I suppose it was that five-point-nine that was to blame--or the gunner
who fired it; or maybe it was my own fault for lagging behind the
rest of my battalion as we advanced deployed through that ploughed-up
cemetery; but, somehow, I find myself laying it all before Anita's
door. She would never have permitted me to marry her, feeling the way
she did. As my mind wanders back over those days long ago I remember
that I was certain I would die if she refused me; now I may die because
she didn't.
They are going to bury her tomorrow, or so I've been told, and they
are holding me responsible for her death. The District Attorney,
who visited me in my cell this morning, says that I am sure to get
the Chair. But I am not afraid. On the other hand, my own lawyer is
confident they will have to let me go free. In the event that he
is wrong and they do sentence me to die, it will not matter much.
After what I have been through, death no longer presents a terrifying
picture. And this is very strange for I have always been afraid to die.
If only I had been born fearless, like Carter or Mullins or Sergeant
Wilkinson, maybe all this would not have happened. There is an old
saying that Fortune favors the bold. But because the thought of
dying and the rattle of machine-guns made me tremble, I crept into a
shell-hole and remained there, digging my fingers into the soft earth
while everyone else continued to advance.
Practically the entire battalion was wiped out during the next half
hour. Had I not broken ranks and hidden myself, protected by the cover
of darkness, I would have been killed then and there with my comrades
and spared the subsequent nightmare that became my life. I would have
died a hero; not a murderer. But, naturally, I knew nothing of what the
future had in store for me.
It was while I huddled in that shell-hole that a five-point-nine
shrieked close to my head. That is all I can remember until I
suddenly came to my senses more than three months later in a small,
French hospital forty kilometres from Paris. Little did I dream that
that shell would form one of the most important links in a chain of
circumstantial evidence which would indict me, try me, and convict me
of a crime later to be committed four thousand miles away! A theologian
would claim, no doubt, that God punished me for being a coward, and
perhaps that assumption is correct. I don't pretend to know. All that
I _do_ know is that I've certainly been through hell since the war and
that if I had known then what I know now and been given the choice
either of advancing with the rest and stopping a bullet or lagging
behind and living, I most certainly would have chosen the former.
It has always been my custom to hide my unnatural timidity; but here,
in this confession, explanation of my peculiar behaviour, or what have
you, I have resolved to be absolutely frank and truthful. Since my
childhood, any action, sport or utterance of words which might in some
way lead to physical violence I have painstakingly avoided. It might
have been for this reason that I chose the career of doctor with the
altruistic ambition to help alleviate some of the world's suffering.
However, after two years of pre-medicine, my widowed mother passed away
and I was forced to give up my studies and use the small insurance in
the opening up of a drugstore.
It wasn't much of a store, compared with the glittering chrome and
steel of modern places. The prescription room was only half the size
of this cell from which I write and the little wooden counter, where
my errand-boy dispensed bottled soda-pop and ice-cream, was scarcely
longer than this cot. But it was mine. I was proud to be its sole
proprietor. The first day I was in possession of the place I had a
large green and white sign painted:
THE ITHACA DRUG COMPANY
Peter Thatcher
Apothecary
All this was late in 1915, when I was only twenty-four years old, and
I suppose that my extreme youth did little toward establishing my
reliability as a competent pharmacist. The people of the town--and
when I say this I do not mean the Cornell students--a good many of
them knowing me from the time I was a little boy, could scarcely have
confidence enough to permit me to compound their ofttimes dangerous
prescriptions. My small store would probably have failed in that first
year had it not been for old Doc Turnbull who sent me all his work and
was instrumental in spreading around town the fact that I, at least,
never took a drink during business hours. In this manner he helped my
trade, at the same time doing much to damage the reputation of his
old-time enemy, Ray Cavender, who owned the apothecary shop on the
opposite corner.
Those were comparatively happy days. I was working very hard building
up a business and time did not hang heavily on my hands. Also I was
single then; my heart was my own and I was not even contemplating
marriage. As a matter of fact, women have always awed me somewhat
and I have generally avoided them. As a boy I was inordinately shy
and whenever a girl schoolmate was thrust upon me as a partner for a
two-step, my chums would jeer: "Look at him blush!" Whereupon, sadly,
the color was sure to flood my cheeks.
