He had, doubtless from some story-book, pictured Paul’s trial as a long struggle, with bitter arguments, a taut crowd, and sudden and overwhelming new testimony.
Actually, the trial occupied less than fifteen minutes, largely filled with the evidence of doctors that Zilla would recover and that Paul must have been temporarily insane.
Next day Paul was sentenced to three years in the State Penitentiary and taken off—quite undramatically, not handcuffed, merely plodding in a tired way beside a cheerful deputy sheriff—and after saying good-by to him at the station Babbitt returned to his office to realize that he faced a world which, without Paul, was meaningless.
CHAPTER XXIII I
HE was busy, from March to June.
He kept himself from the bewilderment of thinking.
His wife and the neighbors were generous.
Every evening he played bridge or attended the movies, and the days were blank of face and silent.
In June, Mrs. Babbitt and Tinka went East, to stay with relatives, and Babbitt was free to do—he was not quite sure what.
All day long after their departure he thought of the emancipated house in which he could, if he desired, go mad and curse the gods without having to keep up a husbandly front.
He considered,
“I could have a reg’lar party to-night; stay out till two and not do any explaining afterwards.
Cheers!” He telephoned to Vergil Gunch, to Eddie Swanson.
Both of them were engaged for the evening, and suddenly he was bored by having to take so much trouble to be riotous.
He was silent at dinner, unusually kindly to Ted and Verona, hesitating but not disapproving when Verona stated her opinion of Kenneth Escott’s opinion of Dr. John Jennison Drew’s opinion of the opinions of the evolutionists.
Ted was working in a garage through the summer vacation, and he related his daily triumphs: how he had found a cracked ball-race, what he had said to the Old Grouch, what he had said to the foreman about the future of wireless telephony.
Ted and Verona went to a dance after dinner.
Even the maid was out.
Rarely had Babbitt been alone in the house for an entire evening.
He was restless.
He vaguely wanted something more diverting than the newspaper comic strips to read.
He ambled up to Verona’s room, sat on her maidenly blue and white bed, humming and grunting in a solid-citizen manner as he examined her books: Conrad’s
“Rescue,” a volume strangely named
“Figures of Earth,” poetry (quite irregular poetry, Babbitt thought) by Vachel Lindsay, and essays by H. L. Mencken—highly improper essays, making fun of the church and all the decencies.
He liked none of the books.
In them he felt a spirit of rebellion against niceness and solid-citizenship.
These authors—and he supposed they were famous ones, too—did not seem to care about telling a good story which would enable a fellow to forget his troubles.
He sighed.
He noted a book,
“The Three Black Pennies,” by Joseph Hergesheimer.
Ah, that was something like it!
It would be an adventure story, maybe about counterfeiting—detectives sneaking up on the old house at night.
He tucked the book under his arm, he clumped down-stairs and solemnly began to read, under the piano-lamp:
“A twilight like blue dust sifted into the shallow fold of the thickly wooded hills.
It was early October, but a crisping frost had already stamped the maple trees with gold, the Spanish oaks were hung with patches of wine red, the sumach was brilliant in the darkening underbrush.
A pattern of wild geese, flying low and unconcerned above the hills, wavered against the serene ashen evening.
Howat Penny, standing in the comparative clearing of a road, decided that the shifting regular flight would not come close enough for a shot.... He had no intention of hunting the geese.
With the drooping of day his keenness had evaporated; an habitual indifference strengthened, permeating him....”
There it was again: discontent with the good common ways.
Babbitt laid down the book and listened to the stillness.
The inner doors of the house were open.
He heard from the kitchen the steady drip of the refrigerator, a rhythm demanding and disquieting.
He roamed to the window.
The summer evening was foggy and, seen through the wire screen, the street lamps were crosses of pale fire.
The whole world was abnormal.
While he brooded, Verona and Ted came in and went up to bed.
Silence thickened in the sleeping house.
He put on his hat, his respectable derby, lighted a cigar, and walked up and down before the house, a portly, worthy, unimaginative figure, humming
“Silver Threads among the Gold.”
He casually considered,