Of course dear old David would love to be rich! Sylvia would think. Here he had been struggling along on a few thousands a year, making no complaints, happy in his work, travelling, with a keenly anxious eye on his checkbook, spending nothing on clothes, giving one odd and curious little presents that yet were so pitifully inexpensive, anxious about those exhibitions of canvases that as yet did not sell very fast—what could be more delightful than sudden riches to David? To buy him a big car, a big fur coat, to entertain their friends at the finest hotels, to travel, to pick up odd books and canvases, to have smart luggage, a beautiful home—who wouldn’t like such a change?
Well, David knew himself that he would not. He realized perfectly that one of the difficulties of his early married life would be to persuade his rich young wife that he really preferred his old corduroys to paint in, that he really liked little restaurants, that he hated big hotels.
Far happier for him if Gay, for example, had been the heiress. Then he and Sylvia would have been the poor relations, would have had the tramping, the little studio in Keyport, the frugal trips abroad so full of adventures and excitements, and always the beloved old family homestead to turn to for holidays and special occasions. That would be a realler sort of living than he was apt to experience with all Sylvia’s charming responsibilities and exaction upon his shoulders. There would be a distinct loss of something free and personal, something far higher and purer and more wonderful than even old Uncle Roger’s money, in David’s marriage. And he knew now that he could never expect Sylvia to see that loss. To Sylvia any one who could be rich, and who saw even the tiniest scrap of advantage anywhere in remaining poor, was stupid to the point of annoyance.
Well, it would all work out somehow, David thought philosophically, thinking these things seriously upon a certain bitter night late in January. A heavy storm was brewing again, for the winter was unusually severe, but he had resolved to turn his back upon it; he must get down into the city and arrange matters for the April exhibition. He would leave Wastewater the next day, after almost six weeks in which the days had seemed to fly by.
It was almost midnight now; Gay, who had seemed out of spirits to-night, had gone upstairs early, and Aunt Flora had followed her an hour ago. But David sat on by the fire, not so much reading the book he held in his hand, as musing, and occasionally leaning forward to stir the last of the coals. The passage to bed was a long and chilly one, the halls were cold, his room would be cold; he felt a deep, lazy disinclination to stir.
Suddenly and hideously in the darkness and night he heard a wild scream, followed by other screams, all piercing, high—the shrieks of a woman in mortal terror. David, with a quick exclamation, started to his feet, ran to the door, opened it and shouted into the blackness of the hall, snatched the lamp from the centre table, and, always shouting, ran up toward the evident source of the confusion; which was in the direction of his room and Gay’s, on the floor above.
It had all taken place so quickly and was so unspeakably horrifying and alarming that David had no time to think of his own emotions until he reached the upper hall and rushed into Gay’s room. He set the light on a table, and caught the girl, who was blundering blindly about the doorway, in his arms.
“Gay—for God’s sake—what is it!” he said, drawing her into the hall, holding her tight, and looking beyond her into the dimness of the room.
“Oh, David—David!” she sobbed, clinging to him. “Oh, David, it’s that old woman again! She’s in my room—I saw her! She had a candle in her hand—I tell you I saw her!”