Adrienne Toner: A Novel

by Anne Douglas Sedgwick

The tears, irrepressibly, had risen to Oldmeadow’s eyes; but as Mrs. Chadwick’s sentence meandered on, his thoughts were roughly jolted from their pity. “But I tell you that that is absolutely unfair!” he repeated, fixing his glass to look his protest the more firmly at her. “I tell you that I was there and saw it all. It wasn’t for the baby. She was thinking of the baby as little as Barney was; less than he was. What she was thinking of was her power over Barney. She was determined that she should not seem to be put in the wrong by his going.”

Like the March Hare Mrs. Chadwick was wild yet imperturbable. “Of course she was determined. How could she be anything else? It did put her in the wrong. And it put Meg in the wrong. That’s where we were so blind. Oh, I blame myself as much as anybody. But Barney is her husband; and he was with her and should have seen and felt. How could she beg him to stay for her danger when he would not stay for her love?”

Yes; Adrienne had her very firmly. She had even imparted to her, when it came to the issue, something of coherency. She was building up, in Barney’s absence, strange ramparts against him. Barney had dragged her in the dust and there she intended to drag him. Wasn’t that it? Oldmeadow asked himself as he eyed his altered friend, muttering finally: “I’m every bit as responsible as Barney, if it comes to that. I upheld him, completely, in his decision. I do still. Adrienne may turn you all upside down; but she won’t turn me; and I hope she won’t turn Barney.”

“I think, Roger, that you might at all events remember that she’s not out of danger,” said Mrs. Chadwick. “She may die yet and give you no more trouble. You have never cared for her; I know that, and so does she; and I do think it’s unfeeling of you to speak as you do when she’s lying there above us. And she looks so lovely in bed,” Mrs. Chadwick began to weep again. “I never saw such thick braids; like Marguerite in Faust. Her hands on the sheets so thin and white and her eyes enormous. I don’t think even you could have the heart to jibe and laugh if you saw her.”

“I didn’t laugh at Adrienne, you know,” Oldmeadow reminded her, rising and buttoning his overcoat. “I laughed at you and Jowett. No; Adrienne is no laughing matter. But she won’t die. I can assure you of that now. She’s too much life in her to die. And though I’m very sorry for her—difficult as you may find it to believe—I shall reserve my pity for Barney.”

Barney needed all his pity and the sight of him on the following Sunday evening, as he appeared on his threshold, would have exorcised for Oldmeadow, if Mrs. Chadwick had not already done so, the memory of the pale, drowning face. He looked like a dog that has been beaten for a fault it cannot recognize. There was bewilderment in his eyes and acceptance, and a watchful humility. To see them there made Oldmeadow angry.

Barney had sent a line to say that he was back; but his friend had been prepared not to see him. Once engulfed in the house of mourning it was but too likely that he would not emerge for many days. And besides, what would Barney have to say to him now? But here he was, with his hollow eyes and faded cheeks, and it was with an echo of his old boyish manner of dropping in when beset by some perplexity that, without speaking, he crossed the room and sank on the sofa by the fireplace. But he had not come to seek counsel or sustainment. Oldmeadow saw that, as, after he had offered cigarettes, which Barney refused, and lighted his own pipe, he walked to and fro and watched him while Barney watched the flames. He had not come with a purpose at all. It was, again, precisely like the unhappy dog who wanders forth aimlessly, guided merely by a dim yearning towards warmth and kindliness. Barney had come where he would be understood. But it was not because he believed himself to be misunderstood that he came.

“I went to Coldbrooks, first, you know,” he said presently, and with an effect of irrelevance. “I thought I’d find Mother there. So it was only on that Thursday night I got back here. None of the wires caught me.”

“I know,” said Oldmeadow. “It was most unfortunate. But you couldn’t have got back sooner, could you, once you’d gone on from Paris.”

“Not possibly. I went on from Paris that very night, you see. I caught the night express to the Riviera. They’d left Cannes as an address, but when I got there I found they’d moved on to San Remo. It was Tuesday before I found them. My one idea was to find them as soon as possible, of course. No; I suppose it couldn’t be helped; once I’d gone.”