Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (129 page)

"The
aunt?"

"Oh,
dear,
no!"
He
said
it
rather
hastily.
"But
you
were
quite
right at
the
time.
I
ought
to
have
gone
out
there
ten
years
ago.
Women never
know
how
to
manage
money."

I
looked
him
in
the
eyes.
"Lithway,
anything
in
the
world
is
better than
staying
in
this
house.
You're
in
a
bad
way.
You
admit,
yourself, you're
not
well.
And
Mrs.
Lithway
would
rather
cut
out
the
motor and
live
anywhere
than
have
you
go
to
pieces."

He
laughed.
"Tell
Margaret
that
I'm
going
to
pieces—if
you
dare!"

"I'm
not
afraid
of
you,
even
if
I
should."

"No;
but
wouldn't
you
be
afraid
of
her?"

I
thought
of
the
utter
youth
of
Mrs.
Lithway;
the
little
white
teeth that
showed
so
childishly
when
she
laughed;
her
small
white
hands that
had
seemed
so
weighed
down
with
a
heavy
piece
of
embroidery;

her
tiny
feet
that
slipped
along
the
polished
floors—a
girl
that
you could
pick
up
and
throw
out
of
the
window. "Certainly
not.
Would
you?"

"I
should
think
so!"
He
smiled.
"We've
been
very
happy
here.
I don't
think
she
would
like
to
move.
I
shan't
suggest
it
to
her.
And mind"—he
turned
to
me
rather
sharply—"don't
you
hint
to
her
that the
house
is
the
uncanny
thing
you
and
that
fool
Wender
seem
to think
it
is."

I
saw
that
there
was
no
going
ahead
on
that
tack.
Beyond
a
certain point,
you
can't
interfere
with
mature
human
beings.
But
certainly Lithway
looked
ill;
and
if
he
admitted
ill
health,
there
must
be something
in
it.
It
was
extraordinary
that
Mrs.
Lithway
saw
nothing. I
was
almost
sorry—in
spite
of
the
remembered
radiance
of
the
vision on
the
porch—that
Lithway
had
chosen
to
fall
in
love
with
a
young fool.
I
rose.

"Love
must
be
blind,
if
your
wife
doesn't
see
you're
pulled
down."

"Oh,
love—it's
the
blindest
thing
going,
thank
God!"
He
was silent
for
a
moment.
"There
are
a
great
many
things
I
can't
explain," he
said.
"But
you
can
be
sure
that
everything's
all
right."

I
was
quite
sure,
though
I
couldn't
wholly
have
told
why,
that everything
was
at
least
moderately
wrong.
But
I
decided
to
say nothing
more
that
night.
I
went
to
bed.

Lithway
was
ill;
only
so
could
I
account
for
his
nervousness,
which sometimes,
in
the
next
days,
mounted
to
irritability.
He
was
never irritable
with
his
wife;
when
the
tenser
moods
were
on,
he
simply ceased
to
address
her,
and
turned
his
attention
to
me.
We
motored a
good
deal;
that
seemed
to
agree
with
him.
But
one
morning he
failed
to
appear
at
breakfast,
and
Mrs.
Lithway
seemed
surprised that
I
had
heard
nothing
during
the
night.
He
had
had
an
attack
of acute
pain—the
doctor
had
been
sent
for.
There
had
been
telephoning,
running
to
and
fro,
and
talk
in
the
corridors
that
no
one had
thought
of
keying
down
on
my
account.
I
was
a
little
ashamed of
not
having
awaked,
and
more
than
a
little
cross
at
not
having been
called.
She
assured
me
that
i
could
have
done
nothing,
and apologized
as
prettily
as
possible
for
having
to
leave
me
to
myself during
the
day.
Lithway
was
suffering
less,
but,
of
course,
she
would be
at
his
bedside.
Naturally,
I
made
no
objections
to
her
wifely solicitude.
I
was
allowed
to
see
Lithway
for
a
few
minutes;
but
the pain
was
severe,
and
I
cut
my
conversation
short.
The
doctor
suspected
the
necessity
for
an
operation,
and
they
sent
to
New
York for
a
consulting
specialist.
I
determined
to
wait
until
they
should have
reached
their
gruesome
decision,
on
the
off
chance
that
I
might, in
the
event
of
his
being
moved,
be
of
service
to
Mrs.
Lithway.
In spite
of
her
calm
and
sweetness,
and
the
perfect
working
of
the
household
mechanism—no
flurry,
no
fright,
no
delays
or
hitches—I
thought her,
still,
a
young
fool.
Any
woman,
of
any
age,
was
a
fool
if
she
had not
seen
Lithway
withering
under
her
very
eyes.