No! he hadn't thought so in
the case of the first wife.
He had to submit to the torture.
Twice he had believed in the miracle of Phoenix rising from the ashes
of his fourteen year old love, first in his daughter, then in his
second wife. But in his memory lived the first one only, the little
one from the vicarage, whom he had met when the wild strawberries were
ripe, and kissed under the lime trees in the wood, but whom he had
never married.
But now, as his sun was setting and his days grew short, he saw in his
dark hours only the picture of the old mama, who had been kind to him
and his children, who had never scolded, who was plain, who cooked the
meals and patched the little boys' knickers and the skirts of the little
girls. His flush of victory being over, he was able to see facts clearly.
He wondered whether it was not, after all, the old mama who had been the
real true Phoenix, rising, calm and beautiful, from the ashes of the
fourteen year old bird of paradise, laying its eggs, plucking the
feathers from its breast to line the nest for the young ones, and
nourishing them with its life-blood until it died.
He wondered ... but when at last he laid his weary head on the pillow,
never again to lift it up, he was convinced that it was so.
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