Pearl Buck - Come, My Beloved

They were charmed by her and she could not but respond, for it was pleasant to be told that she was pretty, that she had a lovely voice which should be trained, that she was a natural dancer, and had she ever thought of Hollywood? She was shy, she answered their pressing coaxing compliments in a shy little voice, her brown lashes on her cheeks and now lifted in unconscious enjoyment. No, she had not thought of Hollywood, she did not believe her father would like it, and certainly her grandfather would not. Yes, they were going straight to New York where they would stay in the house that had belonged to her great-grandfather, and yes, he was David Hardworth MacArd, and yes, she supposed he was the MacArd, though her grandfather’s name was David, too. She was so young that it pleased her to observe the slight pause that followed the speaking of this famous name, and when she got up to go away, it was with dignity added to her grace. She was the great-granddaughter of the MacArd.

Yet her heart was faithful and night and morning she said her prayers and thought of Jatin, and many times during the day his face came before her. She would glance at her little gold wrist watch which her father had given her last Christmas and then she would ask herself where he was now, and wherever it was, she would see him, at work or alone. She was still not parted from him, nor could be, so long as there was the possibility of their child.

The days passed, the ship was in midocean and one morning the certainty was there. The answer was clear, there was to be no child. Nature announced it, she saw the rose-red stain, and knew that love had borne no fruit. She had risen early that morning, and the wind was white upon the water and the sun shining over the horizon. She had waked uncontrollably gay, for she was too young for constant sadness, and now suddenly she knew and the day stopped abruptly at dawn. She went back to bed and drew the covers about her and cried silently into the blankets so that Sara might not hear from the other berth. But Sara heard, that sharp child, and she went and called their mother, upon pretense of visiting the bathroom, and Ruth came wrapped in her pink cotton dressing gown and so suddenly that Livy had no time to wipe her cheeks dry or to insist that she was not crying.

“It is just that I don’t feel well,” she murmured, trying not to turn her face toward her mother. But Ruth’s strong hand seized her daughter’s dimpled chin and pressed it toward her.

“You don’t feel well? Where?”

“It’s just the old curse—”

“Oh—” Ruth’s hand relaxed. “But why cry? It’s nothing.”

“People do cry for nothing, sometimes,” Livy said.

“Not you,” Ruth retorted.

She looked down into her daughter’s face and saw the eyes closed, the lips quivering. The girl was pale, she had gone through more than they knew, maybe. She remembered that as a child she, too, had always cried when they left India. And now there was Jatin, besides, and she did not know how far that had gone, but anyway Livy was safe. Love had not gone too far except perhaps in the heart, and that would heal.

“Cover yourself up real warm,” she said briskly. “I’ll have your breakfast brought in.”

She bent and kissed her daughter’s forehead, and was glad enough not to know what she had not been told. No use knowing, since nothing could be helped and whatever had been was ended.