Perhaps it was this shyness that prevented me from having the multiple
"puppy-loves" people are always talking about. At least I know, if
there can be any satisfaction in that, that I have never been in love,
even momentarily, with anyone other than the girl I eventually made my
wife. You may be inclined to doubt that I loved even _her_. The press
has been very unkind. The reporters I have allowed to interview me did
not seem to understand that a man can kill someone he loves and still
feel no pangs of remorse. No, I am not sorry I killed Anita. As a
matter of fact, I'm not entirely sure I _did_ kill her. Theoretically
she killed herself and I was merely the instrument that brought about
her end.
But I am running ahead of my story. The statements I have just made
sound contradictory and until you have all the facts I cannot hope that
you will understand.
Just as I manifested no interest in women, women manifested no interest
in me. I am not bad to look at, I think. I am rather short but with
a good build. I am rarely ill and even now, after many years of
deciphering scrawled prescriptions, my eye-sight is perfect. But there
has never been anything about me that would attract a girl. I am not
very romantic and for this reason my life, up until the time I met
Anita, was curiously empty of heart throbs.
I lived all alone in my mother's house. Although I could have made
excellent use of the money it would have brought, I could not part with
it. Quite a number of times I was approached by real estate investors
who offered "to take it off my hands." While their propositions were
inviting, I could not imagine myself living any other place. The house
was very old, built way back in the Civil War days by my father, and
not too large to be comfortable. It was situated on a quiet road lined
with great elm trees; and it had a garden which sloped down to the
bank of Lake Cayuga. In the summer I used to spend much of my time
there after I had closed the store, watching other young people drift
by in canoes or bathe on the opposite side of the cove. Their light
laughter as they splashed about came pleasantly to my ears and made
me feel very contented. Occasionally I thought of the European War as
the buzzing of mosquitoes around my head suggested the droning flight
of planes. It always seemed strange to me that humans can be social at
one moment and fired with the desire to destroy at the next. And as I
pondered this paradox of nature I was thankful that I lived in America
where there was so little discord.
Some evenings Doc Turnbull would stop by in passing on his evening
round of patients and we would talk. I should say _he_ would talk for
most of the time I merely listened. He was a fat old man with a great
mop of white hair and very bushy brows. It was often impossible to see
his eyes but they were generally twinkling with good humour. He was not
a very cultured person for he was gruff, outspoken and perpetually
profane. However, even with his solecisms and epithets there was an
uncanny truth in whatever he said. Many of his homely observations
which at the time I decried I have since recognized to be correct. If
he were alive today, I would write to him and tell him that I have at
last discovered his greatness.
"Pete," I can hear him saying, "people never thank you for the
truth. They expect you to lie; and if you don't live up to their
expectations.... Well, by the Jesus, they tie a tin can to your tail.
It's like a woman who asks you how she looks. If you don't praise
her ... off comes your head!"
I ventured no comment to this because I had a sneaking feeling what he
was leading up to. Grateful as I was to Doc Turnbull, I did not want
him telling me how to run my business. I wanted to run it myself.
"That's why you've just lost old lady Cahill as a customer, boy.
What? You didn't know you'd lost her? Well, you have. You see, Pete,
I've been treating that bitch for almost fifteen years. Treating
her for what, I don't know. There ain't really nothing the matter
with her except one helluva disposition. She just ain't happy 'less
she's got something to complain about. To use one of them new-fangled
names, she's a hypochondriac. Why, say, if I didn't hand her a fancy
Latin label for all her ailings, she'd up and have that young squirt
Carpenter over inside ten minutes. So, as far as I'm concerned, she's
suffering from a chronic _omnia gallia in tres partem_ complicated by
a slight _e pluribus unum_." Doc paused and spit reflectively before
adding, "You shouldn't have tipped her off that what I prescribed for
her was only a mixture of salt, bicarb and water. She raised hell, I'm
telling you. I had to change it to sugar, bicarb and water. And she was
so peeved at you for telling her she looked the picture of health that
I just know she'll take her trade somewhere else."
I am reluctant to admit that there were other incidents like the one
described. At least five or six times I was unwittingly instrumental
in getting the Doc in hot water with his patients, not realizing that
there was such a thing as being _over_-sympathetic. I was certain that
it would make any person happier to know that there was nothing really
serious about his or her condition. How little I knew of life! But Doc
was always forgiving and while occasionally disgusted with me for being
so inept a pupil, he never ceased his frequent visits to my home until
after my marriage.
