“Oh, come to bed,” ordered his wife, who was already there. “I never see such a man to sit up when there wasn’t any need for it. I’ll bet you there ain’t another soul wastin’ kerosene along this road from beginnin’ to end. Do put out that lamp.”
Her husband chuckled. “You’d lose your bet,” he observed. “There’s a light in the Campton settin’-room. I can see it from here. Carrie ain’t home yet, I guess. Say, she looked mighty pretty up there on the stage to-night, didn’t she?”
Mrs. Eldridge sniffed. “She done her best to look that way,” she said. “Paint and powder and I don’t know what all! If I was her folks she’d be to home before this, now I tell you. Put out that lamp!”
Tobias obeyed orders. “Women are funny critters,” he philosophized. “You are all down on Carrie because she is pretty and the boys like her. Next to Esther Townsend she was the best-lookin’ girl in that show to-night. I heard more than one say so, too.”
“Umph! More men, you mean. I don’t doubt it. Well, handsome is that handsome does, but men don’t never pay attention to that. There’s no fool like an old fool—especially an old man fool. Well, you’re in bed at last, thank goodness! Now let’s see if there is such a thing as sleep.”
If Tobias had been permitted to remain longer at the window, and if he had looked up the beach and away from the village instead of down the road leading toward it, he might have noticed another yellow glare flash into being behind the dingy panes of a building not far from his post of observation. He would have been surprised and perhaps disturbed to the point of investigation had he seen it, for the building was his own property; this light came from the bracket lamp in Bob Griffin’s “studio” beyond the low point, facing the sea.
Esther had been wrong when she decided that Bob was not in the town hall during the performance of “Pinafore.” He had made up his mind not to go near the place. He had no wish to see her under such conditions. He tried to convince himself that he never wished to see her again—anywhere, at any time. She had treated him abominably. She had led him on, had encouraged—or, at least, had never discouraged—his visits and his society. She must have guessed that he was falling in love with her; surely it was plain enough. And then, when circumstances had forced from him avowal of that love, she had not—no, she had not resented it. She had even allowed him to think that his affection was, to an extent, returned. And she had been glad when he announced his intention of joining her in Paris. And then—oh, he must not think of the happenings since then!
Well, he was through with her forever. Absolutely through. He could go to Paris now with a clear conscience. His grandfather was practically well again and he might go when he pleased. Yet so far he had made no new reservations nor set a date for his departure. To be away, far away, where he could not see her or hear of her ought, considering everything, to have been an alluring prospect—but it was not.
On the evening of the opera he had remained with his grandfather until the latter’s early hour for retiring. Then he came downstairs and tried to read, but soon threw down his book and went out. He harnessed the horse to the buggy and drove out of the yard with no definite destination in mind. The horse, perhaps from force of habit, turned east along the main road. Later that main road became the main road of Harniss. By that time Bob had decided to go to the town hall—never mind why; he, himself, was not certain. He left the horse and buggy at the local livery stable. It was after eight when he climbed the steps of the hall. The curtain had risen and there was “standing room only,” so the ticket seller told him. He crowded in behind a double row of other standees at the rear of the ranks of benches and remained there, looking and listening, to the bitter end.
It was bitter. When she made her first entrance and smiled in pleased surprise at the applause which greeted her, he began to suffer the pangs of self-torture. The sight of her, beautiful, charming, the sound of her voice, the zest with which she played her part—all these were like poisoned arrows to him. If she had shown the least evidence of the misery she should have felt, which he was feeling—but she did not. To all outward appearance she was happy, she was enjoying herself. She had forgotten him entirely. And the tender looks which she bestowed upon Seymour Covell as her sailor lover were altogether too convincing. Those love scenes which Bob had resentfully remembered when she told him Covell was to play Rackstraw were far worse in their portrayal than in his fancy. A dozen times he was on the point of leaving the hall, but he did not leave; he remained and saw and suffered. Furiously jealous, utterly wretched, he stood there until the curtain fell. Then he hurried out into the night, eager to get away from her, from the crowd, from everybody—from his own thoughts, if that were possible.