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.
II
What had he seen in the column of village gossip? Lavinia was conscious that a hornets’ nest had been rent asunder, above her head. A hundred furious possibilities buzzed in her ears. Stumbling in wild agitation to the deep closet of her room, she took a leather-bound volume from her Gladstone, where it had lain since her return from Detroit. Without opening it, she fled in a panic to Vine Cottage—burst into the breakfast-room, with a fine show of indignation, and flung the book on the table.
“There! I’m done with that thing. Browning’s a fool!”
“I’m sorry you have found him unprofitable. He isn’t easy reading.”
“I have as much sense as you or Mrs. Henderson. You made me believe he told the truth. I hate a liar. I never told a lie in my life.”