Anita never liked Doctor Turnbull and I am positive he sensed it. After
he had gone home, she would very often become abusive. Also, whenever
I failed to hang up my clothes or neglected to wipe my feet before
entering the house she would accuse me of rapidly becoming "a pig like
that Turnbull quack." In the beginning, I tried to put in a quiet word
of defense for the old fellow who was my friend, reminding her that
were it not for him the drugstore would fail. Soon, though I took to
holding my tongue. It only enraged Anita and, being a person set in
her opinions, it did little good trying to make her like him as I did.
Besides, since I was in love with her, it always distressed me to see
her upset. Hence, Doc's visits became fewer, longer intervals elapsed
between them, and soon he did not come at all. The only chats I ever
had with him thereafter were at the store when I was too busy and he
too much in a hurry to linger long.
But to get back to Anita. I first set eyes upon her on April 17,
1917, when business was booming and the nation was infected with war
hysteria. You may think it strange that I am able to remember the exact
date some twenty years later; but I have in my hand the prescription
she brought in to be filled. It was made out to Miss Anita Hunt by Leo
Carpenter, M.D., and called for a capsule (terpin, hydrate and codeine)
generally useful in relieving a minor chest congestion. I remember that
when she passed it over the counter she remarked that she was paying
the price for an early swim in the lake.
I will spare you her description. Besides, you have probably seen her
pictures in the newspapers and marvelled at her beauty. One of those
pictures was taken shortly after we were married so you can see why my
heart stopped beating as I looked into her eyes. I think my hand must
have shook as I went about the business of filling the prescription. I
was infinitely grateful that there was no one in the store who would
cry, "Look at him blush!" for I feel sure that I would have dropped
through the floor.
I remember that my fingers felt all thumbs as I worked, for her clear
voice distracted me. She casually remarked that she had just come to
town a few days before and asked me if I knew of any nice furnished
rooms. She went on to explain that at present she was stopping at the
Colonial House which was far too expensive for her new job at the Knit
Shoppe. After I had blurted out the suggestion that Mrs. Michaelson's
boarding house on North Tioga was perhaps the place she was seeking,
she thanked me warmly, handed me twenty cents for the package and left
the store. In my confusion I said nothing. The fact that I usually
charged a quarter for the capsules was forgotten. I only knew that the
girl was the most fascinating customer it had ever been my privilege
to wait on.
I finished the remainder of the day in somewhat of a trance. I vaguely
recall having filled a prescription for fat Mrs. Burtleson and removed
a particle of dust from Joe Crespi's eye but the rest remains a blank.
My record book, which they have permitted me to keep in my cell and
which I hope will jog my memory of those days I am trying to describe,
states that I sold eight bottles of cough syrup on that particular day,
two hot-water bottles, six toothbrushes, fourteen rolls of bandages,
and that I filled twelve prescriptions. If I did, I can't remember. But
I know that when I sat near the lake that night and smoked with old Doc
Turnbull, I found myself strangely inattentive and, for the first time,
glad when he went home.
I was thinking how wonderful it might be for any man to call such a
woman "wife." The usual vision of pipe, slippers and soft music on the
gramophone, a large dog, the evening paper and Anita darning socks
lingered to drug my mind; pleasant pictures even though slightly
absurd. I slumped down in my chair and smoked cigarette after cigarette
until it was very late. One by one the lights across Cayuga winked out.
The faint breeze that had been present all evening gradually whipped
itself into a wind. In the elms the night crickets fell silent and only
the quiet slap of the ripples on the shore came to my ears.
It was not until after I had sneezed several times that I realized I
was catching cold. But more important still, it dawned on me that I was
falling in love. I rose from the chair, cramped and stiff, went into
the house and took two aspirin tablets before crawling sleepily into
bed.
* * * * *
During the weeks that followed Anita became the most popular girl in
town. She often came into my store just before closing time in the hot
evenings for some ice-cream or a bottle of cool soda. Usually she was
with young Doctor Carpenter whom I had known at medical school.
