Tales for a Stormy Night Read Online Free

there a moment. He touched his hand to her. “And you’re lovely, too.”
    This is simple, she thought, getting upright again. If the rabbit had sat on a thistle he’d have won the race.
    “The three most beautiful things in the world,” Gerald said thoughtfully, “a white bird flying, a field of wheat, and a woman’s body.”
    “Is that your own, Gerald?”
    “I don’t know. I think it is.”
    “It’s been a long time since you wrote any poetry. You did nice things once.”
    “That’s how I got you,” he said quietly.
    “And I got you with an old house. I remember the day my mother’s will was probated. The truth, Gerald—wasn’t it then you made up your mind?”
    He didn’t speak for a moment, and then it was a continuance of some thought of his own, a subtle twist of association. “Do you remember the piece I wrote on the house?”
    “I read it the other day. I often read them again.”
    “Do you, Sarah? And never a mention of it.”
    It was almost all the reading she did these days. His devotion to books had turned her from them. “Remember how you used to let me read them to you. Gerald? You thought that I was the only one besides yourself who could do them justice.”
    “I remember.”
    “Or was that flattery?”
    He smiled. “It was courtship, I’m afraid. No one ever thinks anybody else can do his poetry justice. But Sarah, do you know—I’d listen tonight if you’d read some of them. Just for old time’s sake.”
    For old time’s sake, she thought, getting the folder from the cabinet and settling opposite him. He was slouched in his chair, pulling at his pipe, his eyes half-closed. Long ago this same contemplativeness in him had softened the first shock of the difference in their ages.
    “I’ve always liked this one best— The Morning of My Days .”
    “Well you might,” he murmured. “It was written for you.”
    She read one piece after another, wondering now and then what pictures he was conjuring up of the moment he had written them. He would suck on his pipe at times. The sound was like a baby pulling at an empty bottle. She was reading them well, she thought, giving them a mellow vibrancy, an old love’s tenderness. Surely there was a moment coming when he would rise from the chair and come to her. Still he sat, his eyes almost closed, the pipe now in hand on the chair’s arm. A huskiness crept into her voice, so rarely used to this length any more, and she thought of the nightingale’s singing, the thorn against its breast. A slit of pain in her own throat pressed her to greater effort, for the poems were almost done.
    She stopped abruptly, a phrase unfinished, at a noise in the room. The pipe had clattered to the floor, Gerald’s hand still cupped its shape, but his chin was now on his breast. Laying the folder aside, she went over and picked up the pipe with a rather empty regret, as she would pick up a bird that had fallen dead at her feet.
    Gerald’s departure in the morning was in the tradition of all their days, even to the kiss upon her cheek and the words, “Till tomorrow evening, dear, take care.”
    Take care, she thought, going indoors. Take care of what? For what? Heat a boiler of water to cook an egg? She hurried her chores and dressed. When she saw Mr. Joyce hitch the wagon of flowers, she locked the door and waited boldly at the road for him.
    “May I have a lift to the highway?” she called out, as he reined up beside her.
    “You may have a lift to the world’s end, Mrs. Shepherd. Give me your hand.” He gave the horse its rein when she was beside him. “I see your old fella’s taken off again. I daresay it gave him a laugh, our ride in the moonlight.”
    “It was giddy business,” she said.
    “Did you enjoy yourself?”
    “I did. But I paid for it afterwards.” Her hand went to her back.
    “I let out a squeal now and then bending over, myself. But I counted it cheap for the pleasure we had. I’ll take you into the village. I’ve to buy