Chapter 11
Anson hung up the telephone. The effort of getting to it had exhausted him, as any effort did, nowadays. Martha Johnson was staying with him while Christina was away, and Anson hadn't wanted her to answer it, for it might be Christina. Now he was even more relieved that she hadn't. He looked around the quiet, shabby study; then, with the help of his heavy cane, he dragged himself to the old leather couch and lay down on it. There was no sound in the house, nothing but the voice echoing in his ears. It wasn't the voice he had just heard on the telephone. It was his own. So that's it. That's why she went. She went with him. I ought to have known ... no, I did know.
Two days before, Christina had told him that if he didn't mind, she thought she'd run up to Boston for a night. He had been surprised, for she never went away. He started to ask her why she was going and then thought better of it. If her trip had anything to do with the doctor that Bill Loring had mentioned, he didn't want to hear about it; if it were something else, she would tell him in her own good time. So he was silent, and after a moment Christina said, "I may get back the same night, but I've asked Martha Johnson to get your meals and stay here."
"I don't need anyone," he said. "I can sleep in the study." He glanced at her clear, remote profile, and then looked away, closing his lips firmly.
"It's a stupid sort of trip," she said. "Family business."
Anson remembered that an uncle of hers, her father's brother, lived near Boston. Perhaps he was in trouble, or ill. He might even have died. She was always reticent about her family's affairs; even when a letter came from her mother in Wisconsin, she rarely told him what was in it. Probably she didn't want to bother him now.
She left early the next morning. Anson heard her get up and dress, but he pretended to be asleep; She went downstairs, and later, for he must have dosed, he heard the car go out. She must be driving to Deanebury; a train left there for Boston at eight or eight-thirty.
Without her, the day seemed endless. Martha Johnson, who got his meals and tidied the house, was in her forties; her fiance had been killed in Korea, and she spent her time nursing, working in the library, and doing all the thankless tasks of a small community. Today, she seemed as glad of Anson's silence as he was of hers. He read, wrote a little in the journal he had started two years ago, and stayed indoors, for it was cold and wet. He was reluctant to go to bed, for Christina had said she might be back, and it was late when he sent Martha up to the guest room and lay down on the study couch. Finally he gave up all thought of sleeping and lay listening to the rain and wondering about Christina. The car's brakes were old-she might have had an accident. But in that case she would have telephoned. He slept at last, heavily, woke to a bright day, feeling tired and listless. And then the Collier girl telephoned.
In the beginning, it had seemed like a perfectly innocent call. She simply wanted to tell Christina she was sorry not to have been able to help her at the church fair the week before.
Christina was away? When did he expect her back? Today, Anson said.
"How exciting! She doesn't get away often, does she? Where did she go?"
"To Boston."
He thought the girl caught her breath, but perhaps he was mistaken. "Really? How amusing! My husband went to Boston yesterday, too. You don't suppose they went together by any chance?"
"No, I don't," Anson said stiffly. "My wife went on family business."
"Oh. Did she drive, or take the train?"
"I believe she drove to Deanebury." He checked himself; there was no reason why he should explain Chris to this girl. "Excuse me, but you seem very much interested in my wife's actions."
"Yes," Leona Collier said coolly, "I am. You see, I know that she and my husband left Windover together yesterday."
The pulses were pounding in his temples as if he had just made a tremendous physical effort. But when he spoke, his voice was as cold as hers. "You are entirely mistaken. Good-bye."
It was the first time in his life that he had ever hung up on anyone, but he couldn't be ashamed of his rudeness. He put a hand to his forehead, and was surprised to find it wet. After a time he got up, groped his way to the couch, and lay down, while the voice that was his own echoed again and again: I ought to have known she was with him. I did know....
His mind felt almost as numb as his muscles, but slowly, painfully, he forced it back over the past weeks to the night when he had first felt that new stab of jealousy-the night of the Colliers' housewarming, nearly two months ago. Had Christina been seeing Dan in those weeks? She had told Anson once that she had run into him somewhere-was it in the village?-and Anson had surprised himself by saying, "Why don't you ask them to supper, the Colliers, I mean?"
"I will, if you like. But I thought people tired you too much."
He managed to smile at her. "What if they do? You don't want to live in a prison, or a hospital."
She looked at him without speaking. Then she touched his hand quickly, almost shyly. "I want what you want," she said. "You know that."
"Well, then, ask them."
But the Colliers, it seemed, couldn't come, and apparently Christina didn't try again. But one hot Sunday afternoon Anson awoke from a nap to hear a car driving off. When Christina's footsteps sounded in the hall, he called, "Who was that?"
"Dan Collier stopped to see if I wanted to go swimming. I didn't." Her voice was completely frank and natural, but Anson lay tensely, wondering, Did he come alone? How long was he here?
He thought now, as he watched the brilliant slit of sky between the curtains, There must have been something between them that summer-something terribly real, if it could last seven years-if it could come between Dan and his young wife. But was it true? Had Christina really come between Dan and his wife? How could he know, with nothing to go on but the word of a spoiled, angry girl, and his own invalid fantasies?