Carpenter was a pleasant enough chap and I rather liked him--despite
Doc Turnbull's disgruntled remarks. He was the son of the town's
wealthiest realtor whose poor health forced him to spend much of
his time away from home at various resorts and spas. Therefore, Leo
generally lived alone, surrounded by servants in the big brick house on
the Heights. The boy was tall and handsome with a neat blond moustache.
It was his habit to finger it whenever he was perplexed. I recall
hearing the story that one day he was called into consultation at the
request of one of Doc Turnbull's patients. Leo took so long to arrive
at the simple diagnosis that the old medico became annoyed. "For the
love of God!" shouted Turnbull suddenly. "Will you quit yanking that
damned thing and tell the lady her bellyache's an acute appendicitis!"
In revenge, Leo spread it about town that old Doc's bedside manners
were as comforting as those of a callous veterinary. A feud ensued,
lasting for several months. Then it died as suddenly as it had started
and the two merely regarded each other with cold disdain.
Of course it was only natural that Leo's good looks and custom
tailoring should make him popular with the town girls and even with
the young men. He was the proud owner of a Winton Six touring car, a
beautiful $2800 machine in which he made his professional rounds. In
the evenings during spring and summer it was his custom to pack his
car with young people and roar away in the direction of the Tompkins
Country Club. I say, _in the direction of_ because I was never invited
along on any of those rides. I am afraid that I was never popular with
any but the older people who were my customers and with whom I would
sympathetically discuss their various ailments. It may be that I was
too serious about myself and my little store; but I did want to succeed
and often I would dream of the time when the store would be larger.
You may be sure that I went through considerable agony watching the
girl with whom I was in love constantly being escorted by the handsome
physician. The more times I saw her in his company the more I loved
her and the less attention I paid to business. My regular patrons soon
noticed my distraction. Doc Turnbull, with his customary rare insight
into human nature, almost hit upon my trouble. "You should soon be
thinking of getting married, son," he grunted as he chewed away at his
cigar. "We all need the womenfolk, you know. It ain't natural for you
to sweat all day in your dope-shop and then go home and cook your own
grub. Look around and pick yourself a slave!"
I tried to cover up my embarrassment by offering the jocular comment:
"And be hen-pecked like you? Not on your life!"
Turnbull winced. "Oh, a man can be happy," he insisted, "even though he
_has_ got a wife. That is, provided he knows the formula for marital
bliss." He paused, waiting for me to express the desire to hear this
formula but I am afraid my mind was wandering again. "Up to forty,
double bed; forty to fifty, single beds; fifty to sixty, separate
rooms; above sixty, separate homes."
I laughed at this and asked him how old _he_ was. "Me? Oh, that's for
those who can afford it. You can't get rich shoving pills down people's
throats ... unless you've got a tricky moustache."
Hurriedly, I changed the subject. I did not want him to start
discussing Carpenter. It might lead to mention of Anita. It had somehow
leaked out that they were already engaged and rumor had it that they
contemplated an undelayed marriage.
In a small town a drugstore is invariably the center of
gossip--barber-shops running a close second--and I am sure that I was
the most informed person in town. I was always the first to know things
and very often people would ask me questions about what so-and-so
intended to do. Not wishing to be involved in the spreading of
malicious gossip, it was my policy to look innocent and even surprised
that they expected me to know.
To the remarks I overheard concerning Anita and Dr. Carpenter I took
little heed. It would never do for anyone to suspect my own interest
in the girl. Folks might laugh or guy me about her. Besides it might
get back to Anita. So I contained myself as best I could and tried
to dismiss the remarks casually. In this, I pride myself on being
successful. Up until the day I married Anita before the Justice of the
Peace no one uncovered my true feelings.
One Saturday afternoon Leo and Anita were in the store and fell to
quarreling. I can't remember how the argument started exactly but it
became more vigorous as the minutes passed until I felt embarrassed
witnessing it. I retired to the drug room, hoping that a customer
would come in so that they either would have to cease their quarrel
or continue it some place else. From what I overheard I gathered that
Anita wanted to attend some party or other and Leo did not. This seemed
to me to be a trivial cause for a scrap but, at length, Anita stamped
out of the store, slamming the screen door viciously behind her. Leo
remained where he was.
