The children didn’t despise him yet, but they would soon, of course. Everybody did. And Eva never lost a chance to bring home to them with silent bitterness the fact of their father’s utter worthlessness. Not that he blamed her, poor ambitious Eva, caught so young by the senses, and rewarded by such a blank as he!
And what a glorious thing for Eva—freedom from the dead weight of an unsuccessful husband whom she had to pretend to put up with. An easier life for Eva all around. She would sell the house—Eva would probably get more than five thousand dollars for it!—and with that and the insurance money would move back to her parents’ big empty village home in Brandville as the lonely old people had so many times begged her to do. People lived for next to nothing in those country towns; and as a widow she could accept the proffered help from her prosperous store-keeping father which her pride had always made her refuse as a wife.
That’s what it would be for his family; and for himself—Good God! an escape out of hell. Not only had he long ago given up any hope of getting out of life what he wanted for himself—an opportunity for growth of the only sort he felt himself meant for, but he had long ago seen that he was incapable of giving to Eva and the children anything that anybody in the world would consider worth having. The only thing he was supposed to give them was money, and he couldn’t make that.
The words sang themselves in his head to a loud triumphant chant:
“For haply it may be
That when thy feet return. …”
He was brought up short by a sudden practical obstacle, looming black and foreboding before his impracticality, as life had always loomed before him. How could he manage it? His insurance policy was void in case of suicide, wasn’t it? He would have to contrive somehow to make it look like an accident. He was seared to the bone by the possibility that he might not be able to accomplish even that much against the shrewd business sense of the world which had always defeated him in everything else.
At the idea he burst into strange, loud laughter, the mad sound of which so startled even his own ears that he stopped short, stricken silent, looking apprehensively about him.
But there was nobody in sight, except far at the end of the street, three small figures which seemed to be running towards him and waving their arms. He looked at them stupidly for a moment before he recognized them. His own children! Oh, yes, of course, this was Thursday afternoon, Ladies’ Guild day, one of those precious Thursday hours that were different from all the others in the week. The children often got Stephen’s wraps on and brought him out to meet their father, to “start visiting” that much sooner.
They were nearer now, running, Stephen bouncing between them, holding tightly to their hands. They were all smiling at him with shining welcoming eyes. He heard the sweet shrillness of their twittering voices as they called to him.
The tears rushed to his eyes. They loved him. By God, they loved him, his children did! Yes, perhaps even Stephen a little. And he loved them! He had for them a treasure-store of love beyond imagination’s utmost reach! It was hard to leave them.
But so the world willed it. A father who had only love and no money—the sooner he was out of the way the better. He had had that unquestioned axiom ground into every bleeding fiber of his heart.
“Oh, Father, Stevie got on his own coat and buttoned every. …”
“Yubbers mineself too,” bragged Stephen breathlessly.
“Teacher says the first half of my play. …”
They had come up to him now, clambering up and down him, clawing lovingly at him, all talking at once. What good times they had together Thursday afternoons!
“Father, how does the ‘Walrus and the Carpenter’ go after ‘It seems a shame, the Walrus said’? Henry and I told Stevie that far, but we can’t remember any. …”
Lester Knapp swung Stephen up to his shoulder and took Henry and Helen by the hand.
“It seems a shame, the Walrus said,” he began in the deep, mock-heroic voice they all adored,
“To play them such a trick
After we’ve brought them out so far
And made them trot so quick.”
“Oh, yes,” cried the older children. “Now we know!” And as they swung along together, they all intoned delightedly,
“The Carpenter said nothing but
‘The butter’s spread too thick!’ ”
VI
Mrs. Anderson never forgot a detail of what happened that afternoon, and she soon became letter-perfect in her often-repeated statement of the essential facts. She told and retold her story word for word like a recitation learned by heart, without alteration; except as she allowed herself from time to time to stress a little more heavily her own importance as the only witness who had seen everything, to insist yet more vehemently on her absolute freedom from responsibility for the catastrophe.
“It was icy that afternoon, you know how it had thawed in the morning and then turned cold, and I was real nervous about slipping. I’m not so steady on my feet as I was fifty years ago and when I saw Mrs. Knapp putting on her things to leave the Guild meeting I said to her, ‘Mrs. Knapp,’ I said, ‘won’t you let me go along with you and take your arm over the icy places? I’m real nervous about slipping,’ I said. And she said, ‘Yes, of course,’ and we started out and I felt so relieved to have her to hold to. She’s the kind you couldn’t
