But Phoebe was always thinking now. He had given her cause to
think.
He began to hate the little brown curl that hung over her left ear,
though it was anguish to him to hate anything that was Phoebe's.
He looked out with nervous anxiety for the movement of her little
white hand. He said to himself, "If she does it again, I can't come
near her any more."
Yet he kept on coming; and was happy with her until Phoebe (poor,
predestined little Phoebe) did it again. Gibson shuddered with the
horror of the thing. He kept on saying to himself, "She's sweet,
she's good, she's adorable. It isn't her fault. But I can't--I can't
sit in the room with it."
And the next minute Phoebe would be so adorable that he would
repent miserably of his brutality.
Then, one hot, still evening, he was alone with her in the little
sitting-room. Outside, on the grass plot, her father sat in his
bath-chair while Effie read aloud to him (out of her turn). Her
voice made a cover for Gibson's voice and Phoebe's.
Phoebe was dressed (for the heat) in a white gown with wide, open
sleeves. Her low collar showed the pure, soft swell of her neck to
the shoulder-line.
She was sitting upright and demure in a straight-backed chair, with
her hands folded quietly in her lap.
"That isn't a very comfortable chair you've got," he said.
He knew that she was tired with pushing the bath-chair about all
day.
"It's the one I always sit in," said Phoebe.
"Well, you're not going to sit in it now," he said.
He drew the armchair out of its sacred corner and made her sit in
that. He put a cushion at her head and a footstool at her feet.
"You make my heart ache," he said.
"Do I?"
He could not tell whether the little shaking breath she drew were a
laugh or a sigh.
She lay back, letting her tired body slacken into rest.
The movement loosened the little combs that kept the coil of her
brown hair in place. Phoebe abhorred dishevelment. She put up her
hands to her head. Her wide sleeve fell back, showing the full
length of her white arms.
He saw another woman stretching her arms to the man who leaned above
her. He saw the movement of her hands--hands of the same texture and
whiteness as her body, instinct with its impulses. A long procession
of abominations passed through the white arch of her arms--the arch
she raised in triumph and defiance, immortalizing her sin.
He was very tender with Phoebe that night, for his heart was wrung
with compunction.
"She's adorable," he said to himself; "but I can't live with
_that_."
Gibson left by the early train next day. He went without saying
good-bye and without leaving an explanation or an address.
Phoebe held her head high, and said, day after day, "There's sure
to be a letter."
Three weeks passed and no letter came. Phoebe saw that it was all
over.
One day she was found (Effie found her) on her bed, crying. She was
so weak she let Effie take her in her arms.
"If I only knew what I had done," she said. "Oh, Effie! what could
have made him go away?"
"I can't tell, my lamb. You mustn't think about him any more."
"I can't help thinking. You see, it's not as if he hadn't been so
nice."
"He couldn't have been nice to treat you that way."
"He didn't," said Phoebe fiercely. "He didn't treat me any way. I
sometimes think I must have made it all up out of my own head. Did
I?"
"No, no. I'm sure you didn't."
"It would have been awful of me. But I'd rather be awful than have
to think that he was. What is my worst fault, Effie?"
"Your worst fault, in his eyes, is that you have none."
Phoebe sat up on the edge of the bed. She was thinking hard. And
as she thought her hand went up, caressing unconsciously the little
brown curl.
"If I only knew," said she, "what I had done!"
Gibson never saw Phoebe Richardson again. But a year later, as he
turned suddenly on to the esplanade of a strange watering-place, he
encountered the bath-chair, drawn by Effie and another lady. He
made way, lifting his cap mechanically to its occupant.
The General looked at him. The courteous old hand checked itself in
the salute. The affable smile died grimly.
Effie turned away her head. The other lady (it must have been
"Mary") raised her eyes in somber curiosity.
Phoebe was not with them. Gibson supposed that she was away
somewhere, recovering, in her turn.