As I came from the back, carrying some packages of supplies to explain
my disappearance from the scene of the dispute, Leo made the remark:
"Well, if that's the way she feels, to hell with her!" Then he turned
to me. "Aren't women the limit, Pete? Treat them nice, and the first
thing you know they think they own you!"
From that time on, I am afraid I entertained the notion that Leo was
not in love with her; and that if she was capable of ranting at him the
way she had, the affair would not last long. I did not know then that
passion plays strange tricks on people. I did not know that the ones
who hate hard, love hard.
The following day I learned that Anita had gone to the party unescorted
and, although the weather was too cold to be suitable, had taken a
swim. To my disappointment, I also learned that they had made up later
on and had driven off in his car for the remainder of the evening.
Indeed, the graph of my hope was erratic; first up and then down as
weeks rolled by. Whenever she would come into the store to purchase
some item she would smile pleasantly and direct at me only those
impersonalities which had to do with the temperature or the weather.
Only once did she say, "And how are _you_ today?" Fearful that in a
moment of weakness I might let slip something which would give me
away, I retreated behind my best storekeeper's manner.
The opinion might be formed by this time that I am something of a stoic
and, except for one instance which I set down at this point, I think I
did rather well in concealing my love. But I could scarcely keep myself
from vaulting the counter and striking Doctor Carpenter the day he
walked into my store and requested that I sell him a certain article
which, I had no doubt, he intended to employ in wooing the woman for
whom I yearned. Naturally, I did no such thing. Instead, I controlled
my temper and curtly informed him that I was completely sold out of
what he wanted. I think he looked at me in a puzzled way. My tone,
I suppose, was quite the reverse of the usual deferential manner I
adopted when speaking to customers.
In that the doctor weighed fully twenty-five pounds more than I did,
and was well respected as an amateur boxer, you may draw the conclusion
if you like that I controlled myself because I was afraid of reprisals.
Carpenter was not the type of man to permit himself to be struck
without retaliating. But the truth of the matter is that at the moment
I was too enraged to think of what bodily harm any such action on my
part would involve. I held myself in check only because I knew it would
give me away.
Through the plate-glass window, I watched the doctor cross the street
and enter Ray Cavender's place, proceed to the back of the store and
emerge a few minutes later putting something into his vest pocket. I
felt sick to my stomach and a little dizzy. I locked up the drug room
and, when my errand-boy returned from a delivery, I ordered him to take
charge of the place for the rest of the day.
* * * * *
The following events which immediately preceded my marriage seem now
to have happened with incredible swiftness but I imagine the days must
have appeared intolerably long at the time. My prescription record
informs me that on June 28, 1917, I began to make myself sleeping
powders out of mild opiates. Since I am usually a sound sleeper, this
suggests that I tossed and turned on my mattress as my mind tortured
me by conjuring up visions of Anita in the arms of my rival.
It was Mrs. Michaelson, Anita's landlady, who first brought me the news
that Anita and Carpenter had set the Fourth of July as their wedding
day. My heart sank when I heard this. In despair I tried to persuade
myself that it was merely a rumor without the slightest foundation
of fact. To more or less substantiate my theory, Henry Liscombe, the
County Clerk, who frequently patronized my store, had made no mention
of issuing a license to the couple and Henry was the town's most
garrulous individual. That night, however, I learned to my dismay that
Anita had quit her job at the Knit Shoppe, telling her employer that
she was going to be married.
As I was locking up on the evening of July 2nd I again encountered
Mrs. Michaelson. Being something of a pet of hers from the days when
I helped her carry bundles from the fruit stand (where I used to work
during summers) to her buggy, she was accustomed to confide in me many
interesting tidbits concerning her lodgers. So it was not without
precedent that she related to me, almost verbatim, the terrible scrap
that had taken place between Anita and the doctor in her back parlor.
"When he showed her the telegram, Peter, I thought the roof would come
off! She was that mad! I was in the dining-room, mind you, setting the
places for supper. I couldn't help overhearing the whole thing!"
That the Michaelson dining-room was immediately adjacent to the back
parlor, I was well aware; and she could very easily have retired to the
kitchen had she so desired. But, of course, I did not suggest this to
her. I was only too grateful for any news which had to do with Anita's
plans.
