she was watching for him anxiously as he came back into the living room; he bent to her ear and said, “nothing.”

“no word yet?”

“no.” he sat down. he leaned towards her. “probably too soon to expect to hear,” he said.

“perhaps.” she did not resume her mending.

joel tried again to read the new republic. “does she seem well?”

good god, joel said to himself. he leaned towards her, “well’s can be expected.”

she nodded.

he went back to the new republic. “shouldn’t we go up?”

that’s about all it would need, joel thought, to have to bellow at us. he leaned towards her and put his hand on her arm. “better not,” he said, “till we know what’s what. too much to-do.”

“to much what?”

“to-do. fuss. too many people.”

“oh. perhaps. it does seem our place to, joel.”

rot! he said to himself. “our place,” he said rather more loudly, “is to stay where she prefers us to be.” he began to realize that she had not meant our place in mere propriety. goddamn it all, he thought, why can’t she be there! he touched her shoulder. “try not to mind it, catherine,” he said. “i asked poll, and she said, better not. she said, there’s no use our getting all wrought up until we know.”

“very sensible,” she said, dubiously.

“damned sensible,” he said with conviction. “she’s just trying her best to hold herself together,” he explained.

catherine turned her head in courteous inquiry.

“trying—to hold—herself—together!”

she winced. “don’t—shout at me, joel. just speak distinctly and i can hear you.”

“i’m sorry,” he said; he knew she had not heard. he leaned close to her ear. “i’m sorry,” he said again, carefully and not too loudly. “jumpy, that’s all.”

“no matter,” she said in that level of her voice which was already old.

he watched her a moment, and sighed with sorrow for her, and said, “we’ll know before long.”

“yes,” she said. “i presume.” she relaxed her hands in her sewing and gazed out across the shadowy room.

it became mere useless torment to watch her; he went back to the new republic.

“i wonder how it happened,” she said, after a while.

he leaned towards her: “so do i.”

“there must have been others injured, as well.”

again he leaned towards her. “maybe. we don’t know.”

“even killed, perhaps.”

“we don’t—know, catherine.”

“no.”

jay drives like hell broken loose, joel thought to himself; he decided not to say it. whatever’s happened, he thought, one thing he doesn’t need is that kind of talk about him. or even thinking.

he began to realize, with a kind of sardonic amusement, that he was being superstitious as well as merely courteous. why i don’t want to go up till we hear, too, he said to himself. hands off. lap of the gods. don’t rock the boat.

particularly not a wrecked boat.

“of course, it does seem to me, jay drives rather recklessly,” catherine said, carefully.

“everybody does,” he told her. rather, indeed!

“i remember i was most uneasy when they decided to purchase it.”

well, you’re vindicated.

“progress,” he told her.

“beg pardon?”

“progress. we mustn’t—stand—in the way—of progress.”

“no,” she said uneasily, “i suppose not.”

good—god, woman!

“that’s a joke, catherine, a very—poor—joke.”

oh.

“i don’t think it’s a time for levity, joel.”

“nor do i.”

she tilted her head courteously. taking care not to yell, he said, “you’re right. neither—do—i.”

she nodded.

working his way through another editorial as through barbed wire, joel thought: i had no business calling her. why couldn’t i trust her to let me know, quick’s she heard. hannah, anyhow.

he pushed ahead with his reading.