Whatever the last were, fantasies or facts, they had distressed him more in the past weeks than he could have believed possible. He was nearly helpless physically; even with two canes he could scarcely drag himself around the house. But his bodily suffering was as nothing compared to his inner turmoil. He couldn't remember a time in his life when he hadn't been the master of his emotions; now he seemed to be at their mercy, and he felt ashamed, as if he had yielded to some unknown enemy. He tried all sorts of mental disciplines; he tried to live in memory, as old people do; he read New England history and biography, and he wrote in his journal about happenings of his boyhood. But there was little help in the past; it was gone, and he was glad. As for the future, it seemed more and more unbearable. He forced himself to read scientific books that required all his attention; but no matter how he struggled to concentrate, he always came back to the present-to Christina, for she was his present. Hearing her as she went about the house, he would wonder what she was thinking and feeling. Was she counting every moment until she could see Dan Collier again? Did she meet him when she went to the village? She used to go in the morning; now she seemed to prefer the late afternoon. When Anson remarked on that, she told him that in the mornings the stores were too crowded with summer people.
"At four or five in the afternoon they're playing tennis or swimming or having cocktail parties, and it's much easier to shop. You don't mind my going then, Anson?"
"Of course not," he said. She was standing with her head a little bent, her eyes absent. He thought-or was he imagining?-that the creamy warmth of her skin had paled lately. Certainly there were blue shadows under her eyes. "Chris," he said, "are you-do you feel all right?"
She turned quickly. "Of course. Why?"
"No reason, except that you look rather white."
"You know I never tan. And it's been hot, lately."
"You must get out more. Have the Colliers asked you to go swimming again?"
"Once, in the evening. Don't you remember-they telephoned? But I don't like swimming at night. It frightens me."
That was odd, he thought; he had never known her to be afraid of anything. But what did he know? Lately he had begun to feel sure of nothing. At times he felt such hopelessness of confusion that he wondered if the disease were progressing from the nerves of his spine upward, to his brain. He thought, I can't lose my reason; that will be too much for Chris to bear. I won't. But what if I do? What if I'm losing it now, and don't realize it? And how will it all end-and when?
At such moments of panic he almost wished he had gone to see the famous neurosurgeon in Boston, who, Dr. Loring was convinced, could answer that question. But he knew the answer himself without being told. Christina mustn't know it; that was the thought he clung to throughout the summer nights when he lay, too tense for sleep, and when he knew that she, too, was sleepless. If she knew, and loved Dan Collier, she would be hopelessly torn. Everything in Anson shrank from that picture: Christina nursing him, assuming a solicitude she couldn't possibly feel, and Dan in the background, waiting. He imagined what they would say to each other at their brief, stolen meetings: "How is he today?"
"Just the same," she would answer. And Dan, clenching his hands, "This mustn't go on. I can't bear it for you."
And Anson Barr couldn't bear it for himself. His death was his own affair. No one must intrude on it, not even the woman whom he loved and had married. And if, on the other hand, she weren't in love with Dan, if, as Anson had always believed, she really loved him, she would be too unhappy knowing the truth. The solution was simple: she must never know. He thought, I've kept my own knowledge for months, and I can go on keeping it, even if she and Dan are in love with each other.
Even. She and Dan were together now, if that girl, Dan's wife, was right. She must have left the car in the village and driven to Boston with him. He frowned at the ceiling. It was unlike Christina to go away like this, no matter how she felt. She rarely did things on impulse; she was so calm, so clear-minded, so wonderfully sane. Anson thought, Suppose I've simply built up the whole thing; suppose she really has gone to see her uncle. Perhaps Dan met her in the village, discovered that she was going to Boston, and offered to drive her. Yes, that's possible. But why didn't she tell me, if it was an innocent plan? I could bear anything, if I knew-anything at all.
But the other half of his mind answered: If she came and told you she loved Dan, could you bear it? Isn't that the one thing you'd rather not know?
"Yes." He spoke aloud. "Yes, it's the only thing, because I've faced everything else. But I must face this, too."
He didn't know how long he lay there. The room, the house, the outside world, were wrapped in stillness. He felt the noon sunlight stealing between the drawn shades, and he heard a humming of bees in the late-flowering vine outside the window. It was August; already the grass was dusty and the thick leaves of the elms were changing color. The year was turning; the world was going on. Those trees had stood since long before he was born; they would stand long after he died. What did the death of one man-what did his loves and his griefs, his hopes and sufferings, his desires and dreams-what did they matter? Nature endured, and, as he had always known, nature wouldn't fail him. She would give him strength to die when the time came.
He must have slept, for when he opened his eyes he felt relaxed, even happy. Some weight had been lifted. He felt as if he had traveled a million miles while he slept, beyond jealousy, beyond possessive love, even beyond pain. It was as if he stood on a hilltop....
Footsteps sounded in the hall; it must be Martha Johnson bringing his lunch. For a moment he was annoyed; he didn't want this mood to be broken. Then he felt ashamed, thinking of how good Martha was, and what a deadly life she had, and he turned his head to speak to her.
