Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (130 page)

It
was
a
dreary
day
during
which
we
waited
for
the
New
York physician;
one
of
those
days
when
sunlight
seems
drearier
than
mist —a
monotonous
and
hostile
glare.
I
tried
reading
Lithway's
books, but
the
mere
fact
that
they
were
his
got
on
my
nerves.
I
decided
to go
to
my
room
and
throw
myself
on
the
resources
of
my
own
luggage. There
would
be
something
there
to
read,
I
knew.
I
closed
the
library door
quietly
and
went
up-stairs.
Outside
my
own
door
I
stopped and
looked—involuntarily,
with
no
conscious
curiosity—up
to
the third-story
hall.
There,
in
the
dim
corridor,
leaning
over
the
balustrade in
a
thin
shaft
of
sunlight
that
struck
up
from
the
big
window
on
the landing,
stood
Mrs.
Lithway,
with
a
folded
paper
in
her
hand,
looking down
at
me.
I
did
not
wish
to
raise
my
voice—Lithway,
I
thought, might
be
sleeping—so
did
not
speak
to
her.
I
don't
think,
in
any
case, I
should
have
wanted
to
speak
to
her.
The
look
in
her
eyes
was
distinctly
unpleasant—the
kind
of
look
people
don't
usually
face
you with.
I
remember
wondering,
as
our
surprised
glances
met,
why the
deuce
she
should
hate,
me
like
that—how
the
deuce
a
nice
young thing
could
hate
any
one
like
that.
It
must
be
personal
to
me,
I thought—no
nice
young
thing
would
envisage
the
world
at
large
with such
venom.
I
turned
away;
and
as
I
turned,
I
saw
her,
out
of
the tail
of
my
eye,
walk,
with
her
peculiar
lightness
of
step,
along
the upper
corridor
to
the
trunk-loft.
She
had
the
air
of
being
caught,
of not
having
wished
to
be
seen.
I
opened
my
bedroom
door
immediately,
but
as
I
opened
it
I
heard
a
sound
behind
me.
Margaret
Lithway stood
on
the
threshold
of
her
husband's
room,
with
an
empty
bottle.

"Would
you
mind
taking
the
car
into
the
village
and
getting
this filled
again?"
she
asked.
Her
eyes
had
dark
shadows
beneath
them; she
had
evidently
not
slept,
the
night
before.

I
flatter
myself
that
I
did
not
betray
to
her
in
any
way
my
perturbation.
Indeed,
the
event
had
fallen
on
a
mind
so
ripe
for
solutions that,
in
the
very
instant
of
my
facing
her,
I
realized
that
what
I
had just
seen
above-stairs
(and
seen
by
mistake,
I
can
assure
you;
she
had fled
from
me)
was
Lithway's
old
ghost—no
less.
I
took
the
bottle, read
the
label,
and
assured
Mrs.
Lithway
that
I
would
go
at
once. Mrs.
Lithway
was
wrapped
in
a
darkish
house-gown
of
some
sort.
The lady
in
the
upper
hall
had
been
in
white,
with
a
blue
sash.
...
I
was
very
glad
when
I
saw
Mrs.
Lithway
go
into
her
husband's
room and
shut
the
door.
I
was
having
hard
work
to
keep
my
expression where
it
belonged.
For
five
minutes
I
stood
in
the
hall;
five
minutes of
unbroken
stillness.
Then
I
went
to
the
garage,
ordered
out
the
car, and
ran
into
the
village,
where
I
presented
the
bottle
to
the
apothecary.
He
filled
it
immediately.
As
I
re-entered
the
house,
the
great
hall clock
struck;
it
was
half-past
eleven.
I
sent
the
stuff—lime-water,
I believe—up
to
Mrs.
Lithway
by
a
servant,
went
into
my
room,
and locked
the
door.