Mr. Gibson had a faint sense of something fading out of his peripheral vision. "For heaven's sakes, Ethel," he sputtered. "Anyone can have an accident!" • "There is no such thing as an accident," said Ethel calmly. "Honestly, Ken, you are ignorant in some fields. Subconsciously she wanted to spite me. She likes to be let entirely alone the way you let her be. But, of course, I am not such an easy mark."
"What on earth are you saying?" said Mr. Gibson in amazement. "Of course, there is such a thing as an accident. She turned to look because you startled her . . . and then her hand . . ."
"Oh no," said Ethel.
"Wait a minute." Mr. Gibson turned to see what might be on Rosemary's face but Rosemary was no longer in the room. She was gone. It was disconcerting.
Mr. Gibson turned back and said severely, "I don't agree with your suspicions, Ethel."
"Suspicions?" sighed Ethel, "or normal precautions? The fact is, old dear," she continued affectionately, "all of us can't live in a romantic, poetical and totally gentle world. Some of us have to face things as they are." Her bright eyes were direct and honest and he feared they were wise. "Face reality," she said.
"What reality?" he snapped.
"Facts," said Ethel. "Malice, resentment, self-interest— the necessities of the ego—all the real driving forces behind what people do. The conscious mind, old dear, is only the peak of the iceberg. You believe so easily in the pretty surfaces . . ."
"I do!"
"Yes, you," said Ethel kindly. "You don't know a tenth of what goes on, Ken. Your head's in the clouds. Always has been. Of course I love you for it. . . . But for every saint with his head in the clouds," sighed Ethel, "I suppose there has to be somebody to take the brunt of things as they really are."
"I see no reason," said Mr. Gibson with stubborn lips, "to mistrust Mrs. Violette."
"You wouldn't see a reason to mistrust anyone," said Ethel indulgently, "until the deed popped up and hit you in your nice fastidious nose. You have always sidestepped the nasty truths of this earth, brother dear. More power to you."
He stared at her.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, and she did look sorry, "I shouldn't say these things . . ."
"Why not?" he cried, "if you believe them."
But Ethel evaded and said, "You are a lot like Mama was, you know? I think you should have been the woman, Ken, and I should have been born the man."
"Tell me," he cried. "What are you saying?"
"You musn't pay any attention. Your world of poetry and quixotic goodness and faith and all the rest is a pretty darned nice place. . . ."
"And your world?" he demanded. "I imagine you call it the real world, he said, goaded to some anger.
Ethel responded to the anger. "Mine?" She looked him in the eye. "It happens to be full of knives-in-the-back and all kinds of human meannesses. It cannot help but be. Men are animals, whether you like it or not."
"And you say," he groped back for something solid with which to challenge her, "That Mrs. Violette broke the blue vase deliberately?"
"Of course, she didn't consciously plan it," said Ethel. ' 'You don't understand. But she did break it to displease me, just the same."
"I don't believe itI' said Mr. Gibson. "Don't then," said Ethel. "Stay as sweet as you are . . . that's in a song, isn't it?" She grinned at him and he knew her teasing was a form of apology. "You are a lamb, Ken, and everybody loves a lamb. I cannot help it if I am no lamb, you know. Now, I haven't upset you, have I?"
He thought he felt as upset as he had ever felt in his life. He scarcely knew why, but he was afraid for Rosemary. So he struggled up, and, using his cane, he limped into the kitchen.
Mrs. Violette was briskly washing the counter. Rosemary was there too, just staring out the window. He thought she looked rather lonely.
"Now, Mrs. Violette," he said, "please understand that I will pay for the vase. It wasn't your fault." Mrs. Violette shrugged and said nothing. Rosemary said in a brisk voice, "Mrs. Violette tells me she has to leave us, Kenneth. She's going away with her husband, next week."
"Is that so?" he said unhappily. "Yeah, we're taking off to the mountains," said Mrs. Violette. "He's going after a new job for the both of us. If we get it, we'll stay on up there."
"On a ranch," said Rosemary. "How nice that will be!" She sounded rather desperately cheerful. "But we'll miss you, Mrs. Violette."
Mrs. Violette made no response. She didn't care whether she'd be missed. She wasn't even angry at Ethel any-more, for all Mr. Gibson could see.
"Ought we to try to get somebody else?" said he across to Rosemary worriedly.
"No," she said. "No. I'm able. Ethel and I can manage beautifully." He couldn't read her eyes af all.
"But if one day," he said, "Ethel were to go and live on her own, then . . ."
"Oh, she musn't do that!" cried Rosemary. "That would be a shame! Your only sister, Kenneth, and so good to come ..." He saw her hands on the round wood of the kitchen chair. The knuckles were blue-white. "Such a fine person," Rosemary said. "So wise and so good."
Mr. Gibson felt alarmed. Something was wrong with Rosemary. She was a stranger and far away and how could he tell what was the matter when she seemed shut up against him . . . when her eyes seemed to search his so . . . could it be? . . . fearfully. Ethel was right, he conceded. There must be a good deal going on that he missed. He felt lost. What anxiety, what stress could there be, to so inhabit Rosemary's eyes? "Yes," he said absently. "Of course she is."
Meanwhile, Mrs. Violette scrubbed vigorously at the sink there in the small room. Ethel came in and said jauntily, "Lunch, dears? I'll start the vegetables."
Out in the yard, Paul Townsend was working near the low stone wall. He was on vacation. School was out; Jeanie was around and about; Mrs. Pyne sat on the porch. There was no privacy.
Chapter X
MR. Gibson retired to the privacy of his own skull where he made plans.
This mysterious distress in Rosemary was intolerable. Therefore, first, he would find out what troubled her. Then, he would see to it that whatever it was troubled her no more. He felt much better, as soon as this course became plain and imperative.
He was determined, however, that he would not seek this information from. Ethel, although, curiously, he was quite sure Ethel would know all about it, for he conceded that Ethel was wise and much more alert than he. But no. He would find out what bothered Rosemary in the simplest
possible way. He would ask her. But he would do it in private.
Very well, then. This very evening he would struggle out of the hypnosis of routine. When Ethel announced bedtime, as she was so often the one to do (and night falling, and no company coming, the world still) he would not let her "tuck him in," which habit she retained although he no longer needed anyone's help in getting to bed. He would tell Ethel to go to bed herself, but he would ask Rosemary to stay. He would say to Ethel, "Ethel, I want to talk to Rosemary alone. Do you mind?"
She couldn't say she minded. Why should she mind? It would be so simple. Even as he told himself these things Mr. Gibson received a preview in his imagination. He saw Ethel's smile . . . the wise indulgent and rather amused expression she would wear, as she would nod, as she would say, "Of coiu-se I don't mind," and he knew he shrank from the prospect.
She would wear the same look that girl in the hospital had worn. Why was it so "cute" or even a little bit funny that he was fond of his wife? Come now, it was ridiculous to be this sensitive. Well, he would act, then. And when they were alone, how could he reach out to Rosemary, and reachieve her confidence?
He hobbled back into the living room after lunch, busy turning in his mind what words he could say, how gentle he would be, but how insistent. This was the hour of his siesta, but today he did not go at once into his study-bedroom to close the blinds and lie quietly upon the bed for the accustomed period. Today, he stood looking out the east window, across the driveways, seeing, but not noticing, Paul Townsend's bare torso bending and moving there at the edge of his back lawn in some gardening activity—to which he passionately devoted his vacation days.