Short Interlude
“I can’t find the piece that goes here, Anne,” said old Mrs. Morris. “A straight edge. And brown.”
She was lying in her bed, propped up by pillows. Her thin, worn hands lay listlessly on a jig-saw board, but her eyes were patient. Anne had watched the patience in those tired eyes for over two years—had seen it summoned by an iron will, till it had slipped into a heroic habit; and it had made her despise the fretting world outside that quiet bedroom where pain and relief from pain were the only incidents. Above all, it had made her despise herself. She moved quickly to the bed now, and began searching earnestly for the piece with the straight edge. Nothing in the world mattered at this moment but a small piece of three-ply wood.
“It must be brown, dear,” said Mrs. Morris, “because it’s a bit of the squirrel.”
“We’ll find it,” answered Anne optimistically.
“Brown,” said Mrs. Morris.
Suddenly Anne’s hand shot towards a piece. It rested momentarily against her grandmother’s, the one firm and strong, the other white and fragile almost to transparency. The cruel contrast sent a dart of pain through Anne’s heart, and she withdrew her hand hastily, loathing its youth and beauty and the carefully manicured nails.
“No, not that one,” said Mrs. Morris.
“I believe it is,” replied Anne, more loudly than she intended. But she was trying not to cry. “Look! Oh—so it isn’t!”
“It must have a straight edge,” said Mrs. Morris, as Anne took the piece away again.
“You’re always right,” answered Anne. “Well, what about this one?”
She tested several pieces unsuccessfully. Presently, conscious that she was receiving no assistance, she glanced up. Mrs. Morris’s eyes were closed. But Anne continued with her task. The interest must be maintained. There was nothing else.
“I was sorry the bottle was broken,” said Mrs. Morris. Her eyes were still closed. “I liked that bottle.”
Anne was motionless.
“Didn’t some one give it to me?…Last Christmas. Your Uncle Harry.”
Uncle Harry had been dead ten years.
Quiet feet moved past the bedroom door. They were very quiet indeed, and did not pause, but Anne heard them. They wove into the rhythm of her heart-beats.
“Did they get the stag?”
“Yes, Granny,” answered Anne.
“That’s a good thing,” said Mrs. Morris. “It’s over.”
Anne knew that she was envying the stag. Mrs. Morris did not feel the trembling lips that touched the counterpane where her drawn knee made a tiny mound.
In a few seconds the old lady opened her eyes. The pain had gone again.
“Isn’t that the bit over there?” she said.
Her thin fingers stretched forward, and fitted it.