Читать книгу Jericho's Daughters - Paul Iselin Wellman - Страница 28

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Driving his car up Tower Hill, Wistart was still thinking of Grey. She was the finest thing his life had ever known, the only love he ever had experienced, the only understanding, the only entirely unselfish friendship, and he had told her so many times. Losing her, when she told him it was over, had been to lose the only true happiness in his life. It was the more wonderful, therefore, that she had relented to him. He wanted her, her kindness, her sympathy, her sweet self, and he was almost happy when he thought of her.

But the warmth left him when he turned his car into the circular drive before his white-pillared colonial home: it was replaced by cold like a stone.

Cold ... the thought focused itself in dull resentment, directed at no one in particular, but rather at the bitter day. Why did Jericho have to present itself in an aspect so hostile just when Mary Agnes came home? The weather had been deceptively pleasant, for a Kansas winter, then turned treacherously frigid overnight, and today, though it was noon, the thermometer was still down near zero, with a cutting wind and a flurry of snow. He knew Mary Agnes would hold him responsible, not actually for the weather itself, but for bringing her back from California just at this time.

Unfortunate, most unfortunate. She was difficult enough ordinarily, and he had hoped after three months’ vacation she would be in a humor comparatively good. He looked for no love or even friendship from Mary Agnes. But he had a business problem to discuss with her, a problem of gravest importance, and she held the key to it.

He left the car in the driveway and went up the steps of the veranda. Beside the front door hung a thermometer, which he consulted before entering. Suey, the butler, came into the hall to help him out of his coat and take his hat. Suey was tall and thin, with a kindly wrinkled black face and the courtly manners of a veteran of the Pullman service.

“Is—ah—is Mrs. Wedge down yet?” asked Wistart.

“No, suh,” said Suey. “But I understan’ she has arisen. She ordered her lunch served in the library.”

In Wistart’s hands was the package from Grey Rutledge’s, but he hesitated a moment. “Cold today, Suey.”

“Yes, suh.” Ordinarily Suey would have grinned and made some sally about the weather. But today he did not relax. From this Wistart argued that matters were not progressing smoothly in the household. Perhaps Mary Agnes was in one of her tempers.

He cleared his throat. “Six above zero by the thermometer outside.”

“Yes, suh.”

No point in pursuing this. Wistart went from the hall into the living room, rich with its subdued beauty of costly furniture, hangings, and objects of art. He did not pause there. Instead, he crossed the thickly carpeted floor toward the far end, where the library opened. Before him, rather in the manner of a votive offering being borne to appease an angry goddess, he held his package with its smart gold and brown wrappings and fluffy gold ribbons.

A fire was burning in the grate of the library, and the room looked cozy and pleasant with its ceiling-high bookshelves.

His wife, however, was not there.

Wistart glanced about in a manner somewhat indecisive and laid his package on a coffee table. Then he went and stood before the fire, holding out his hands to the warmth of the crackling blaze.