A Good Woman (Bromfield)/Part 2/Chapter 18
When he had closed the roll-top desk in his study and locked the door after him, the Reverend Castor turned his steps toward the parsonage, still lost in the exalted mood which, descending miraculously upon the congregation, had risen to a climax in the noble words of Mrs. Downes. There was a lump in his throat when he thought of the goodness of women like her. She'd had a hard life, bringing up her boy, feeding and clothing him, and finding time, nevertheless, to care for his soul and give herself to church work. It was women like her who helped you to keep your faith, no matter what discouragements arose.
For a moment, a suspicion of disloyalty colored his meditations and he thought, "If I had only been blessed with a wife like Emma Downes!"
But quickly he stifled the thought, for such wickedness came to him far too often, especially in the moments when he relaxed and allowed his mind to go its own way. The thing seemed always to be lying in wait, like a crouching animal stealing upon him unawares. "If only I'd had some other woman for a wife!" The thing had grown bolder and more frequent as the years piled up. He would be fifty years old in another month. It kept pressing in upon him like the pain of an aching tooth. Soon he'd be too old to care. And he would die, having missed something which other men knew. He was growing older every day, every minute, every second . . . older, older, older.
In a sudden terror, he began to repeat one of the Psalms in order to clear his mind and put to rout the grinning, malicious thought. He said the Psalm over three times, and then found that God had sent him strength. Walking the dark, silent street, he told himself that there were others far worse off than he. There was poor Naomi Downes with the husband she worshipped dying hourly, day and night, in the very house with her. She, too, had courage, though she wasn't as strong as her mother-in-law. She wasn't perhaps as fine a character as Emma, but there was something more appealing about her, a weakness and a youth that touched your pity. It was terrible to see a young girl like that with her husband dying and a baby coming on. He remembered that he must go again to-morrow and pray with her. It was odd (he thought) how little prayer seemed to comfort her—a girl like that who was a missionary and the daughter of missionaries. He must have a talk with her and try to help her. . . . She seemed to be losing her great faith. . . .
He was on the front porch of the parsonage now, turning his key in the lock, and something of the wild emotion of the prayer-meeting still clung to him. It had been a glorious success. He was still thinking of Naomi as he closed the door, and heard a whining voice from the top of the stairs.
"Is that you, Samuel?"
He waited for a moment and then answered, "Yes, my dear."
"What kept you so late? I've been frightened to death. The house was full of noises and I heard some one walking about in the parlor."
"We prayed for Philip Downes," he said, turning out the light.
The whining voice from above-stairs took on an acid edge. "And you never thought about your poor suffering wife at home all alone. I suppose it never occurs to you to pray for me!"
He stood in the darkness, waiting, unwilling to climb the stairs until her complaints had worn themselves out. The voice again: "Samuel, are you there?"
"Yes, Annie."
"Why don't you answer me? Isn't it enough to have to lie here helpless and miserable?"
"I was turning out the light."
"Well, I want the hot-water bottle. You'll have to heat water. And make it hot, not just lukewarm. It's worse again. It's never been so bad."
As he went off to the kitchen, fragments of her plaints followed him: "I should think you'd have remembered about the hot-water bottle!" And, "If you'd had such pain as mine for fifteen years. . . ."
Yes, fifteen years!
For fifteen years it had been like this. The old wicked thought came stealing back into his mind. If only he had a wife like Emma Downes or her daughter-in-law, Naomi . . . some one young like Naomi. He was growing older, older, older. . . .
He began again to repeat the Psalm, saying it aloud while he waited by the stove for the kettle to boil.