The Green Jacket/Chapter 17
XVII
The house was astir with expectation.
Even at early daylight, while Milly went about her room dressing in leisurely fashion, sounds of activity came from the house be low, and through her window came the whirring click of the lawn-mower going back and forth, and a subdued murmur of voices. She went to the window and looked out.
A phalanx of men in orderly rank was moving along the paths and borders, weeding and hoeing and pruning—the scissors and hoes and trowels and rakes flicked in the light with a little, irregular tattoo of sound, and the bent backs of the men had an intent, absorbed look.
When she descended the stairs a battle and bustle of eagerness pervaded the house. Batson was everywhere, urging and directing his forces with solicitous presence.
To Milly the house and grounds had seemed in perfect condition the day before. But out of this movement and stir of preparation something new seemed to emerge. Even before she reached the lower hall she felt its presence. . . . Freshness everywhere—new muslin curtains at the great windows at either end of the upper hall, fresh sash-curtains glimpsed through open doors, and flowers in every room. . . . The dark pool had become a rippling pond in the morning sunshine and the little running waves glinted in the freshening breeze that blew across it.
Down-stairs the doors at either end of the long hall stood open and a little wind drew back and forth through the house. She felt it gratefully on her face as she passed into the sewing-room. Through the door to the breakfast-room she caught a glimpse of Mrs. Mason standing by the sideboard arranging a mass of crimson roses in a great silver bowl.
When she saw Milly she nodded to her almost gayly, and lifted the bowl of roses for her to see. She carried them to the table and adjusted them a little and moved back to survey them fondly.
She moved to the door.
"It is a wonderful day!" she said happily.
"When does your son come?" returned Milly.
"He will be here at ten—there was a telegram—'at ten o'clock' this morning!" The words were like a little singing refrain as she moved to her place at the table.
From her seat Milly could see the empty chair and Mr. Mason's paper folded beside it. And presently he came in. He was a little haggard, as if perhaps he had not slept well, but he walked with quick step. He bowed, almost formally, to his wife as he came toward the table and took his seat.
"Did you sleep well, Oswald?" The questioning voice had a note of happiness, and her face turned to him with a smile.
"Fairly well," he replied politely. He opened his paper, shutting out the face.
Her lip trembled a breath—then the light returned to her face. She prepared his coffee and filled her own cup and drank a little, with absent gaze, as if other food had nourished her, and this were only a pretense, the mere form of eating, conceded from habit.
"I have been thinking, Oswald"
Her voice broke across his paper and he laid it down with courteous air.
She leaned forward a little, her eyes scarcely seeing him—for the vision that filled them. She was speaking rapidly:
"Why couldn't we all drive over this afternoon, Stephen and you and I, and take tea with Elise? I have not seen her for so long—and Stephen will like it!"
"It is too soon," replied the man, almost curtly. He resumed his paper again. His face had a grayish look as he took it up.
"But, Oswald—" she protested. "Too soon? What can you mean! . . . Such old friends! Surely we can drive over and say 'how do you do' to Elise, the day he comes. . . . I am going to call her up and see if she will be home!"
She went swiftly toward the adjoining room to the telephone.
He turned sharply. "Annie—!" he called.
"Yes, Oswald?" The response was absent and intent, and spoken aside from the phone. "Yes—Oswald?"
"I don't want—" he began.
But her voice broke across it joyously, speaking into the tube—"Is that you, Elise? Stephen is coming this morning! Did you know? Yes—this morning! And we want to come over to tea—if you are going to be home. . . . What is it? Yes, we are all coming! I have not seen you in an age, dear. . . . Yes, I know." The voice grew tender and seemed to follow inaudible words with murmuring assent—"I know, dear. But that is past. We are coming now—yes. Good-by."
She returned with radiant face. "She will be at home!" she said.
"I think that was unwise!" said her husband swiftly. The haggard look he turned to her was almost stern.
She regarded it with puzzled eyes. "But Stephen—it will please him!" she cried.
"You do not know what will please Stephen," he said softly.
"Why, Oswald!—Stephen!" She held the name with a little beseeching hurt and tenderness. "You speak as if he were a stranger to us!"
"Perhaps he is a stranger A year is a long time," said the man.
"Oh— A year!" She clasped her hands tensely, gripping the misery of the year, crushing it back between them. "Stephen will not have changed!" she said softly.
He waited a moment. He seemed to hesitate to hurt her—and the words when they came were not harsh, only a little sad.
"He had changed before he went away," said the man.
She was looking at him with mute eyes. The brightness had gone from her face.
He got up. "It is time to go. I have an errand at the bank—before he comes." He took out his watch and looked at it hastily and moved to the door.
Milly saw him passing through the rooms and up the stairs, and it came to her suddenly to question whether Mr. Mason was a much older man than she had supposed. The figure going up the stairs stooped a little, and moved uncertainly, as if with an effort. . . . And in the adjoining room, the wife, with the little look of contented abstraction that had come back to her face, sipped her coffee and trifled with the toast. She seemed a young woman—twenty years younger, at least, than the bent figure going up the stairs.