It’s all right!
It’s all right!
It’s all right.”
And Eliza, stripped suddenly of her pretenses, clung to him, burying her white face in his coat sleeve, weeping bitterly, helplessly, grievously, for the sad waste of the irrevocable years — the immortal hours of love that might never be relived, the great evil of forgetfulness and indifference that could never be righted now.
Like a child she was grateful for his caress, and his heart twisted in him like a wild and broken thing, and he kept mumbling:
“It’s all right!
It’s all right!
It’s all right!”— knowing that it was not, could never be, all right.
“If I had known. Child, if I had known,” she wept, as she had wept long before at Grover’s death.
“Brace up!” he said.
“He’ll pull through yet.
The worst is over.”
“Well, I tell you,” said Eliza, drying her eyes at once,
“I believe it is.
I believe he passed the turning-point last night.
I was saying to Bessie —”
The light grew.
Day came, bringing hope.
They sat down to breakfast in the kitchen, drawing encouragement from every scrap of cheer doctor or nurse would give them.
Coker departed, non-committally optimistic.
Bessie Gant came down to breakfast and was professionally encouraging.
“If I can keep his damn family out of the room, he may have some chance of getting well.”
They laughed hysterically, gratefully, pleased with the woman’s abuse.
“How is he this morning?” said Eliza.
“Do you notice any improvement?”
“His temperature is lower, if that’s what you mean.”
They knew that a lower temperature in the morning was a fact of no great significance, but they took nourishment from it: their diseased emotion fed upon it — they had soared in a moment to a peak of hopefulness.
“And he’s got a good heart,” said Bessie Gant.
“If that holds out, and he keeps fighting, he’ll pull through.”
“D-d-don’t worry about his f-f-fighting,” said Luke, in a rush of eulogy.
“That b-b-boy’ll fight as long as he’s g-g-got a breath left in him.”
“Why, yes,” Eliza began, “I remember when he was a child of seven — I know I was standing on the porch one day — the reason I remember is Old Mr. Buckner had just come by with some butter and eggs your papa had —”
“O my God!” groaned Helen, with a loose grin.
“Now we’ll get it.”
“Whah — whah!”
Luke chortled crazily, prodding Eliza in the ribs.
“I’ll vow, boy!” said Eliza angrily. “You act like an idiot.
I’d be ashamed!”
“Whah — whah — whah!”
Helen sniggered, nudging Eugene.
“Isn’t he crazy, though?
Tuh-tuh-tuh-tuh-tuh.” Then, with wet eyes, she drew Eugene roughly into her big bony embrace.
“Poor old ‘Gene.
You always got on together, didn’t you?
You’ll feel it more than any of us.”
“He’s not b-b-buried yet,” Luke cried heartily.
“That boy may be here when the rest of us are pushing d-d-daisies.”
“Where’s Mrs. Pert?” said Eugene.
“Is she in the house?”
A strained and bitter silence fell upon them.