“Walk out on him!” flashed Jeannette. “I’ll go back to my job and run my own life the way it suits me!”
§ 7
Martin spent every Saturday afternoon at the Family Yacht Club, “tuning up” his boat. He loved to tinker about her, adjusting this, tightening that; he was never finished with her; there was always something still remaining to be done. He and Zeb Kline sailed the Albatross together in the races; they constituted her crew.
As soon as Martin reached Cohasset Beach from the city on the last day of the week, he hurried directly from the station to the yacht club. He kept his outing clothes,—they consisted of little more than a shirt, a pair of duck pants and “sneakers,”—in a locker at the club. By two o’clock he was squatting in the cockpit of the teetering little boat, busy with wrench, knife, or rag, thoroughly happy. If there was sufficient wind later in the afternoon, he and Zeb might take a short sail up the Sound, round the red buoy, and home again, or over two legs of the course. The afternoon was all too short; it was six,—seven, before a realization of the passing time came to him. He wanted a quick swim then before re-dressing himself, and if someone did not give him a lift, there was the long hike homeward.
He would be sure to find one of three situations when he opened the door of the bungalow upon reaching home: Jeannette would be there, coldly unresponsive, resentful of his tardiness; she would be dressing for a dance at the Cohasset Beach Yacht Club in frivolous mood, or she would have already departed to dine with Doc and Edith French, having left word with Hilda for him to follow if he cared to. He came to accept these circumstances. He did not particularly like them but he did not know how to go about changing them. To dress and join his wife was generally too much effort after his long afternoon on the water. He either found his own amusements or else, thoroughly weary, went to bed.
At an early hour on Sunday he was usually astir and often left the house while Jeannette was still asleep, or else they breakfasted together about nine o’clock and made polite inquiries as to one another’s plans for the day. Every Sunday afternoon during the summer there was a race and Martin would not have missed one for any consideration. As soon as he could leave the house, he was off to the club and Jeannette did not see him again until he came stumbling home late in the evening, sunburnt and thoroughly exhausted.
One Saturday night it was nearly eight o’clock when the flickering acetylene lamps of Steve Teschemacher’s big brass-fitted motor car swept into the circular driveway before the Devlins’ home, and Martin got out, called “Good-night and many thanks!” and opened the door of his house. Dishevelled, his hair blown, his shirt open at the throat, carrying his cravat and collar, he walked in upon a dinner party his wife was giving. The four people at his table were all in immaculate evening dress. He recognized Doc French and Edith, but the remaining person in the quartette was a man he had never seen before.
“Mr. Kenyon, my dear,” said Jeannette, introducing him. “Our little party was quite impromptu. I didn’t know how to get you. I telephoned the club twice but Wilbur said you were out on the water.”
Doc French welcomed him, clapping him on the back.
“Get a move on, Mart,” he said, jovially, “your cocktail’s getting cold.”