XXIII
At the end of a long, warm summer day Helen lay in a hammock swung between two apricot-trees. From time to time, with a light push of a slippered foot on the grass, she set the hammock swaying, and above her head the pale, translucent leaves and ruddy fruit shifted into new patterns against a steel-gray sky.
The mysterious, eerie hush of twilight was upon her spirit. Murmuring voices came vaguely through it; across the street two women were sitting on the porch of a bungalow, and on its lawn a little girl played with a dog. The colors of their dresses, of the dog’s tawny fur, of geraniums against brown shingles, were sharp and vivid in the cold light.
“Mother seems to be staying quite a while at Mrs. Chester’s,” said Paul. He moved slightly in the wicker chair, dislodging the ashes from his cigar with a tap of his finger, and she felt his caressing eyes upon her. She did not turn her head, saying nothing, holding to the quietness within her as one clings to a happy dream when something threatens sleep. A puff of smoke drifted between her and the leaves.
“It is pleasant outdoors, this time of day,” he persisted after a moment. Her low murmur, hardly audible, left him unsatisfied.
“Well, did you have a good time this afternoon?” His voice was brisker now, full of affectionate interest. She felt his demand for her response as if he had been tugging at her with his hands.
“Pretty good. Oh, yes, a very good time.”
“What did you do?” She might have said, “Please let me alone. Let’s be quiet.” But Paul would be worried, hurt; he would not understand; he would ask questions. She turned a bright face to him.
“Oh, your mother and I went down town, and then we came home, and Mrs. Lamson came in.”
“She’s a fine little woman, Mrs. Lamson.”
“Yes? Oh, I suppose so. I don’t care much for her.”
“You will. You’ll like her when you know her better.” The definiteness of his tone left her no reply. She felt that it was proper to like Mrs. Lamson, that he expected her to like Mrs. Lamson, that she must like Mrs. Lamson. A flash of foolish, little-girl anger rose in her; she would have liked to stamp her foot and howl that she would not like Mrs. Lamson. The absurdity of it made her smile.
“What are you smiling at, dear?”
She sat up, setting the hammock swinging.
“Oh, I don’t know. Let’s go somewhere,” she said restlessly. “Let’s take a long walk.”
“All right.” He was eager to please her. “I’ll tell you something better than that. I’ll get the car, and we’ll ride down to Merced and get a sundae. Run put on your coat. You’ll need it, with that thin dress.”
His pride in the new car was deep and boyish. It was quite the most costly, luxurious car in town; it was at once the symbol of his commanding place in the community, and a toy to be endlessly examined and discussed. She would not think of telling him that at the moment she would rather walk than ride in it. Like an obedient child she went for her coat.
The house was dim and quiet. She closed the door of her room behind her with a little quick gesture, and stood for a moment with her back against it. She thought that it would be pleasant to stay there. Then she thought of a long, silent walk under the stars, all alone, quiet, in the darkness. Then she realized quite clearly that she did not like Mrs. Lamson, and she thought of the reasons why that amiable, empty-headed little woman bored her. At that moment the automobile-horn squawked. Paul was waiting. Hastily she seized her coat and ran out to the curb.
When the purring machine turned into the brilliantly lighted business district and the arched sign, “Welcome to Ripley,” twinkled upon them, tawdry against the pale sky, she felt that she could not bear to go to Merced. “Let’s just run up the boulevard, where it’s cool and quiet, away from people,” she said coaxingly.
“Well, if you want to.” The car ran smoothly up the long gray highway hedged with ragged eucalyptus trees. Between their gaunt trunks she caught glimpses of level alfalfa fields, and whiffs of sun-warmed perfume swept across her face with the rushing air. In the brimming irrigation canals, shimmering like silver mirrors across the green fields, bright-colored caps bobbed and white arms splashed. Beside her Paul talked with enthusiasm of the car.
“Isn’t she a beauty? She’d make eighty miles easy if I wanted to let her out. And see how flexible! Watch, now.”
“Yes, dear. Wonderful!” She was not accustomed to being with people all day, that was the trouble. Those hours of making conversation with women who did not interest her seemed to have drained her of some vital force. When she had her own house she could be alone as much as she liked. Poor boy, he had been working all day; of course he wanted her companionship now. “You must let me take it out some day soon, will you?”
“Why, it’s a pretty big car, Helen. I’d rather you’d let me drive it.”
She laughed.
“All right, piggy-wig, keep your old car! Some day I’ll get a little Blix roadster and show you how I drive!”
She was astonished at the shadow that crossed his face. His smile was a bit forced.
“I only meant it would be pretty heavy for a woman to handle. Of course you can drive it if you want to.”
They ran past the gateway of Ripley Farmland Acres, and
