The Widening Stain

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The Widening Stain Page 9

by W. Bolingbroke Johnson


  “I’ll just take a dash of Flit in mine!” said Professor Hyett, shuddering.

  Mrs. Noble, noticing that Professor Sparhawk’s glass was empty, refilled it. He protested feebly. He definitely didn’t like the stuff. But he was proud of doing disagreeable jobs immediately and scrupulously. He up-ended his glass and set it down on a table.

  Professor Hyett found himself pocketed with Mrs. Sparhawk. “What nice weather for golf!” she said. “Are you fond of golf, Mr. Hyett?”

  “I used to play a little. But I found it a very morbid game.”

  “Morbid? I’m afraid—”

  “It is an introspective game. In any other game, such as tennis, the player is always thinking about his opponent. ‘What is that fellow going to do? Where is he going to put the ball?’ And one extroverts, to the good of one’s soul. But in golf one is always thinking: ‘How are my feet? My hands? My stance? My swing? Yesterday I got a five on this hole. Can I, today, beat myself, yesterday?’ It is significant that in golf one must always keep one’s head down, one’s eyes on the ground. Never look up! All this is very unhealthy. The popularity of golf is symptomatic of the introversion that is the curse of the modern spirit.”

  “I think golf is a very nice game.”

  “Golf?” said Mrs. Noble, passing with a cocktail shaker. She noticed that Professor Sparhawk’s glass was empty and filled it full. “Golf? Whenever I pass the golf course, I am shocked to see that great stretch of arable land going to waste. It would make two subsistence farms. There must be twenty men who do nothing from morning to night except take care of that grass, so it will be just the right length for grown-up men to play on! Hah!”

  Professor Sparhawk perceived the full glass beside him. He was under the impression that he had just emptied it. Well, he must have been mistaken. The best of us make mistakes. He drained the glass hardily.

  “The reason I gave up golf,” said Professor Hyett, “was not fear of introspection. It was because my ball was so constantly in the rough. I grew tired of taking as my motto: ‘Per aspera ad astra.’ ”

  He looked around quickly. Nobody was smiling. He translated hastily: “Through the rough to the stars.”

  Still nobody smiled. “These economists!” thought Professor Hyett. The unlettered hinds in our modern universities! How his little joke would have rung through the common rooms of Oxford or Cambridge! Oh dear, why wasn’t he born in England?

  Mrs. Noble noticed that Professor Sparhawk’s glass was again empty. She frowned. But she knew her duty as a hostess. Grimly she refilled the glass.

  “Golf?” said Professor Parry, joining the group, with Gilda at his side. “You know, Hyett, I have a fine idea for a murder.”

  Gilda, with her eyes on Hyett, saw him stiffen and cast a quick look at Parry.

  “You know,” pursued Parry, “the problem of the murderer is always what to do with the body. You can’t just leave it kicking around. And you can’t bury it most places without leaving one of those telltale mounds of fresh-turned soil. So do you know what I would do?”

  “I can’t imagine, my dear fellow.”

  “Bury it in a sand-trap. Easy to dig, and when you are through, you just smooth the sand over it again, and nobody knows the difference.”

  “I am glad I gave up golf. I should hate to try a deep explosion shot some day and bring up a big toe.”

  “I think you could take the shot over without penalty. Temporary obstruction, you know. But when I bury ’em, I bury ’em deep!”

  Gilda looked sharply at Parry, and looked away.

  She noticed that Mrs. Noble, tight-lipped, was refilling Professor Sparhawk’s glass.

  Dinner was announced. Professor Sparhawk looked at his glass with an appearance of great surprise. He lifted it to his lips and tossed it off.

  During the soup Professor Sparhawk fell into a brown study. Mrs. Noble, at his left, tried to bring him out on current problems of the gold supply and international barter. He answered in solemn monosyllables.

  During the roast, a crown roast of lamb, always so safe, Professor Sparhawk spoke, compellingly.

  “I hear you had an accident here. A sad accident. A sad, sad accident.” His lips worked with emotion.

  “Roger!” said his wife sharply. He snapped to attention.

