It was night before they let her see John. They were all amazed at her quietness. She had just waited until she could see John, rocking by the fire with little Dickie, whom they had brought downstairs to her, had put in her lap. She seemed to derive comfort from him. Sometimes she seemed to listen; they knew she was listening for Gregory.
Then they let her go up to John who had awakened. She went with slow and steady steps into his room, their room. The firelight glowed on the hearth and a dim light burned beside the bed. He lay with closed eyes, looking close to death, his big body ridged under the quilts. There was a bloodstained bandage about his head. He did not open his eyes until Margaret stood beside him, and then for a long time he stared at her as though trying to see her through mists.
“Maggie,” he whispered through bruised lips.
She knelt down beside him, laid her cheek against his shoulder. “Forgive me, John,” she said. “Just forgive me.”
His bruised arm moved, feebly enclosed her. His mouth touched her head. “There ain’t nothin’ to forgive, Maggie, seein’ that you came back to me.”
The others left them alone, closed the door softly behind them.
“Maggie,” said John. “I’ve thought about lots of things, lyin’ here while they thought I was asleep. And everythin’ came clear to me. We both been wrong. It took this,” and his features writhed for a moment, “all this, to show us. I ain’t goin’ to speak of the baby; I can’t, just now. But, somehow, it took it all to show us. I ain’t sorry. You mustn’t be. We’ve got a long life to live, yet, you and me. Together. That’s all I care about, that we’ll be together.”
“Together, John,” she answered. “Always together.”
She knew that there were months ahead of physical and mental agony, of remembering Gregory, of listening for him. Of a thousand things they would never be able to speak about. But even then, knowing this, she could put her mouth on John’s sweetly, and feel peace.