“No. Aside from the ethics of the matter, I’m afraid it isn’t practicable. The prosecutor would tear your testimony to pieces. It’s known that only Riesling and his wife were there at the time.”
“Then, look here! Let me go on the stand and swear—and this would be the God’s truth—that she pestered him till he kind of went crazy.”
“No. Sorry. Riesling absolutely refuses to have any testimony reflecting on his wife. He insists on pleading guilty.”
“Then let me get up and testify something—whatever you say. Let me do something!”
“I’m sorry, Babbitt, but the best thing you can do—I hate to say it, but you could help us most by keeping strictly out of it.”
Babbitt, revolving his hat like a defaulting poor tenant, winced so visibly that Maxwell condescended:
“I don’t like to hurt your feelings, but you see we both want to do our best for Riesling, and we mustn’t consider any other factor. The trouble with you, Babbitt, is that you’re one of these fellows who talk too readily. You like to hear your own voice. If there were anything for which I could put you in the witness-box, you’d get going and give the whole show away. Sorry. Now I must look over some papers—So sorry.”
II
He spent most of the next morning nerving himself to face the garrulous world of the Athletic Club. They would talk about Paul; they would be lip-licking and rotten. But at the Roughnecks’ Table they did not mention Paul. They spoke with zeal of the coming baseball season. He loved them as he never had before.
III
He had, doubtless from some storybook, pictured Paul’s trial as a long struggle, with bitter arguments, a taut crowd, and sudden and overwhelming new testimony. Actually, the trial occupied less than fifteen minutes, largely filled with the evidence of doctors that Zilla would recover and that Paul must have been temporarily insane. Next day Paul was sentenced to three years in the State Penitentiary and taken off—quite undramatically, not handcuffed, merely plodding in a tired way beside a cheerful deputy sheriff—and after saying goodbye to him at the station Babbitt returned to his office to realize that he faced a world which, without Paul, was meaningless.
Chapter XXIII
I
He was busy, from March to June. He kept himself from the bewilderment of thinking. His wife and the neighbors were generous. Every evening he played bridge or attended the movies, and the days were blank of face and silent.
In June, Mrs. Babbitt and Tinka went East, to stay with relatives, and Babbitt was free to do—he was not quite sure what.
All day long after their departure he thought of the emancipated house in which he could, if he desired, go mad and curse the gods without having to keep up a husbandly front. He considered, “I could have a reg’lar party tonight; stay out till two and not do any explaining afterwards. Cheers!” He telephoned to Virgil Gunch, to Eddie Swanson. Both of them were engaged for the evening, and suddenly he was bored by having to take so much trouble to be riotous.
He was silent at dinner, unusually kindly to Ted and Verona, hesitating but not disapproving when Verona stated her opinion of Kenneth Escott’s opinion of Dr. John Jennison Drew’s opinion of the opinions of the evolutionists. Ted was working in a garage through the summer vacation, and he related his daily triumphs: how he had found a cracked ball-race, what he had said to the Old Grouch, what he had said to the foreman about the future of wireless telephony.
Ted and Verona went to a dance after dinner. Even the maid was out. Rarely had Babbitt been alone in the house for an entire evening. He was restless. He vaguely wanted something more diverting than the newspaper comic strips to read. He ambled up to Verona’s room, sat on her maidenly blue and white bed, humming and grunting in a solid-citizen manner as he examined her books: Conrad’s “Rescue,” a volume strangely named “Figures of Earth,” poetry (quite irregular poetry, Babbitt thought) by Vachel Lindsay, and essays by H. L. Mencken—highly improper essays, making fun of the church and all the decencies. He liked none of the books. In them he felt a spirit of rebellion against niceness and solid-citizenship. These authors—and he supposed they were famous ones, too—did not seem to care about telling a good story which would enable a fellow to forget his troubles. He sighed. He noted a book, “The Three Black Pennies,” by Joseph Hergesheimer. Ah, that was something like it! It would be an adventure story, maybe about counterfeiting—detectives sneaking up on the old house at night. He tucked the book under his arm, he clumped downstairs and solemnly began to read, under the piano-lamp:
“A twilight like blue dust sifted into the shallow fold of the thickly wooded hills. It was early October, but a crisping frost had already stamped the maple trees with gold, the Spanish oaks were hung with patches of wine red, the sumach was brilliant in the darkening underbrush. A pattern of wild geese, flying low and unconcerned above the hills, wavered against the serene ashen evening. Howat Penny, standing in the comparative clearing of a road, decided that the shifting regular flight would not come close enough for a shot. … He had no intention of hunting the geese. With the drooping of day his keenness had evaporated; an habitual indifference strengthened, permeating him. …”
There it was again: discontent with the good common ways. Babbitt laid down the book and listened to the stillness. The inner doors of the house were open. He heard from the kitchen the steady drip of the refrigerator, a rhythm demanding and disquieting. He roamed to the window.