  There was a moment of silence. Almost a ritual silence, thought Parry, like the moment when the faculty stands mute in faculty meeting, in respect to a dead colleague.

  “I wonder what they are going to do in the department?” said Mrs. Noble. The question could properly be discussed in public two days after a death.

  “Oh, I think Casti will get his raise to Associate,” said Professor Noble. “For the student-contact work, they’ll probably bring in a younger person, an instructor, maybe. Thus the administration will be able to make a net reduction in the departmental budget.”

  “Casti has published a sufficient number of pages,” said Professor Hyett. “I confess that I cannot understand them; the language of phonetics is one that I have never thought it necessary to learn.”

  “Mademoiselle Coindreau, I believe, was not a producer,” said Mrs. Noble.

  Parry turned to Gilda, at his side. “You aren’t taking part in settling the affairs of the Department of Romance Languages?”

  “No. I don’t feel like it.”

  “A bit ghoulish, eh? And you were fond of Lucie?”

  “N-no. Not really fond of her. But I am shocked.”

  “And maybe a little puzzled?”

  “Are you?”

  “Well, naturally, a little. No one has ever fallen over those railings before. I wonder how she happened to do it.”

  “That’s what I was wondering.” And to herself Gilda said that she wondered, also, what Francis really thought, and what he really knew. She was aware that he was not going to tell her. He was really too secretive.

  Dessert appeared. It was fruit, and crackers, and a mound of ominous blue-veined cheese.

  “This is a domestic Roquefort,” said Mrs. Noble. “Not quite like real Roquefort, of course, but we think it’s very good.”

  “No, thanks,” said Miss Cornwell. “I’m afraid I don’t like goat’s milk cheese.”

  “But Roquefort is made of ewe’s milk, I believe.”

  “We are very restricted in our cheeses,” said Professor Hyett. “The Romans prized ass’s milk cheese very highly.”

  Professor Sparhawk roused himself from meditation. “In Lapland, reindeer cheese is one of the principal staples. The yak butter of Tibet is fermented, and might be called a cheese. There is no reason why cheese can’t be made from any mammal.”

  “Imagine trying to milk a giraffe!” said Miss Cornwell with a pretty shriek.

  “Or a whale!” added Professor Parry.

  “The milk of the whale is not drawn forth by a vacuum process, as in the case of the cow,” said Professor Sparhawk, with an inspired air. “The mother whale actually ejects the milk into the mouth of her offspring.”

  Parry was delighted. “It would be necessary to deceive the mother whale, perhaps by means of a small submarine built in the form of a baby whale. The mother whale probably couldn’t bend round far enough to see what was milking her.”

  “But how are you going to locate your whales in the first place?” said Hyett.

  “A nice question. Obviously it would be awkward and expensive to chase them all over the Antarctic. If we’re going into the whale-cheese business commercially we must have our whales always available, to ensure regularity of output. I would transport the whales to some deep salt-water lake.”

  “How about the Great Salt Lake?”

  “No,” said Gilda. “I’ve been to the Great Salt Lake. It’s so salty that you just float on it. The whales wouldn’t be able to submerge, and it’s so hot and dry that they would get sunburned.”

  “I have it!” said Parry. “Did you ever see Cayuga Lake, in central New York?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s
handy to the New York luxury markets, and it’s a convenient size and depth. The New York State College of Agriculture is in Ithaca, at the head of the lake, with fine facilities for the study of dairy industry, fish culture, animal husbandry, and veterinary science. And there are salt works along the shore. There are great salt beds under the lake bottom. All we would need to do would be to open the lakes into the salt mines, until they reach the proper saline solution. Then we would stock the lake with sea food, marine mollusks, floating crustaceans, jellyfish, and what not. Then put in your whales, and build a great whale-cheese factory by the shore. Put on a big advertising campaign to make America whale-cheese-conscious. There are millions in it!”

  “Jonah apparently throve,” put in Hyett. “Whales are probably full of vitamins.”

  “I don’t think I would like whale cheese,” said Miss Cornwell. “Probably taste like cold oyster stew. I don’t like oyster stew.”

