A Spinner in the Sun | Page 4

over her face, and she impatiently pushed
it back. The candle, burning low, warned her that she must make haste,
In one of the smaller drawers of her dresser was a nightgown of
sheerest linen, wonderfully stitched by her own hands. She hesitated a
moment, then opened the drawer.
Tiny bags of sweet herbs fell from the folds as she shook it out. It was
yellowed and musty and as frail as a bit of fine lace, but it did not tear
in her hands. "I will wear it," she thought, grimly, "as I planned to do,
long ago."
At last she stood before her mirror, the ivory-tinted lace falling away
from her neck and shoulders. Her neck was white and firm, but her
right shoulder was deeply, hideously scarred. "Burned body and burned
soul," she muttered, "and this my wedding night!"
For the first time in her life, she pitied herself, not knowing that
self-pity is the first step toward relief from overpowering sorrow. When
detachment is possible, the long, slow healing has faintly, but surely,
begun.
She unpinned her veil, took down her heavy white hair, and braided it.
There was no gleam of silver, even in the light--it was as lustreless as a
field of snow upon a dark day. That done, she stood there, staring at
herself in the mirror, and living over, remorselessly, the one day that,
like a lightning stroke, had blasted her life.
Her veil slipped, unheeded, from her dresser to the floor. Leaning
forward, she studied her face, that she had once loved, then swiftly
learned to hate. Even on the street, closely veiled, she would not look at
a shop window, lest she might see herself reflected in the plate glass,
and she had kept the mirror, in her room covered with a cloth,
Since the day she left the hospital, where they all had been so kind to
her, no human being, save herself, had seen her face. She had prayed
for death, but had not been more than slightly ill, upborne, as she was,
by a great grief which sustained her as surely as an ascetic is kept alive
by the passion of his faith. She hungered now for the sight of her face

as she hungered for death, and held the flaring candle aloft that she
might see better.
Then a wave of impassioned self-pity swept her like flame. "The fire
was kind," she said, stubbornly, as though to defend herself from it. "It
showed me the truth."
She leaned yet closer to the glass, holding the dripping candle on high.
"The fire was kind," she insisted again. Then the floodgates opened,
and for the first time in all the sorrowful years, she felt the hot tears
streaming over her face. Her hand shook, but she held her candle
tightly and leaned so close to the mirror that her white hair brushed its
cracked surface.
"The fire was kind," sobbed Miss Evelina. "Oh, but the fire was kind!"

II
Miss Mehitable
The slanting sunbeams of late afternoon crept through the cobwebbed
window, and Miss Evelina stirred uneasily in her sleep. The mocking
dream vanished and she awoke to feel, as always, the iron, icy hand
that unmercifully clutched her heart. The room was cold and she
shivered as she lay beneath her insufficient covering.
At length she rose, and dressed mechanically, avoiding the mirror, and
pinning her veil securely to her hair. She went downstairs slowly,
clinging to the railing from sheer weakness. She was as frail and
ghostly as some disembodied spirit of Grief.
Soon, she had a fire. As the warmth increased, she opened the rear door
of the house to dispel the musty atmosphere. The March wind blew
strong and clear through the lonely rooms, stirring the dust before it
and swaying the cobwebs. Suddenly, Miss Evelina heard a footstep
outside and instinctively drew down her veil.
Before she could close the door, a woman, with a shawl over her head,
appeared on the threshold, peered curiously into the house, then
unhesitatingly entered.
"For the land's sake!" cried a cheery voice. "You scared me most to
death! I saw the smoke coming from the chimney and thought the
house was afire, so I come over to see."
Miss Evelina stiffened, and made no reply.
"I don't know who you are," said the woman again, mildly defiant, "but

this is Evelina Grey's house."
"And I," answered Miss Evelina, almost inaudibly, "am Evelina Grey."
"For the land's sake!" cried the visitor again. "Don't you remember me?
Why, Evelina, you and I used to go to school together. You----"
She stopped, abruptly. The fact of the veiled face confronted her
stubbornly. She ransacked her memory for a forgotten catastrophe, a
quarter of a century back. Impenetrably, a wall was