Белая птичка
A Night-Piece
Isupposeamansoonbecomesusedtothegreatchange,andcannotrecallatimewhentherewerenobabessprawlinginhisMary’sface.
Iamtryingtoconceivewhatwerethethoughtsoftheyounghusbandontheothersideofthestreet.“Ifthebarrieristobecrossedto-nightmayInotgowithher?Sheisnotsobraveasyouthinkher.Whenshetalkedsogailyafewhoursago,OmyGod,didshedeceiveevenyou?”
Plainquestionsto-night.“Whyshoulditallfallonher?Whatisthemanthatheshouldbeflungoutintothestreetinthisterriblehour?Youhavenotbeenfairtotheman.”
Poorboy,hiswifehasquiteforgottenhimandhistrumperylove.Ifshelivesshewillcomebacktohim,butifshediesshewilldietriumphantandserene.Lifeanddeath,thechildandthemother,areevermeetingastheonedrawsintoharbourandtheothersetssail.Theyexchangeabright“All’swell”andpasson.
Butafterward?
Theonlyghosts,Ibelieve,whocreepintothisworld,aredeadyoungmothers,returnedtoseehowtheirchildrenfare.Thereisnootherinducementgreatenoughtobringthedepartedback.Theyglideintotheacquaintedroomwhendayandnight,theirjailers,areinthegrip,andwhisper,“Howisitwithyou,mychild?”butalways,lestastrangefaceshouldfrightenhim,theywhisperitsolowthathemaynothear.Theybendoverhimtoseethathesleepspeacefully,andreplacehissweetarmbeneaththecoverlet,andtheyopenthedrawerstocounthowmanylittlevestshehas.Theylovetodothesethings.
Whatissaddestaboutghostsisthattheymaynotknowtheirchild.
