“… her eyes ain’t even red … if she was so crazy about him as she pretended to be, she’d …”
Mimi suddenly became conscious of the sibilant whispers which came to her from the two women by the window. Lost in the grief bottled up within her like turbulent waters held by a great dam, she had been oblivious of comments during the days since Jean had died. Even to the undoubtedly sympathetic ones she had replied methodically, listlessly, giving little thought to the words, words, words. Now as the sinister, malevolent whisperings came to her, the inevitable reaction to the apathy she had felt flamed into being. She rose from her chair, bitter hatred welling up for the evil-tongued old women. But even as she opened her mouth to speak, an overwhelming sense of the futility of it all came over her, a sense of inappropriateness, the lack of respect for Jean if she were to engage here in what would be but little more than a fishwives’ quarrel. She checked the hot, bitter words that pressed for utterance and rushed from the room.
In the security of her own room she lay on the bed and envied the peace on Jean’s face. Again and again the picture melted into the face of Carl as he had left the house the night Jean died. She wondered if this fantastic trick of her mind were not sacrilege, if it were not in some manner disloyalty to Jean. Yet, one was living, the other gone, and she felt a comforting sense that Jean would not think her disloyal. She wondered what course her new relations with Carl would take. Now that Hilda was removed from the problem … ? Weighing, pondering, wondering, she lightly slept. They’ll surely be gone now, she thought, as she on awaking descended to the parlour once more, drawn back to Jean as iron filings are attracted by a powerful magnet.
The chairs by the window were empty and Mimi was glad. She sat again by the casket and peace again came to her. How long she sat there she did not know, lost as she was in her own rambling, chaotic musings.