Vol. VI No. 1 - Modernist Magazines Project

THE WIDOWER
By JOHN VAN DRUTEN (Author of "YOUNG WOODLEY")
HE was in his office when the telephone rang and he heard Mrs.
Clayton's voice. From its even, set tone, he knew what she had
to tell him.
"It's all over, Richard."
"When?"
"Quarter of an hour ago. Quite suddenly. There was no time to
send for you."
"How was it?"
"Perfectly peaceful. Nothing . . . not a sign."
"All right. I'll be back soon."
His voice was steady enough and so were his hands as he put back
the receiver. For a moment he stared at the wall in front of him
with dull, blank eyes, trying to realise what it meant, this news that
he had been awaiting for four months now. But it meant nothing,
nothing. His eyes softened, became human again. He called his secretary.
"I've got to go, Miss Ellis. Will you sign the letters for me? I'll
try to look in to-morrow."
In the taxi on the way home he lit a cigarette and tried again to
think. He couldn't. Brenda was dead. Well, he had known for four
months now that she was going to die, had lived with that knowledge,
watched her growing weaker and paler, drifting slowly towards that
last stage of coma which had ended now in death.
He tried to survey their married life; it seemed to elude him.
Eight years, happy years. Were they happy? He hardly knew any
longer. Seen like this, they seemed a succession of parties and concerts
and holidays, of friends crowding their flat and Brenda playing hostess
in a series of lovely gowns, of brief, snatched love scenes before a dying
fire after the last guest had gone, interrupted by the clock chiming
three and Brenda's "I think, my dear, that bed is indicated." Interrupted
love scenes; there seemed never to have been quite enough
time in their married life. Angry moments, too, with Brenda being cold
and offhand, carelessly sarcastic, as though the occasion were not quite
worth her bothering to be really cruel, as only she knew how to be.
Oh, but it wasn't fair remembering it like this. What of the other
times, the happy times, moments of sweetness almost intolerable to
recall? If only he could recall them! Only now, his brain refused.
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