"Never in all my born days did I see a body so unreasonable," went
on the old lady. "Here's that poor boy Leo with a telegram saying
that he'd better hike himself out to Phoenix right away if he wants
to see his father alive; and here's that Hunt baggage insisting that
they _both_ go ... after the wedding, of course! Well, Leo minced no
words, I can tell you! He said: 'That would be nice, wouldn't it?
Having a honeymoon while my dad's dying. I'm sorry, Anita. We'll have
to postpone getting married until I come back.' At that she flies
completely off the handle! But c-o-m-p-l-e-t-e-l-y! 'If you run off now
without taking me, after I quit my job and told everyone I was getting
married on the Fourth, you can stay away forever for all I care!' Well,
Peter, to make a long story short, as I've got to get back to the house
and see to it that that hired girl's cleaned up the kitchen before
sneaking home, Leo turns on his heel and leaves her standing there.
They were supposed to go out somewhere, too. I don't know if he'll
go through with his trip or not but there's a train out to New York
tonight at nine and if he isn't aboard it, I'll be mighty surprised!"
Mrs. Michaelson hurried off down State Street, little dreaming that she
had caused a great jubilance to well up within me. My mental scoreboard
chalked up another point for my team.
That same evening after I had cooked and eaten my solitary meal, I
decided to take a little stroll. It had been very warm all day but,
with the going down of the sun, a welcome cool descended, bringing me
renewed energy. This was rather a phenomenon because I usually felt
totally spent after ten hours on my feet, and walking, whether in
the evening cool or not, was an activity it was my habit to avoid.
Nevertheless, on that night I found myself irresistibly drawn to the
railroad station.
Arriving there, I lingered in the shadows of the closed freight
warehouse, my attention riveted on the lighted interior of the
waiting-room. I looked at my watch. It was ten minutes to nine. I was
badly in need of a smoke but I did not want to risk revealing myself to
anyone who might happen by. From where I stood I could not of course
see the lights of Ithaca's famous crescent but the Trumansburg road
rose in a steep, broken line of lights, reminding me, for no apparent
reason, of Jacob's ladder. A west-bound freight, probably going to
Buffalo and Chicago, thundered past. The headlight of the locomotive
rested upon me for a brief moment and then flashed away.
Soon I was rewarded for my patience. Doctor Carpenter stepped out of
the waiting-room and onto the platform, carrying two satchels. Far up
the track the whistle of a train came faintly mournful to my ears. I
looked around for some sign of Anita. I could see none. If she was
there, she must be still inside the waiting-room. The two pieces of
luggage, though, were a bad omen. Moreover, the doctor kept turning his
head this way and that as if he expected someone.
Soon the train ground and hissed to a stop. A porter descended and
lifted the two bags into the Pullman and as the conductor cried, "All
'board!" and waved a signal to the engineer, the doctor reluctantly
climbed up as the train gathered speed.
Well! No words of mine can express how elated I was! I could have
sung and, strangely enough, that is exactly what I did do. My voice,
at best, has never been much more than a nasal groan which, as it
increases in volume, gets worse. As the train disappeared in the
distance, its red tail-lantern shrinking smaller and smaller until it
could no longer be seen, I let loose my joy with such fervor that every
person within a mile of the station must have been seriously alarmed. I
remember the station-agent came out onto the platform and recognizing
me asked: "What's the trouble, Pete? Ya sick?"
Of course I recalled that Carpenter and Anita had scrapped before and
had made up within a few hours. But this, I hoped, would be a permanent
rift which they would never allow their prides to bridge. While my own
suit was in no way furthered, at least I knew my most formidable rival
was temporarily out of the picture, leaving the field clear. It was now
up to me.
But how? I had never had any great experience with women and, except
for one or two occasions at medical school when, in the company of some
classmates, I visited a house of ill repute, absolutely no intimate
relations with them at all.
This problem occupied my mind that night as I returned to my house
and took up my usual position near the lake. That I could never be
happy without Anita had long ago impressed me; and I knew that unless
I worked fast the doctor might return and make up with her. Yes, or
she might become infatuated with someone else. There were so many nice
young men in town, business people and wealthy students from up on the
hill. I wondered at my conceit in hoping to succeed.
Fortunately, the problem solved itself without my having to devise
any schemes by which she would fall in love with me and consent to a
marriage. And the very night that marked Doctor Carpenter's departure
from the scene marked the fulfillment of all my dreams.