a heaviness had begun in him from the moment he had heard of the accident; he had said to himself, uh-huh, and without expecting to, had nodded sharply. it had been as if he had known that this or something like it was bound to happen, sooner or later; and he was hardly more moved than surprised. this heaviness had steadily increased while he sat and waited and by now the air felt like iron and it was almost as if he could taste in his mouth the sour and cold, taciturn taste of iron. well what else are we to expect, he said to himself. what life is. he braced against it quietly to accept, endure it, relishing not only his exertion but the sullen, obdurate cruelty of the iron, for it was the cruelty which proved and measured his courage. funny i feel so little about it, he thought. he thought of his son-in-law. he felt respect, affection, deep general sadness. no personal grief whatever. after all that struggle, he thought, all that courage and ambition, he was getting nowhere. jude the obscure, he suddenly thought; and then of the steady thirty-years’ destruction of all of his own hopes. if it has to be a choice between crippling, invalidism, death, he thought, let’s hope he’s out of it. even just a choice between that and living on another thirty or forty years; he’s well out of it. in my opinion, damn it; not his. he thought of his daughter: all her spirit, which had resisted them so admirably to marry him, then only to be broken and dissolved on her damned piety; all her intelligence, hardly even born, came to nothing in the marriage, making ends meet and again above all, the goddamned piety; all her innocent eagerness, which it looked as if nothing could ever kill, still sticking its chin out for more. and again, he could feel very little personal involvement. she made her bed, he thought, and she’s done a damned creditable job of lying in it; not one whine. and if he’s—if that’s—finished now, there’s hell to pay for her, and little if anything i can do. now he remembered vividly, with enthusiasm and with sadness, the few years in which they had been such good friends, and for a moment he thought perhaps again, and caught himself up in a snort of self-contempt. bargaining on his death, he thought, as if i were the rejected suitor, primping up for one more try: once more unto the breach. besides, that had never been the real estrangement; it was the whole stinking morass of churchiness that really separated them, and now that was apt to get worse rather than better. apt? dead certain to.

and his wife, while she mended, was thinking: such a tragedy. such a burden for her. poor dear mary. how on earth is she to manage. of course it’s still entirely possible that he isn’t—passed away. but that could make matters even more—tragic, for both of them. such an active man, unable to support his family. how dreadful, in any event. of course, we can help. but not with the hardest of the burden. poor dear child. and the poor children. and beneath such unspoken words, while with her weak eyes she bent deeply to her mending, her generous and unreflective spirit was more deeply grieved than she could find thought for, and more resolute than any thought for resoluteness could have made it. how very swiftly life goes! she thought. it seems only yesterday that she was my little mary, or that jay first came to call. she looked up from her mending into the silent light and shadow, and the kind of long and profound sighing of the heart flowed out of her which, excepting music. was her only way of yielding to sadness.

“we must be very good to them, joel,” she said.

he was startled, almost frightened, by her sudden voice, and he wanted, in some vengeful reflex of exasperation, to ask her what she had said. but he knew he had heard her and, leaning towards her, replied, “of course we must.”

“whatever has happened.”

“certainly.”

he began to realize the emotion, and the loneliness, behind the banality of what she had said; he was ashamed of himself to have answered as if it were merely banal. he wished he could think what to say that would make up for it. but he could not think of what to say. he knew of his wife, with tender amusement, that she almost certainly had not realized his unkindness, and that she would be hopelessly puzzled if he tried to explain and apologize. let it be, he thought.

he feels much more than he says, she comforted herself; but she wished that he might ever say what he felt. she felt his hand on her wrist and his head close to hers. she leaned towards him.

“i understand, catherine,” he said.

what does he mean that he understands, catherine wondered. something i failed to hear, no doubt, she thought, though their words had been so few that she could not imagine what. but she quickly decided not to exasperate him by a question; she was sure of his kind intention, and deeply touched by it.

“thank you, joel,” she said, and putting her other hand over his, patted it rapidly, several times. such endearments, except in their proper place, embarrassed her and, she had always feared, were still more embarrassing to him; and now, though she had been unable to resist caressing him, and take even greater solace from his gentle pressing of her wrist, she took care soon to remove her hand, and soon after, he took his own away. she felt a moment of solemn and angry gratitude to have spent so many years, in such harmony, with a man so good, but that was beyond utterance; and then once more she thought of her daughter and of what she was facing.

joel, meanwhile, was thinking: she needs that (pressing her wrist), and, as she shyly took her hand away, i wish i could do more; and suddenly, not for her sake but by an impulse of his own, he wanted to take her in his arms. out of the question. instead, he watched her dim-sighted, enduring face as she gazed out once more across the room, and felt a moment of incredulous and amused pride in her immense and unbreakable courage, and of proud gratitude, regardless of and including all regret, to have had so many years with such a woman; but that was beyond utterance; and then once more he thought of his daughter and of what she had been through and now must face.

“sometimes life seems more—cruel—than can be borne,” she said. “theirs, i’m thinking of. poor jay’s, and poor dear mary’s.”

she felt his hand and waited, but he did not speak. she looked toward him, apprehensively polite, her beg-pardon smile, by habit, on her face; and saw his bearded head, unexpectedly close and huge in the light, nodding deeply and slowly, five times.