The girl took the paddle from his hand. “I’m awfully obliged,” she repeated. “It was a silly scrape to get into, wasn’t it. I’m sorry you got wet.”
“’Sall right,” said Henry. “I’m glad you’re safe.”
“Stop in and see me, then—soon. Mother will want to thank you.”
Henry looked into her eyes earnestly. “I will,” he said abruptly. “Good night” He shook her hand swiftly and turned away.
“Good night, Mr. Jones—and thank you,” she called after him.
The plight of Henry Jones in facing his astonished wife that evening might well have alarmed a far more expert evader than he. All the way home he planned what he should say to Martha.
He ended by telling part of the literal truth but none of the actual truth: that he had met a friend and gone in a canoe, and they had upset and never, positively never, would he ever go out in a canoe again.
And Martha, when her first shock of surprise was over, had laughed. Henry never knew whether she believed him or not. For she said nothing, but put him to bed at once—without the pill, since he declared earnestly that the evening’s exercise had made him feel much better.
After this first rapturous adventure, Henry’s soul-malady grew rapidly worse. And with its development came a corresponding ability for dissimulation with his wife. He ate his meals; he discussed with her the petty details of his business, and entered into her own gossip of the neighbors; just as he always had. But underneath it all a seething torrent of emotions possessed him, threatening every moment to tear away the anchor of his life and hurl him adrift. And Henry did not care. He did not have the least idea for what he was headed; he never stopped to reason it out. He only knew he was happy—riotously, wonderfully happy—and free—free in spirit at last.
Now I would not have you believe that all this happened to Henry’s soul that first day. It did not. It progressed onward with steady growth over a period of nearly a month.