* * * * *
I must have dropped off to sleep in my deck-chair for several hours on
that night of July 2nd; for when I opened my eyes the absence of any
lights across the lake made it obvious that midnight was a thing of the
past. I felt refreshed after my nap and, as my mind awakened and became
conscious of what had transpired earlier, I felt even buoyant. Despite
the fact that I would have to be at the store earlier than usual the
next morning to receive a shipment of fireworks, I decided not to turn
in. I was not the least bit sleepy and anyway I wanted to think.
But on my back porch I had left a light burning and it annoyed me.
Although my back was to it, the yellow glow coming over my shoulder
seemed to intrude upon the welcome comfort of the darkness. The night
was unusually dark for that season of the year. The sky was a vast
expanse of mourning veils, uncontaminated by a moon or even by stars.
And the air was almost cold.
Over Cayuga the wind seemed to moan the syllables of the lake's name
and the rustling leaves of the trees sounded like the applause of some
vast audience. Even with these noises, I got the strange feeling that
it was quiet.
Always having been an ardent admirer of Nature and never having failed
to be impressed by each and every one of her miracles, I am also sadly
ignorant of her--like most people. I have never been able to remember
the names of stars or trees or to distinguish types of birds; but I
have always appreciated their beauty and often thought how strange the
world would be if there were no such things. At the moment, however,
even Nature could not force her way into my thoughts, occupied as they
were with Anita and the baffling problem of winning her.
As I was about to extinguish the porch light, I was startled by the
sound of splashing in the lake. I left the light burning and made my
way to the shore. Something was emerging from the water. I could not
make out who it was or even if it was a human. At first I fancied it
might be some dog belonging to a neighbor.
"Who's there?" I called, feeling very silly.
I was rewarded by a groan of relief. "So you've awakened at last, have
you? I've been paddling around for over an hour! Didn't you hear me
call?"
The voice shook me and I fumbled in my pockets for a match. I might
have spared myself the effort because I recognized her voice instantly.
The match flared and before it flickered out, burning the tips of my
fingers, I saw that she was in a bathing suit and shivering with the
cold.
"Miss Hunt!" I gasped.
"That's right," she replied, her teeth chattering. "And whoever you are
I'm sorry to have got you out of bed. I'm afraid I lost my bearings in
the dark. Am I anywhere near town? Lucky I saw your light."
I struck another match so that she would recognize me. Needless to say,
this unexpected visit seemed most portentous and left me temporarily
tongue-tied. Of all the persons who might have been swimming in the
lake, it had to be Anita! And of all the places she might have come
ashore, it had to be at my own landing! I almost began to believe in
God.
Now when I look back on it I can only regret that she came that night.
If I had not left that light burning, in all probability she would have
drowned or landed at some other point. In any case I am certain we
would never have been married and the marriage, I reiterate, was the
direct cause of my undoing.
"I'm Peter Thatcher," I managed to say.
"Yes, of course. I know. The druggist man."
I became suddenly aware that her mouth was blue with the cold and that
her arms were goose-flesh. "Will ... will you come inside, Miss Hunt?
You've got to warm yourself or you'll catch your death of cold. I ... I
live alone here," I stammered apologetically as an after-thought.
As I uttered this, I was sure she would refuse. Ladies did not visit
bachelor's homes unchaperoned in the dead of night.
"I was waiting for you to invite me in." And she accepted my invitation
with a celerity that was not surprising when you saw how chilled she
was.
"I was only thinking of the proprieties." I removed my Norfolk jacket
and placed it about her wet shoulders--not without misgivings because
the shirt I was wearing was rather shabby and none too clean. She
murmured her thanks.
"Proprieties? I'm only interested in something warm."
"Watch out for those sharp stones," I warned her. "You'll cut your
feet. I've been promising myself to clear this beach for years but
somehow I never got around to it."
Guiding her with a hand on her bare elbow, we soon reached the house. I
led her around into the living-room. "If you'll wait here, Miss Hunt,
I'll run upstairs and find you some towels and maybe something to warm
you up inside. I'm afraid that there are no logs for this fire-place
but ... but it might be warmer in the kitchen if I light the stove." I
remember that I felt ashamed to suggest that. In those very formal days
one did not entertain their guests in the kitchen. Now, I understand
that parties are given in attics, cellars, kitchens and even in hotel
bedrooms. Such affairs twenty years ago were almost unheard of.