  “Cheese can be made from the milk of any mammal,” said Professor Sparhawk, emerging from secret thought. “It would be interesting to try human cheese.” He looked calculatingly at his wife.

  “Let us take our coffee in the drawing-room,” said Mrs. Noble, rising. “President Temple may be dropping in. He said he would try to make it, between the Religious Work Organization Banquet and the Nutrition Get-Together.”

  The party rose and removed to the drawing-room. Professor Sparhawk walked with great dignity and precision.

  When coffee was barely finished, President Temple entered, radiating vitality and goodwill. He saluted everyone with a hearty hand-clasp, and fastened on Professor Sparhawk.

  “Glad to see you, Mr. Sparhawk. I enjoyed our little talk this morning. You have some interesting views.”

  “How was the Religious Work Banquet, Dr. Temple?” said Mrs. Noble.

  “Splendid. Inspiring. Everybody in agreement. What this country needs, as well as this campus, is a spiritual reawakening.”

  “What this country needs is to go barefoot,” said Professor Sparhawk, fiercely.

  “Barefoot?”

  “Half the sickness of modern man has its origin in the feet. Feet distorted and crippled by cramping, fashionable shoes. Men’s shoes, causing pressure on the delicate bony structure, provoking myriad maladjustments in the system, and giving no free play to toes. Women’s shoes, with their high heels, causing faulty posture and unsettling nervous system of spine. Ought to go barefoot.”

  “I’d hate to go barefoot. My feet would freeze,” said Miss Cornwell.

  “You’re pradicly—practically barefoot now,” said Professor Sparhawk, looking contemptuously at her feet. “I wouldn’t be in your shoes!” He laughed loudly and coarsely.

  “The natives of the Syrian mountains,” contributed Professor Hyett, “go barefoot all their lives, through the terrible cold of their winters. They wrap up their faces, but they leave their feet bare. Never get frost-bitten.”

  “That’s right; never get frost-bitten,” said Professor Sparhawk, eagerly. “Never, never get frost-bitten. I haven’t worn shoes, except in public, for fifteen years. I take off my shoes and socks just soon I enter the house. Result is, my feet—” He reached for his shoe-strings.

  “Roger!” said his wife. Professor Sparhawk hesitated.

  “Dear me, I must be going,” said President Temple. “I’m already late for the Nutrition Get-Together. I had no idea it was so late. Well, good night, Mr. Sparhawk. Good night, Mrs. Noble. Good night, all.” He waved a fatherly farewell.

  “I was going to say, about my feet—”

  “Dear Mr. Parry!” said Mrs. Noble. “I hear you have a perfectly killing recitation in dialect. The one you did at the Halseys’; they say it was perfectly killing. Couldn’t we persuade you to give it to us?”

  “Well—”

  There was a chorus of urgent demands.

  Professor Parry rose. “This is a little memory rhyme. For, let us say, one of our metropolitan students who has difficulty in remembering the order of the Presidents of the United States:

  Washington, Edams, Chefferson, Medison,

  They was the foist in the country who led us on;

  Monroe, and Jake U. Edams, and Jeckson,

  Each in the Prasident’s uffitz he checks in;

  Von Büren, Harrison, Tyler, and Polk

  Was Prasident then, and did okey-doke;

  Taylor, Feelmore, Piertz, and Buchanan,

  Foist in whatever elections they ran in;

  Lincoln, Chonson, Grent, and Hayes,

  All fine fellas who went quite a ways;

  Garfield, Arthur, Cliffland, Harrison;

  So what is the everage man by comparison?

  Cliffland, McKinlich, Rosefelt, Teft,

  They did big business before they left;

  Wilson, Hardink, Coolitch, Hoover,

  They all did many a smart maneuver.

  Now irregardless what friends and foes felt,

  We give a hurray for Frenklin Rosefelt!”

  There was much applause, and cries of “Encore! Do another! More!”

  “Oh, I’m afraid I haven’t any more parlor tricks.”

  “You might tell them some of your limericks, Parry,” said Professor Hyett, with a sly look.

  “Oh yes! Limericks!” was the general cry.

  “The one about the clergyman out in Dumont would be safe,” suggested Gilda.

  “The clergyman out in Dumont!”

