Lettice kept at him and at him; after the baby arrived it would be no better; there would be others; he regarded a succession of such periods, a succession of babies, with marked disfavor. He had been detached for so long from the restraints of commonplace, reputable relationships that they grew increasingly irksome, they chafed the old, established freedom of morals and action. Meta Beggs blew into fresh flame the embers of dying years. And yet, as he had told her by the stream, an involuntary lassitude, a new stiffness, had fallen upon his desire. Although his marriage was burdensome it was an accomplished fact; Lettice’s wishes, her quality of steadfastness, exerted their influence upon him.
They operated now to increase his resentment; they formed an almost detached disapproval situated within his own breast, a criticism of his thoughts, his emotions, against which he vainly raged, setting himself pointedly in its defiance.
He lounged past the Courthouse, past Peterman’s hotel, to the post-office. It was a small frame structure, with the wing of the postmaster’s residence extending from the back. At the right of the entrance was a small show window holding two watches with shut, chased silver lids, and a small pasteboard box lined with faded olive-colored plush containing two plated nut crackers and six picks. The postmaster was the local jeweller. Within, beyond the window which gave access to the governmental activities a glass case rested on the counter. It was filled with an assortment of trinkets—rings with large, highly-colored stones, wedding bands, gold pins and bangles engraved with women’s flowery names; and, laid by itself, a necklace of looped seed pearls.
The latter captured Gordon’s attention, it was so pale, and yet, at the same time, so suggestive of elusive colors; it was so slender and graceful, so finished, that it irresistibly recalled the person of Meta Beggs.
“Let’s see that string of pearls,” he requested.
The postmaster laid it on top of the glass case. “The jobber sent it up by accident,” he explained; “I can’t see anything to it—for the price; it’s too slimsy. I wouldn’t advise it, Gord. Why, for thirty dollars, and that’s what it costs—diamond clasp, you can get a string of fish skin pearls, experts can’t tell ’em from original, as big as your finger end that would go twice about the neck and then hang some.”
The necklace slipped coldly through Gordon Makimmon’s hand; it reminded him of a small, pearly snake with a diamond head; it increasingly reminded him of Meta Beggs. She loved jewelry. If she had kissed him for a pair of silk stockings—
“I think I’ll take it,” he decided slowly; “I don’t know if I’ve got her right here in my pants.”
“Now, Gordon,” the other heartily reassured him, “whenever you like. Of course it’s a fine article—all strung on gold wire. I won’t be surprised but Lettice’ll think it’s elegant. I often wondered why you didn’t stop in lately and look over my stock; ladies put a lot on such little trifles.”
Meta Beggs would have to wear it under her dress in Greenstream, he realized; perhaps she had better not wear it at all until she was out of the valley. He would clasp the pearls about that smooth, round throat.... The postmaster wrapped the pearls into a small, square package, talking voluminously. A new driver of the Stenton stage had lost a mail bag, he had lamed a horse—a satisfactory driver had not been discovered since Gordon ... left. He had heard of a law restraining the sale of patent medicines, of Snibbs’ Mixture, and what the local drinkers would do, already deprived of the more legitimate forms of spirituous refreshment, was difficult to say. The postmaster predicted they would take to “dope.” Then there was to be a sap-boiling over on the western mountain, to-morrow night, at old man Entriken’s.... Everybody had been invited; if the weather was ugly it would take place the first clear spell.