Читать книгу Jericho's Daughters - Paul Iselin Wellman - Страница 31

Table of Contents

❧ It was at this moment, when the lady’s spirits were at a stage of unhappy depression, that she descended the stairs and found her husband in the library, his backside to the grate, his expression as he glanced up at her half questioning, half defensive.

“Hello,” he said.

“Back already?” She was indifferent.

“I came home early.”

“Have you had your lunch?”

“No, I thought I’d take a bite with you.” He gave a feeble grin.

Without speaking or changing her expression Mary Agnes reached for a pull cord by the wall. Then she seated herself near the oriel window, her elbows on the arms of her chair, her chin leaning on both hands, gazing out at the bleak day with a look of loveless displeasure. In the room silence reigned, broken only by an occasional crackle from the fireplace.

After a time Wistart said, “Honey—I brought you something.”

He offered the votive gift in its brown and gold wrappings.

The goddess accepted it without any enthusiasm and laid it once more on the coffee table without opening it or giving it more than a glance.

A colored girl in white apron and cap appeared at the doorway.

“You rang, ma’am?” she asked.

“Yes, Clara,” said Mary Agnes. “You may serve luncheon here for both Mr. Wedge and myself.”

“Yes’m,” said Clara.

She disappeared rather like a rabbit bolting into its hole. The servants, when their mistress was in one of her moods, spent as little time as possible in her presence.

Wistart gazed at his wife somewhat aghast. “Aren’t you going to open your package?” he asked.

Mary Agnes viewed the brown and gold parcel as if with disfavor. Then she said, “From Grey Rutledge’s?”

He nodded. “I thought buying for you at Cox’s was a little like carrying coals to Newcastle.”

The poor fellow was full of such clichés, but it was not worth Mary Agnes’ effort just at this moment to wither him.

“I thought I recognized the wrapping,” she said.

She spent some time opening the package, working at the ribbons as women do, pulling them around the corners rather than breaking them, as if the ribbons were perhaps more precious than the contents they held. At last the wrappings were off, and the smart little handbag revealed in its nest of soft white tissue, to be lifted and inspected.

“Grey Rutledge always has good taste,” Mary Agnes said listlessly.

Wistart took this as a form of thanks; and was grateful.

Clara, the maid, entered with a silver tray, on which were sandwiches, fruit, and a silver coffeepot with cups, which she set on the low table. Mary Agnes poured coffee, and for a time she and Wistart sat silent, consuming their sandwiches and sipping the hot liquid.

Presently she put down her coffee cup and returned her gaze drearily to the out-of-doors.

Feeling that her expression of bored disfavor was an arraignment of him, Wistart did not break her silence. He heard the grandfather clock in the living room chime. Half after twelve. For lack of anything better to do, he consulted his wrist watch. He had set it by the electric clock at the office, and he found that the grandfather clock was exactly on time. Good old clock. Dependable. One of the few things he could depend on these days.

Still Mary Agnes said nothing. Whatever small appetite he had departed. He put what was left of his sandwich on the small plate and sipped his coffee. Then he stopped even sipping his coffee.