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Chapter 3

SometimesonaSundayshewouldgointothelonelyparlor,sitdownatthespinetunderthewindowandplay,thoughhertouchhadlonggonefromwantoftimetopracticeandshecouldnolongermanageanybutthesimplestpieces.Hewouldsitbeneaththewindowamongthelilacsandthelilies,andclosehiseyestolisten.Therewasasortofvisionhehadthen,ofhismothercladinalongbustledgownofpalestpinkshadowlacesittingatthespinetinahugeivoryroom,greatbranchesofcandlesallaroundher.Itwouldmakehimlongtoweep,butheneverweptanymore;notsincethatnightinthebarnafterthepolicehadbroughthimhome.

MeggiehadputHalbackinthebassinet,andgonetostandbesidehermother.Therewasanotheronewasted.Thesameproud,sensitiveprofile;somethingofFionaaboutherhands,herchild’sbody.Shewouldbeverylikehermotherwhenshe,too,wasawoman.Andwhowouldmarryher?AnotheroafishIrishshearer,oraclodhoppingyokelfromsomeWahinedairyfarm?Shewasworthmore,butshewasnotborntomore.Therewasnowayout,thatwaswhateveryonesaid,andeveryyearlongerthathelivedseemedtobearitout.

Suddenlyconsciousofhisfixedregard,FeeandMeggieturnedtogether,smilingathimwiththepeculiartendernesswomensaveforthemostbelovedmenintheirlives.Frankputhiscuponthetableandwentouttofeedthedogs,wishinghecouldweep,orcommitmurder.Anythingwhichmightbanishthepain.