I
Judith was glad, afterward, that the responsibility for Eileen had been lifted from David Trench’s shoulders, howsoever humiliating the conditions might be. All that would have made for guidance had long since been wrested from his hands, and the inevitable pain would be robbed of the corrosive quality of self-reproach. She wondered what he was thinking, that portentous Monday evening, as he gazed past her and Theodora to the row of seats across the aisle where Hal and Eileen sat, munching popcorn and making audible comments on the speeches, comments that bubbled with cleverness not always refined in its quality.
Just as the perspiring statesman appeared on the flag-draped platform, bearing a message from the Governor of the state, Dr. Schubert and his son came down the aisle, looking to right and left with searching eyes. Theodora stood on tiptoe to signal them. There was a shifting of the original seating arrangement, so that Sydney and Sylvia might be together. The first few sentences of the florid oration were lost in the general confusion, and when Judith looked again into the row of seats across the aisle, two places were vacant. Hal and Eileen had gone.
II
After the fireworks the town went home. Sydney Schubert walked with Sylvia, talking of other Fourth of July experiences in a tone from which the restraint of the disappointed lover was wholly wanting. David played sweetheart to Theodora, a rôle that had been developed by long practice. It came to Judith, walking behind them with Lary and Dr. Schubert, that David Trench was essentially a lover—and love must have something to feed upon.
“Will we wait for Eileen?” he asked, when the feast had been prepared.
“They’ll be here any minute,” Sylvia cried flippantly. Then, in a voice that echoed her mother’s objurgatory habit of speech: “For goodness’ sake, papa, stop worrying about that girl. She’s old enough to take care of herself. Syd and I were traipsing all over the country when I was her age, and I can’t remember that you sat up nights worrying about me.”
“Young Marksley isn’t Sydney Schubert,” her father reminded her.
III
It was one o’clock when the merry party separated, and still no Eileen. A light rain was falling, and the coat closet must be searched for umbrellas. Lary lingered at Judith Ascott’s door, unwilling to say good night. Some misshapen apprehension that had tormented him all evening struggled for expression.