Bedelia (14 page)

She did not immediately answer. Three seconds later Charlie felt her warm moist lips against his cheek. She smiled up at him, telling her husband with the kiss and the smile that she wished to forget her horrid nightmares. Her arm linked in his, her soft weight against him, she begged, “Please don't be angry. I'll die if you turn against me.”

“Why do you always say that, Bedelia? No one's turned against you.”

“People talk behind my back. You don't know. They're trying to turn you against me.”

“That's absurd. What people? Besides, nothing could turn me against you. You're my wife and I love you dearly. But I can't help being hurt and upset when you tell me lies.”

She changed the subject. “Look at the river, how black it looks against the snow. Doesn't it ever freeze?”

“Not here. It's moving all the time. Down near the mill the ice must be solid now. When you're over your cold, I'll teach you to skate.”

“How soon will the snow melt?”

“Not for weeks unless we get an early thaw.”

“Shall we be snowbound all that time?”

“No, indeed. They ought to be clearing the road by this time. There must be a lot of snow in town.”

“Perhaps they'll never clear it.”

“If they don't, I'll quit paying my taxes. This road is always cleared. It's a through highway.”

“What about the side roads? Will they be cleared?”

“Not till Nature does the job.”

“Then Ben will be snowed in a long time?”

Charlie nodded. Bedelia made no attempt to hide her pleasure.

She wanted to stay up, but Charlie insisted that she spend another day in bed. He worked as industriously all morning as a cleaning woman at twenty-five cents an hour. Bedelia called to him several times, begging him to spare himself, but he enjoyed the labor. The physical effort kept him from thinking, and by twelve o'clock he felt as rugged and witless as an athlete.

“From now on,” he said as he carried Bedelia's lunch tray into the bedroom, “I'll have no more compassion when women complain about the work of housekeeping. How much pleasanter it is than using your brain.”

Bedelia laughed. She looked very pretty sitting up against the pillows in a pink wool bed sacque. She ate all of her lunch and thanked Charlie extravagantly for being so very good to her. He had carried wood upstairs and made a fire in the bedroom.

“You're so good, darling. You're much too fine for any woman. I didn't think a man could be so good.”

“You sound as if you hadn't much faith in men.”

“Men are rotten!”

“My dear child, that sounds very bitter.”

“You don't know, Charlie. There aren't many men like you in the world. Men are awful. When they made you, they destroyed the mold.”

“You've been unfortunate. You've met a few bad men and you judge the whole sex by them. Most men are pretty decent.”

“No! No! You don't know. They're rotten! Beasts!”

Charlie was shocked by her bitterness. He remembered certain stories she had told him, and he felt sorry for her because she had suffered when she was very young and had lost faith in human nature. This accounted for her prejudice and a lack of balance in her emotions. Because she was plump and radiant, he had thought of her at first as a healthy woman, but he looked upon her now as an invalid whose health could be restored only by constant love and tenderness. She must learn to trust her husband implicitly, tell him the truth, and purge herself of hatred and bitterness.

Feeling more like a father than a husband, he leaned over the bed and kissed her forehead. Her arms twisted about his neck,
she pulled him toward her convulsively and pressed her lips against his mouth, his chin, his cheeks.

Charlie stayed with her until she fell asleep, her hot hand clasped around his hand. He unlocked her fingers gently, pulled up the covers and left her.

Her lip rouge had left a crescent-shaped scar on his cheek.

He washed the lunch dishes and put them back on the shelves. Then he went into his den and filled his pipe. As he pulled the Morris chair to the window, he decided that he would quit worrying about Bedelia. In time, if he was patient and sympathetic, she would confide in him. It would be better to learn of her sins . . . or her folly . . . through such voluntary confession than by forcing the facts out of her. By seeking evil he was sure to find it a good deal blacker than if he relaxed and learned the truth in a gentler way. The footbar of the Morris chair slid out and Charlie stretched himself in it comfortably, puffing at his pipe with great contentment.

A shadow passed the window.

Charlie sprang up.

The shadow moved past the window and went around the corner of the house to the front door. It was Ben Chaney, who had come down the hill on snowshoes.

The doorbell rang.

“HOW ARE YOU?” Ben asked. He bent over, leaning against the wall to unfasten the snowshoes. He was wearing a city overcoat with velvet lapels, a derby hat, a red woolen scarf, and earmuffs.

“How are you?” said Charlie.

“I've managed to survive. It's hard to believe, isn't it, that we're only sixty miles from Herald Square? I feel like an Eskimo.” He looked up, examining Charlie's face. It showed no expression. “Believe me,” Ben went on, “if I were an Eskimo, the last person I should want in my igloo is Hannah. I've learned the history of every uninteresting inhabitant of this community. Aren't you going to ask me in?”

“Come in.”

Ben's eyes scanned the hall and staircase, and before he followed Charlie into the den, he peered into the living-room. “I tried to phone you, but my wire was disconnected.”

“Ours, too.”

“A damned nuisance. I haven't been able to get word from my friend who's on his way to visit me. The man from St. Paul, you know. I suppose the railroads are all blocked.”

“Probably.”

“To New York certainly, but I'm wondering if he was able to get that far. No doubt he's marooned somewhere, Ithaca or Rochester.” Ben stood over the radiator, rubbing his hands.

“Are you cold?” Charlie said. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Not a bad thought. A slug of c.b. would hit the spot.” He followed Charlie to the dining-room, still rubbing his hands. “What do you think about me as the snowshoe kid?”

