XXVI
When Shine, en route upstate with Bess, drew up at the driveway that led into Merrit’s country place, he had no idea that the sound of Bess’s voice would awaken even the dog. It was barely daybreak, and though Merrit had promised yesterday to be up in time to greet him as he passed, Shine had no faith in the possibility of getting a dickty out of bed in the cool gray dawn. It surprised him therefore to see, before a minute had elapsed, a dim figure at the head of the driveway coming quickly toward him.
It surprised him a good deal more, however, when the figure came near enough for recognition. It was Linda, bareheaded, wrapped in a coat, smiling at his astonishment.
“Heard you were coming,” she said. “Got up early and waited.”
It seemed to Shine that the sky turned from gray to gold in the twinkling of an eye.
“When you coming back?” she asked.
“Tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yea. Barrin’ accident. Only a fifty mile trip. Got to go pick up a load and bring it back.”
“Where’s your gang?”
“Still gettin’ over the fight—I’ll pick up a couple o’ guys to load on up there.”
“And you’ll only be gone till tonight?”
“Be back by bedtime easy.”
“And you’re going up alone and coming back alone?”
“Sure.”
Linda made up her impetuous mind. “You’re doing no such thing, Mr. Jones.” And she circled Bess’s nose and clambered into the cab from the opposite side. While Shine regained his breath, she casually adjusted herself; stretched out her legs, rested her head back, hunched up her coat, stifled a yawn and murmured with great unconcern:
“ ’S chilly—huh?”
Merrit from the head of his driveway had seen her climb into the cab. Before he reached the road, Bess, with a joyous roar, carried them off. Too amazed to call out, Merrit went on down, out into the middle of the road, and having confirmed his vision, grinned and told the world he’d be damned.
He stood there smiling and watching in the middle of the road, one hand absently plucking at his throat where the soft, open collar of his shirt left it bare. He had preposterous feelings, far too absurd to admit: an impulse to run after the departing Bess, crying, “Wait—for God’s sake—” as if she were carrying off some chance of his own; a terrifying sense of some slow crushing futility, allowing them to escape, but holding him captive, surrounding, insulating, oppressing him, like the haze of this morning’s mist, beyond which he could perceive but out of which he could not emerge; as if he moved and must always move in a dismal, broad, gray cloud, outside of which were clear blue skies that he could know of but never reach.
Strangely irrelevant people and things flashed into and out of his mind: a fleeting glimpse of his brown mother’s picture—Patmore in court shaking his fist—Tod Bruce in his pulpit drawing some remote and ridiculous analogy—Shine in the office explaining unintelligibly why he “let him out”—Miss Cramp inviting him to call—Why in hell couldn’t it have been Miss Cramp instead of Patmore? All wrong, the way it actually happened. Should’ve been Miss Cramp. Should’ve been the fays—damn it—fays were supposed to do such things. Well—of course—Patmore had just beaten ’em to it—just beaten ’em to it, that was all. Bright boogy, Patmore, figuring it all out like that—bright jigwalker—knew how to do things. Perfect alibi—perfect. … Jigs had a future, really—jigs were inherently smart. …
He stood and watched and smiled. The road led up and over a crest beyond which spread sunrise like a promise. Away for a time, then up moved Bess, straight into the kindling sky. With distance the engine roar grew dim and the van seemed to stand and shrink. Against that far background of light he saw it hang black and still a moment—then drop abruptly out of vision, into another land.