I
Early Thursday morning, David was on the point of going out to the
Marksley Addition to estimate the fire loss, when he stopped at sight
of Judith, entering her own gate. He crossed the parched grass of the
wide lawn and joined her. Once before he had hinted that his wife’s
mind might be failing--that the shock of Eileen’s tragedy and the
consequent relief of her propitious marriage might have unsettled
her mother’s reason. He had talked to Dr. Schubert about it, but had
elicited no sympathy for his theory. The physician did not believe
for a moment that Sylvia--in spite of the evidential letter to her
father--had refused to open the door or to answer the telephone. Sylvia
was entirely absorbed in herself, but she was not a fool. He was rather
taken with the belief that Lavinia had been playing some sort of prank
on her family. A born play-actor, she grew weary of the burden of
actuality, and sought relief--excitement--in a world of make-believe.
This time she had miscalculated, and found things hard to explain.
“He said one thing that went against the grain, Judith, even from
Dr. Schubert. He said that when we make a lifelong practice of petty
deception, we don’t gain the facility we gain by any other constant
exercise; but instead, we grow reckless, until we are unable to know
truth from falsehood. Then we overreach ourselves. I accept the
fact--but I don’t like to think that Vine would deliberately--lie to
me. She doesn’t always see things in their true relations. But that she
would make up a lie ... I can’t believe that.”
“Certainly you can’t, father.”
Through the sheer curtains of her bedroom window Lavinia watched
them--Lavinia who through five days of shifting from one detail to
another had maintained the mystery of her fruitless visit. What were
they saying? She strained her keen ears, to catch only a muffled note
of solicitude. Now the postman loomed in sight. The ubiquitous postman!
If he had not delivered that letter.... In her rage, she began to
abuse the postman for her wretchedness, the collapse of her iridescent
bubble of happiness. He was putting into David’s hand some letters
and a paper, the Bromfield Sentinel. She had forgotten that this was
Thursday. She saw her husband open the crude little sheet and glance at
the Personal Column, where he so often found news of a friend he had
not seen since his wedding day. A long agony of waiting ... and David
thrust the paper into Judith’s hand and walked rapidly away, a strange
look on his transparent face.