Charlie brought out the decanter of cider brandy, set it with a single glass upon the tray and led his guest back to the den. “I had no idea you knew how to use them.”

“Neither did I. I'd given up hope of being rescued and was resigning myself to slow death by boredom when Asa Keeley's boys arrived on snowshoes and brought me these.”

“You've learned quickly.”

“I stumbled about at first, but the kids gave me a few pointers and here I am, no bones broken.” He laughed heartily. The release from his house and Hannah's company had raised his spirits. “To your health, Horst. Aren't you drinking?”

“I don't feel like it,” muttered Charlie, who was in no mood to touch glasses with Ben Chaney.

“Well, your health!” Ben gulped down the cider brandy. “How are you?”

“All right,” Charlie said grudgingly.

“And Bedelia?”

“She's not well.”

“I'm sorry. What's wrong with her?”

“A bad cold and a fever. I think it's la grippe.”

“Too bad. Have you had the doctor?”

“How could he get here?”

Ben laughed. “I'm still the city man, you see. Well, this has been an experience. It's good to see you, Charlie.”

While he had been talking in this inconsequential way, Ben had been looking around. Not an inch of the room had escaped his scrutiny. At one time Charlie had believed this habit of observation to be the sign of an artist's sensitivity to shapes and surfaces, but now he decided that it denoted an undue interest in Bedelia and her surroundings. In spite of his growing aversion to the man, Charlie recognized in Ben's vitality, in his taut darkness, in the distinctive modeling of his face with the thin nose and high cheekbones, qualities which would attract a woman.

Charlie grew angry. He looked at Ben, who had taken the Morris chair for himself and who was stretched out at ease, playing with Charlie's grandfather's ivory paperknife.

“What have you done to my wife? What has made her so miserable?” Charlie demanded.

The question startled Ben. The very shape of his face seemed to change. He caught Charlie's glance and immediately altered his expression. With eyes whose glassiness disguised all feeling, he said, “I've done nothing to your wife.”

“Don't lie to me. I've got to know what this is all about. You've done something or said something that's brought her to the verge of nervous prostration. What was it? If you've insulted her . . .” Charlie's voice dwindled. In spite of the wish to guard himself, he showed tremendous passion. His face had become beet-red, a vein throbbed on his forehead, and he kept clenching and unclenching his fists.

Ben sat back in his chair. He tried to give the appearance of composure, but he was watching Charlie closely and guarding himself at the same time. “Did Bedelia tell you I'd insulted her?”

“I'd take my wife's word, Chaney, before I'd believe you. I know Bedelia's honest with me, so there's no use in your beating around the bush. What happened between you and her the other day?”

Ben did not immediately answer. Charlie felt derision in his silence and thought Ben must be taking time to manufacture some lie with which to soothe the deluded husband. The longer Charlie had to wait, the stronger grew his determination to get a straightforward answer.

“What has your wife told you about me?”

The insolence of the question stunned Charlie. What right had Ben Chaney to demand explanations of him? He, the injured one, the aggrieved husband? But his position was insecure, his righteousness unstable because he had not had the strength to force the truth out of Bedelia. His ignorance left him defenseless. He covered it with bluster. “Damn it, man, you've got no right to question me. Tell me the truth or . . . or I'll beat it out of you.”

Ben raised his eyebrows. “I can't defend myself until I've heard the accusation. Tell me what this is about and I'll answer you truthfully.”

Charlie would rather have fought it out than compromise, but there was nothing to fight. Bedelia had never confessed infidelity and Charlie had discovered nothing compromising in her relations with Ben. On the contrary, she had expressed her fear of him.

“Why is my wife afraid of you? Tell me that honestly,” Charlie challenged.

“Is she afraid of me? I didn't know that. The last time I saw her she was very cordial.” Ben's voice was serene, but his eyes burned brilliantly. He was not as composed as he tried to look.

“What happened the other day that made her try to run off at the height of the storm?”

Ben leaped up. “Tried to run off! When?”

Their positions were reversed. Ben had become the curious, impatient one, Charlie armed with knowledge and the power to tantalize.

“Come, tell me.” Ben made no attempt to hide his eagerness. “She ran off at the height of the storm, you say? After Doctor Meyers and I were here the other afternoon?”

“She says you're against her. What does that mean?”

Ben returned to the Morris chair. For a time he seemed lost in thought. He had picked up the paperknife again and had poised its point against the back of his hand. Finally, avoiding Charlie's face, he said, “To hell with it! I'll have to tell you.”

“Then you have something to confess?”

“Sit down.”

Charlie did not want to sit down, but he could not afford to waste time in argument. He sat at the very edge of the couch and drummed his fingers against the wooden frame.

Ben quit stabbing his hand and used the padded arm of the chair as his target. “It's a long story. I'll begin by telling you about Barrett?”

“Who the devil is Barrett?”

“Keene Barrett, the man from St. Paul. You may remember that I mentioned his name the other day.” Ben studied Charlie's face to see whether his words had any effect.

“Did you? I probably wasn't listening. What's he got to do with you or my wife?”

“Keene Barrett was to have arrived the night you came to my house for dinner, but there was a storm in the Middle West and his train was delayed. He'll be here as soon as the roads are open.”

A silence followed. It was not the comfortable silence that punctuates good talk between friends, but the dismal silence of apprehension.

“What has this Barrett to do with me?” Charlie asked querulously.

Ben had decided upon a way of telling his story and he would not let Charlie's impatience divert him. Leaning back in his chair, dropping the paperknife, he began: