, one winter had come and gone, and another was upon them. The snow had fallen, and the leaves had gone from the trees. The people without had gone by unmindful, cold, impersonal—and did not feel the tragedy Clarinda was carrying in her heart. They rushed by muffled to their chins. The days were shorter, and the nights settled down upon her earlier. They gave Clarinda a longer time to think of her sorrow, and to find out how far she had advanced.
On this winter night, in front of Clarinda and her father on the tiny hearth, there burnt a tiny fire, that gave a tiny blaze; and it curled itself up the chimney and lost itself in the orifice. Clarinda settled herself by her father’s side, and gazed intently into the fire. She pressed his hand tightly in hers, and buried her head securely on his shoulder. As she looked into the fire, her eyes widened and her cheeks became flushed with the heat.
“All things are futile, aren’t they, father?” she asked slowly. Then she lapsed into silence as if to think of a proper word or as if a certain delicacy restrained her.
Her father believed that she was about to make a confession, and did not answer.
After a while, she added: “Do people live forever? Do you love mother now as when you first loved her?”