“Then why did you speak to her?” Lucinda’s words were like dry dead leaves fluttering to the ground.
He considered, remembering. “I want to be honest — I am honest when I say I don’t know. Somehow it had nothing to do with me — what she was. It had to do with the far future. I — how can I explain to you? I think we’ve been taught wrongly, you and I — we can’t change now. We belong to the past. But the future—”
He shook his head. He must not try to change her, for she could not change. He must not enter into that future, for he would not be alive when it came, and neither would she.
He said, “Georgia told me that day she was going to Europe with Tom’s daughter.”
Lucinda made a pettish movement. “But that’s so silly,” she exclaimed. “A niggra!”
He was patient with her. “It doesn’t matter to us,” he said reasonably. “We have nothing to do with it. We live here at Malvern. You and I — we’ll grow old here.”
She looked at him suddenly. “Do you mean you aren’t going to see Tom any more?” she asked.
He looked down into her eyes. Ah, he knew her so well, all her little thoughts, all her narrow fears which she herself did not understand! He pitied her profoundly but to love her had become the habit of his life and he could not change.
He spoke slowly, with pain. “If I promise never to go to Tom’s house again — will you forgive me?”
She fluttered her eyelashes, lifted them up and then let them down. “Yes,” she said, “I’ll forgive you—”
They rose, and she hesitated. Then she dropped her little handbag and her gloves and he felt her arms about his neck. She buried her face in his bosom and began to sob.
“Why — why — my darling—” he stammered.
“Oh, Pierce,” she cried, “you’re good!”
He held her while she wept, and could not speak.
Tom understood, of course. Tom did not blame him for anything. They met in a hotel in Baltimore and Pierce told him the simple truth in a few words.
“I want peace,” he finished.
Tom listened and forbore. “You are a free man,” he said at last, “as free as I am to make your choice.” They had talked little after that, for there was no more to say. Tom had brought pictures of his children, and Pierce looked at them. Leslie was the father of a child now, and a successful writer. He had written a bitter clever book. Tom had a copy but Pierce did not open it. Small Tom was going to be a doctor and Lettice was married.
“Not one of them has crossed the line,” Tom said calmly. “But they’ve my blood to help them when I am dead.”
He took a big photograph from his bag. “This is Georgy,” he said. “She’s the vanguard.”
Pierce looked down at a beautiful young face, confident and brave.
“You can see Georgy’s not afraid,” Tom said. “She’ll sing, maybe even in Washington. That’s her dream — to sing in Washington, where Lincoln was. Maybe she’ll sing in the White House — some day.”
Pierce could not speak. He had no heart to dim his brother’s hope. Besides, perhaps Tom was right! Who could say what the future was to be except that it never could be like the past?
“I have a picture of Georgia, too,” Tom said quietly. “Do you want to see that? She’s — quite changed — from living in France so long.”
Pierce did not speak for a moment. He kept looking down into Georgy’s young and dauntless face. Ah, this was how Georgia would have looked — had she ever had a chance!
“Does she — look older?” he asked after a long moment.
“Younger — strangely younger,” Tom said. “Very beautiful — they’ve made a fuss over her there. Mademoiselle La Blanche they call her. She always wears white—”
Pierce’s heart beat hard once or twice. Then he quieted it. He had chosen Lucinda for old age and for death.
“No,” he said. “No — thanks, Tom — I’ll just remember Georgy—”