“If we’d had those rock-aprons, this’d never have happened,” stormed Hardin, who was standing on the bank when the trestle gave way.
They were already repairing that disaster when the Palmyra was cradled on its siding. Marshall from one platform, Tony, white-capped from the rear, started out for the river. Claudia settled herself for a quiet morning.
When Innes Hardin came in later, she felt that she was interrupting a fierce orgy. But Mrs. Marshall would not let her go. “I can knit just as fast when I talk.”
The shades were all pulled down. To Innes’ protest, her hostess declared that “she could see with her fingers.” Innes had never asked the destiny of the little knitted jackets; earlier in the acquaintance she had surmised a pressing haste for some sister, or niece; a tender date. She had seen several downy sacques completed; but still those black needles clicked.
Later, Marshall came in from the damaged trestle, bringing Rickard and Crothers. The chief was in buoyant spirits, as though the accident had played to his hand, instead of against it.
“I’ve brought company to lunch, mother,” his mellow voice called through the car.
Only one caught the look of pain that twisted the severe features of Claudia Marshall. Instantly, Innes saw it disciplined into a welcoming smile. And then she herself fell to flushing, and chilling, as a lithe-muscled figure came directly to her. His eyes—where was the look she had feared, of possessive tenderness? The quizzical gleam was gone. On guard! A solemn business, loving, when you know that it means—Life! On guard, though, to her! She pulled her fingers from his strong lingering clasp, and joined Mrs. Marshall, who was again busily knitting, until Tony’s crisp whiteness crackled into the apartment.
Rickard had his soldier look on. She was watching him covertly as he talked with his host and Crothers, as though she were not there; as though something were not waiting for him to claim! She told herself that she would have no character if she did not deny him, when he came for her. How could he be talking, oblivious of everything else in the world except that river? Was that—loving? Could she think of anything else when he was in the same room with her? Was that the difference between men and women? Woman’s whole existence! He was a soldier of the modern army. It came to her, a sort of tender divination, that he would not divide his thoughts, even with her, with Love, until his battle was won. He owed his mind clear and on duty to the work on hand. Well, couldn’t she understand that? What her accusation against Gerty? Sex honor—keep off the track! Wasn’t that her own notion? Oughtn’t she to be proud of him?
She had brought a nest of waspish thoughts tumbling about her ears. Gerty! He had loved Gerty. Her resentment was alive again. Perhaps, it was not true. Perhaps, some day he would tell her that it was not true, had never been true. He couldn’t love her, if his thoughts had ever lingered, with that same seriously solemn look on the false little face of her sister-in-law.
A slur to a chef could one talk of else but food while banqueting! Tony’s white cap danced around the table after he had seated them, urging their appetites. Mrs. Marshall tried to suppress him; Marshall and Rickard wickedly abetting his capering. He forced a commendation of his bouillon from dreamy Innes; the recipe, he boasted, was his own. Tod Marshall’s query as to the Spanish peppers evoked a long history. The lunch was served to a running accompaniment of his reminiscences, when he had been a restaurateur, and the great Samuel Bliss one of his patrons. He was working up a crescendo of courses. With the importance of a premier, he bore in a majestic, seasoned plank carrying a thick steak. Another trip to the kitchen returned a primrose sauce.