Silence.
"Clarence!" she began imperatively.
Clarence withdrew his attention from the paper with an obvious
effort, and spoke in a laboriously polite tone.
"I don't care to discuss it, Rachael."
"But--" Rachael stopped short on the word. Silence reigned in the
big, bright room except for the occasional rustle of Clarence's
newspaper. His wife sat idle, her eyes roving indifferently from
the gayly papered walls to the gayly flowered hangings, the great
bowl of daffodils on the bookcase, the portrait of Carol that,
youthful and self-conscious, looked down from the mantel. On the
desk a later photograph of Carol, in a silver frame, was duly
flanked by one of Rachael, the girl in the gown she had worn for
her first big dance, the woman looking out from under the narrow
brim of a snug winter hat, great furs framing her beautiful face,
and her slender figure wrapped in furs. Here also was a picture of
Florence Haviland, her handsome face self-satisfied, her trio of
homely, distinguished-looking girls about her, and a small picture
of Gardner, and two of Clarence's dead mother: one, as they all
remembered her, a prim-looking woman with gray hair and
magnificent lace on her unfashionable gown, the other, taken
thirty years before, showing her as cheerful and youthful, a
cascade of ringlets falling over her shoulder, the arm that
coquettishly supported her head resting upon an upholstered
pedestal, a voluminous striped silk gown sweeping away from her in
rich folds. There was even a picture of Clarence and Florence when
they were respectively eight and twelve, Clarence in a buttoned
serge kilt and plaid stockings, his fat, gentle little face framed
in damp careful curls, Florence also with plaid stockings and a
scalloped frock. Clarence sat in a swing; Florence, just behind
him, leaned on an open gate, her legs crossed carelessly as she
rested on her elbows. And there was a picture of their father, a
simple-faced man in an ample beard, taken at that period when
photographs were highly glazed, and raised in bas relief. Least
conspicuous of all was a snapshot framed in a circle of battered
blue-enamel daisies, the picture of a baby girl laughing against a
background of dandelions and meadow grass. And Rachael knew that
this was Clarence's greatest treasure, that it went wherever he
went, and that it was worn shabby and tarnished from his hands and
his lips.
Sometimes she looked at it and wondered. What a bright-faced, gay
little thing Billy had been! Who had set her down in that field,
and quieted the rioting eyes and curls and dimples, and anchored
the restless little feet, while Baby watched Dad and the black box
with the birdie in it? Paula? Once, idly interested in those old
days before she had known him, she had asked about the picture.
But Clarence, glad to talk of it, had not mentioned his wife.