He couldn't believe his eyes. "Chris! When did you-"
She smiled at him serenely over the laden tray. "Just a few minutes ago. I took Martha home-she said you were asleep-and came back. She'd left lunch ready, except the soup. I'd forgotten to tell her you liked something hot."
She spoke as matter-of-factly as if she had seen him ten minutes before, as if she had never been away. He pulled himself up on the couch, his eyes still on her face. "Chris," he said. "Chris-"
"What's the matter, Anson? Have you been dreaming?"
"Yes," he said slowly. "Perhaps I have."
While he ate his lunch she sat in the little rocking chair that had been his grandmother's. She had changed back into her country clothes; she wore a blue cotton dress, and her slim legs were bare. She said how warm it had grown since the rain, and asked if Martha had taken good care of him. She seemed neither abstracted nor keyed up; she was utterly quiet and natural. But when he finished, instead of taking his tray out to the kitchen, she put it on the old desk and sat down again. "Anson," she said, "I want to tell you something."
It was coming, everything he had feared. Yet, apart from the first involuntary stiffening, he felt no pain. The strange calmness with which he had awakened still held him. "Yes, Chris?"
"I didn't tell you the truth about my trip to Boston. I let you think I was going to see Uncle Magnus, but instead I went to see the surgeon Bill Loring told us about-Dr. Mark Sanderson."
A week ago, no, this very morning, Anson would have been swept with conflicting feelings-anger at her for going against his wishes; relief that she had gone; and perhaps fear. Now he felt only a strange detachment that must, he thought, be very like Christina's own. Or was it? He was silent, looking at his wife as if seeing her for the first time.
She went on: "I've been wanting you to see him. You are worse, you know, and lately I've been so worried that sometimes-well, sometimes I thought I couldn't bear it. But you wouldn't go to Boston and I didn't want to nag you about it. So when I found out that Dan Collier knew Dr. Sanderson's son, and had roomed with him in college, I decided to go myself, to ask him if he would come to see you." She stopped, drew a breath and went on. "I didn't tell you because I was afraid you would be angry. Perhaps you wouldn't have been, but I couldn't risk your refusing to let me go. I had to see him."
"And did you?"
"Yes, yesterday afternoon at five. It was too late to get back, so I stayed with my cousins."
"But Dan Collier drove you over?"
"Yes. How did you know? I suppose someone saw us. I didn't tell you he was driving me, because I know how you hate to have people talk about your affairs. But I can trust Dan not to speak. He promised not to tell anyone I was seeing Dr. Sanderson, not even his wife."
Anson frowned, remembering Leona Collier's telephone call. But he didn't speak; there was no need to bother Chris about that. Let Dan handle his own wife, if he could.
Christina was going on: "I left the car at the garage-it needed some repairs, you know-and Dan drove me all the way. I came back this morning by the first train, the one that reaches Deanebury at half-past twelve, took the bus to Windover, picked up the car, and," she smiled, "here I am."
"You don't look as if you'd been three hundred miles in thirty hours," he said. Nor did she look, he added silently, like a woman who had been away with a man she loved. She looked as rested and refreshed as a child.
"I like traveling by train," she said. "It's such fun to watch people, especially on early trains like that one."
"What happened to Collier?"
"I didn't see him after he took me to Dr. Sanderson's office and introduced me. He said that if he finished his work he would drive back sometime this afternoon. But of course I couldn't wait."
"Didn't you want to?" The words were out before he could check them.
"Stay on in Boston? Oh no. I wanted to get home. I was worried about you. Martha Johnson is a nice lady, but her cooking-" She wrinkled her nose. "From the smell in the kitchen, I could tell that your breakfast coffee was bitter."
"It was," he admitted, smiling. And suddenly, he wanted to do more than smile; he wanted to roar with a tremendous, Jovian mirth. Christina was amazing. She loved early-morning trains; she wanted to get home because she was afraid his breakfast coffee had been bitter. He thought, Does a woman talk that way to her husband when she's in love with another man-I'm damned if I know. And I'm damned if I'll ever know Christina, even if I live to be ninety. But I don't ask to. All I ask is to love her.
She was looking at him with her faint, questioning smile. "You must feel better," she said. "Your sleep did you good." Then her face changed. "Anson, will you let him come?"
"The surgeon?" He sobered. "I don't know. What is he like? Did he agree to come here?"
"Yes. Of course, he would rather see you in Boston, in the hospital, but there are some tests he can make here. I'm supposed to telephone him if you want to see him. He has a vacation soon, and he can drive up here." She added, seriously, "He's a wonderful man, Anson. Small and gray and quiet, not at all like a great doctor. He seemed almost shy of me. But he listened to everything I told him, and he promised to come, if you'll let him. Will you?"
Their eyes met. And under her calm gravity, he saw a look he had never seen in Christina's eyes before, a flash of fear, almost of desperation. It was as if she were saying: "I can't bear this alone, Anson. You must help me."
He answered that silent plea. "Yes, Chris. Tell the doctor to come whenever he can-whenever you like."