"Courage," said Ethel, "is about the only useful trait. The best we can do is hang onto our nerves and try to understand.
What good is it to understand, thought Mr. Gibson, if we are doomed anyhow? "Then all our pretty intellectual toys . . ." he said, seeing the words he had lived by go sliding into limbo.
" 'Toys' is good," said Ethel appreciatively. "Enjoy your poetry while you may. Ken. When or if anyone survives," she shrugged, "be sure there won't be much time for poetry. Now, it hasn't fallen yet," she nodded as if to reassure them, "and I'd like to live out my allotted time just as you would. We have a built-in wish to survive that operates, this side of catastrophe." She smiled. "So let us hope," she said.
"You have no children," said Rosemary in a low voice.
"Neither have you, and let us thank God," said Ethel.
But Mr. Gibson thought, It is true. We are doomed. And the doom is in the iceberg, ' the undersea part of it. None of us have ever known why we do what we do. We only have the illusion of knowing, the illusion of choice. We are really at the mercy of dark things, unknown propulsions. We are blind dupes. That's what Ethel means by reality. Oh yes, and it is true. Mrs. Violette had to break the vase. Paul must marry someone. Rosemary must fall in love with Paul. And I made a fool of myself. But I had to. It wasn't my fault. My choices were all made by the genes I got from my mother. Ethel took more from Pa and so is different . . . but she is clearheaded, she at least can see.
My whole life has been an illusion. Everyone's life is an illusion. We are at the mercy of what's unknown and cannot be known either. One day we will blow it all up, knock the earth off its orbit, possibly, as surely as Rosemary will go to Paul, as I will send her. . . .
He sunk his head upon his breast, Paul, who was a widower, a chemist, a Catholic . . . Paul was doomed, too. Doomed to be happy and make Rosemary happy, for a little while, before the world blew up.
While he, Kenneth Gibson, woulci live with his sister and grow older . . . limp out fifteen or twenty years. Not so!
There was one rebellious act he could think of. Just
I
one. He received a tremendous heartening lift of his spirits. A little spunk—he could escape.
And he could remember the number on the bottle.
He slept a little toward morning. When he woke he knew this was the day. He would be alone.
Chapter XII
THE MORNING was bustlc. Rosemary, neat and excited, J- in the navy frock with the white, went first away.
Mr. Gibson followed her to the door. He was wearing his robe of small-figured silk, and in it, he felt the same small neat and decent man he had ever been. He did not know how white and ill he looked.
"Goodbye," she said. "Oh, please, Kenneth, take care . . . ! You worry me. I almost wish . . ."
"No, no, you must not worry." His eyes devoured her. "Goodbye, Rosemary. You must remember . . . this was what I wanted for you."
"To see me well? she asked, "and able? Is that what you mean?"
He didn't answer. He was looking at her face very carefully, since it would be the last time he would see it. He was so very fond of her. She was his, in a way.
"Is that all?" she said suddenly.
Mr. Gibson tried to remember what he had just said. "By no means," he answered steadily. "I want you to be happy, too." He smiled.
"Yes, well . . . I . . ." Her eyes fled and came back. "What can I do to make you happier?" she cried. "I'm so—I love you, Kenneth. You know that, don't you?"
It was odd that in this last moment they seemed closer, as he recognized her old familiar passion of gratitude. "I know," he told her gently, "dear girl. I am as happy as I can be," he said with reassuring accents.
Rosemary shook herself and jerked away. He watched her, so straight, so lithe, so healthy—so youthful—down the drive.
Paul Townsend was on the porch sniffing the mom-
ing. He waved, but Rosemary didn't see him there. Mr. Gibson was just as glad.
Her loyal nature would doom her to endure.
Ethel went next. "Ken, when you walk to market, pick up a head of lettuce, too? There's a good man."
"I will," he promised.
"And pay Mrs. Violette off . . ."
''Yes."
"And I'll be back, four-ish ..."
''Yes, Ethel. Goodbye, dear. Good luck. You have been--perfectly fine."
"Pish tush," said Ethel. "Of course. Well, I'm off."
Mr. Gibson closed the door.
He went into the living room and sat down. Mrs. Violette was ironing. He would not, of course, kill himself i until she had gone.
He was a fastidious and thoughtful man. (He could not help it.) There would be no mess about this. Nothing distressing for anyone to clean up. Nothing horrible. He . knew where he would go and what he would take. It was quick and surely neat. He would be found lying in full decorum on his bed, in all peace. They would think, for a while, that he slept. The shock would thus be graduated and as gentle as he could make it.
But he must leave a letter. The letter must be just so. It must set everything as free as could be.
His blood felt cold. He must try not to be sentimental. This was a choice he was making, icy and clear. He didn't fear the dying. He tried to look beyond.
He had no insurance to be affected by a suicide. Rosemary would have his few bonds, his bank account. Yes, a letter to that effect, too. She'd be all right. Paul would stand by. (She would be free.) Ethel of course was self-sufficient. Ethel would help Rosemary to understand— what he chose they should understand. There was absolutely nothing to worry about.
Except the bomb which would blow up their world one day, but this he could not help.
Everyone's doom was his own.
Mr. Gibson sat in a dream.
At twelve o'clock he was dressed and ready to go downtown, and Mrs. Violette was finished. So he paid her. "Mr. Gibson, could I have this old string?" she asked him, and showed him what she had fished from the kitchen wastebasket.
"Of course,", he said. "Do you need any more?" "I got a lot of stuff to tie up," she admitted. "We're going to take 'most everything in the back of the truck "
"How about this?" He gave her a ball of mustard-colored twine.
"That's Miss Gibson's." Mrs. Violette's small but ripe-lipped mouth made a hiss of the appellation.
"Well?" he bridled. "Surely I may present you with a bit of string."
Mrs. Violette said, "I don't like to take her stuff. Never mind, anyhow. I got to go to the bank and I can pick some up . . ."
"Take it," he said urgently. "I'd like you to take this."
"Well, then . . ." Mrs. Violette seemed to understand his need. She began to wind twine upon her spread fingers.
"No, take it all," he said. "Please do."
"I don't like to take more than I'll use."
"I know that," he told her. This was, he fancied, a rather silly, very trivial rebellion. He just wanted something to be as it used to be. He wanted to feel—generous. (Or ... for all he knew, he wanted, in some ridiculous revenge, to do his sister Ethel out of the price of a ball of twine.)
Mrs. Violette took the whole ball. "I'm sorry to leave you and Mrs. Gibson," said she.
"I'm sorry if my sister has upset you," he said tiredly
"Me and Joe are going up to the mountains," said Mrs. Violette. He perceived that this was an answer. "And I got to be ready by five o'clock . . ." She stopped speaking and looked at him. He had the strange conviction that she knew what he proposed to do.
"That's all right," he said soothingly.
Mrs. Violette's face lit in a rare smile. "Well, then, goodbye," she said. "They say that means 'God be with you.' "
"Goodbye," said Mr. Gibson rather fondly.
She went out the kitchen door with the ball of twine in her pocket. Now he was all alone.
At 12:10 o'clock he left the cottage and walked . . . doing quite well without his cane, although he lurched when he came down upon the shortened leg and could not help it . . . went two blocks west, crossed the boulevard