But Anita smiled reassuringly. "O, let's do go into the kitchen. I'll
be lighting the stove while you fetch the towels."
I must confess that I am not much of a housekeeper, and during the
years I lived alone, my place was generally very untidy. It was my
custom to hire a scrub-woman on the first of each month to do a
thorough job of hoeing out. Frequently, by the end of the month I would
find myself without a clean dish to eat from and all of my towels
black with shoe polish. Therefore I was infinitely grateful that this
was the _second_ of the month. With everything in good order the little
house was very presentable and I know that Anita was delighted with it.
I changed my shirt while I was upstairs before I did anything else and
then I combed my hair. Besides three fresh towels, my best bathrobe and
a pair of slippers, I also unearthed a bottle of rare brandy which I
had set aside for some state occasion. I have never been an habitual
drinker of hard liquor, being partial to beer and light wines; but I
thought a glass or two of brandy might do her good after her cold swim.
Then too I was hoping that the spirit might loosen her tongue and put
us on more intimate terms ... make us friends.
This accident of Fate, I realized only too well, could never happen
again. Therefore I was determined to make good use of the opportunity
and not sit there like a ninny, uttering asinine generalizations and
getting nowhere. I knew that I must make that night the key which some
day would open the door of her heart to me.
I hurried back to the kitchen. Anita had the stove going full blast
and already it was comfortably warm. She thanked me for the towels and
without further ado, fell to rubbing herself vigorously. As she removed
her rubber cap (which I at once recognized as part of my merchandise)
her lovely yellow hair cascaded down her neck and shoulders. I had
never seen her this way before and she looked so unspeakably beautiful
with her hair unbound that I could not withhold an exclamation of
delight. The urge was strong in me to cast aside all restraint, to take
her in my arms; but she was my guest, at the moment helpless, so I
refrained. Besides, the inhibitions of civilization are hard to break
through. Seldom in my life had I given way to impulse. At the moment,
however, I had to summon the full force of my restraint.
She flashed me a quick glance and for a moment I thought she would be
angry. I cursed myself silently for a fool. But, instead she laughed
and said: "Turn your back. I want to get out of this wet suit."
"Wait," I cried. "I'll go, if you like."
"O, don't bother. I trust you."
I turned around to face the wall and heard the crisp snap of elastic
and the rustle of heavy taffeta. It gave me a pleasant sensation, her
saying that she trusted me. It proved that she considered me something
more than a chance acquaintance. There was also a breath-taking joy in
the knowledge that we were in the same room together while she engaged
in the intimate task of drying her naked body. My honorable intentions
were somewhat frayed and stretched to the breaking-point. For this
reason my voice sounded somewhat high and excited as I spoke to the
wall, striving to appear casual and completely at ease. "I'm afraid I
haven't much to offer you in the way of refreshment," I said, "except
that brandy on the table or some tea. I never drink coffee."
"Did you say brandy? Lead me to it! You can turn around now."
As I obeyed, I started to say, "It's not very good brandy." I never
finished the sentence. That first glimpse of her in my bathrobe--I'll
never be able to forget. The robe was dark blue, matching her exquisite
eyes; and her hair, tumbling down it.... But I have resolved not to go
into raptures. I am sure that she noticed my appreciative stare for all
the time we sipped away at our bandy I felt her eyes on me.
Thirty minutes passed. "Perhaps you're hungry?" I suggested.
"Famished! I could eat a horse."
"Well, I haven't any horse," I told her, "but if you like...."
Later, over bacon and scrambled eggs which she had insisted that she
prepare herself, I summoned up enough courage to say: "But you haven't
told me how you happened to be swimming so late at night. The water was
certainly too cold for you to have enjoyed it."
A slight shadow flitted across her face. "I always go swimming when I'm
angry. That's the only way I can get it out of my system. Cold water
does wonders to my awful disposition!" She tried to laugh convincingly.
Of course she did not suspect that I knew what was wrong. And I never
told her that I had heard she had quarreled with Doctor Carpenter.
"I don't believe it!"
She looked up at me with a frown. "What? That I go swimming every time
I get a grouch on?"
"No. That you've got an awful disposition."