“One of the first symptoms of insanity,” Phœbe suggested judicially, although she knew exactly the train of unexpressed thought that led to the “Let him!” “one of the very first signs—and I should know what I am talking about—is sudden and unexpected jumps in the conversation. When I would remark to Seth that it was time to feed the chickens and he would reply, ‘I wish I had a white rat,’ I always knew it was time to hide the hammer and lock up the axe.... You’re not feelin’ a bit ferocious, are you?”
It was the joking over Richard’s possible madness that led to the particular set of intimate “burbles” which caught Walter’s attention suddenly, and made him stop in the midst of “bending on” the mainsail, and listen. He caught not a single word, but the timbre, if one may so describe it, of the conference was unmistakably friendly and affectionate. Just so she had laughed and joked with him to cheer him out of moodiness, and the lilt in her voice had been the only decent memory in his life. Somehow, he could not believe that she would ever offer it to anyone else—madmen and lovers have such notions—it was his private possession, he thought; but now she was hovering over another man and——
Something Richard said—a bit of nonsense, no doubt—had brought a little shriek of delight from Phœbe, but the remainder of his speech she would not have. Quickly she had darted back of him and had placed a hand firmly over his mouth, cutting off a sentence in mid-air. But her low vibrating laughter showed that she had appreciated the humour of whatever had been said.
That act, trifling in itself and thoroughly characteristic of Phœbe Norris, inflamed Walter; it sent a shock through him that started the blood coursing and left him shaking violently with nervousness. He opened his mouth the better to breathe; spasms of trembling swept over him; he sat crouched up amid a swirl of sail-cloth and stared at the two happy persons before him.
An impartial judge would have decided that the relations between Mr. Richard and Mrs. Norris had not altered one thousandth of a millimetre from luncheon. Before Walter or behind Walter there had not been the slightest shadow of change in the outward attitude. The low laughter had been pulsating before; the jests had been passed and repassed; and even the friendly fillip had been exposed to view. But to Walter, seared with the burning iron of sudden jealousy, all these personal touches were born of the moment, staged now for the first time, as the bill-boards say. The data for that sort of thing has been worked over pretty thoroughly; see the case of Othello versus Desdemona, or Leontes, king of Sicilia, versus Hermione, his queen. Over an innocent public leave-taking, one remembers,—the guest, Polixenes, is making his farewells to the hostess—Leontes cries, “I have tremor cordis on me! My heart dances, but not for joy! not joy!”
“Tremor cordis” it was, but Walter could make no pretty speeches about it. No word could have come from him. It was pitiful to see him struggling to get breath; pitiful unless one saw also the gleam of hate in his eye.
What should he do to rid himself of the suffering that possessed him? His first impulse was to burst in upon them and fight it out openly with whatever weapon appeared; but that impulse never got so far as a single movement: the big man, he knew, could fling him into the Lake, and the woman could pierce him with a glance and a score of scornful words. Craft whispered in his ear to bide his time and, above all, make sure. Jealousy demands evidence, concrete proof, specific torture to add to the mental anguish. Perhaps—Phœbe had gone off in a matter-of-fact way to see to her chickens, and Richard was coming down to the dock—perhaps there was nothing to it after all.
Almost as abruptly as it came the feeling of being dispossessed left him; all but the memory of it and a vague presentiment that he must be ever watchful. The exultant mood that followed took him to the other extreme. He laughed and seized the sail vigorously; and when Richard reached the dock he was humming a sort of a tune.
“Good boy!” Richard encouraged, when he saw the amount of work already done. “Here Phœbe and I have been fooling away the time while you have been working like a shoemaker. Why, we’ll be able to try her out to-day; won’t we?”
In spite of his feeling that all was well again Walter found it hard to control his speech.