  “Well, I don’t mind, really.

  A clergyman out in Dumont

  Keeps tropical fish in the font;

  Though it always surprises

  The babes he baptizes,

  It seems to be just what they want.”

  This was much enjoyed by the party. “Tell us another!”

  Professor Sparhawk rose carefully to his feet.

  “I know a limerick. Very funny limerick. Now, how did it go? There was a young lady of Lucca—”

  Professor Parry began to shout. “I am afraid we must be going. I had no idea it was so late. It was a wonderful party, Mrs. Noble. Such a delightful evening! Come on, Miss Cornwell, I’m taking you home.”

  Everyone crowded around Mrs. Noble, muttering about the delightful evening and the lateness of the hour. Gilda glanced at her watch. It was a quarter past nine.

  Once more in the convertible coupé, Gilda and Hyett laughed about the remarkable evening and that incredible Mr. Sparhawk. They discussed the guests of the evening.

  “That Miss Cornwell,” said Professor Hyett. “She is a nice creature, isn’t she?”

  “Yes. I think she found the evening pretty awkward.”

  “I am sorry. It was I who suggested her to Mrs. Noble. Lucie Coindreau was originally asked, and I happened to see Mrs. Noble, and she said she couldn’t think of an extra girl.”

  “Lucie Coindreau! Poor Lucie!”

  “Yes, poor Lucie indeed!”

  The car had come to the door of Gilda’s apartment building. There was a question she wanted very much to ask. She wanted to make it sound offhand. But as she framed it in her mind, it didn’t seem offhand. Well, too bad, she was going to ask it anyhow.

  “Oh, by the way, Mr. Hyett, there was something I wanted to ask you.”

  “Yes, my dear Miss Gorham?”

  “On Monday night, after the President’s reception, you didn’t happen to see Mr. Belknap anywhere?”

  Professor Hyett sat silent for a moment before replying.

  “No. No, I didn’t see him. Why?”

  “I was just wondering.”

  “I can guess what you are wondering about. Now let me tell you something, my dear Miss Gorham.” Hyett had entirely dropped his customary tone of banter. “I am old enough to be your father, and I am going to give you a little fatherly advice. You just stop wondering. And stop asking questions. You can’t do any good, and you may do some harm. Real harm.”

  Professor Hyett handed her to her door.

  “Good night, Miss Gorham. Stop wondering.”

&nb
sp; “Good night, Mr. Hyett.”

  Gilda turned the key in her door. She sat down in her easiest chair, lit a cigarette, and sat there for a long time, wondering.

  In the Noble household, Professor and Mrs. Noble emptied ashtrays, aired the rooms, obscured the spoor of the party, and gave the maid a hand with the dishes.

  Professor Noble, having removed his shirt and collar, was putting away the bottles.

  “I wonder what was the matter with Sparhawk?” he said.

  Mrs. Noble pursed her lips. “The man’s a drinker!”

  “I never heard that before.”

  “Well, he drank five cocktails. When everyone else was just sipping at theirs, he was emptying his at a gulp. I never saw such a thing. He’s a dipsomaniac.”

  “He has done the best book there is on the history of monetary theory.”

  “No matter. We can’t have a drinker in the department. That’s the end of Mr. Sparhawk!”

  Professor Noble yawned. He was in no mood to start an all-night battle.

  As far as the University was concerned, it was in fact the end of Professor Sparhawk.

  Chapter IX

  ON THURSDAY afternoon Gilda was in Dr. Sandys’s office, discussing with him the departmental appropriations. Social Sciences was complaining again, demanding more money; Slavonic had a large unexpended balance from the previous year. The Professor of Slavonic, who was building a house, was too busy even to read the book catalogues. Dr. Sandys wanted Gilda’s advice about transferring the Slavonic surplus to Social Sciences.

  “And about the arrangement of the Wilmerding,” he said. “Do you think we should raise those railings? Or alter the lighting system? It would be pretty expensive.”

  “I don’t think we need to make any alterations.”

  “We don’t want any more of these terrible accidents.”

  “There has never been one before, in about fifty years. And people are going to be careful from now on.”

 

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