Three doctors and the Farlows presently arrived on the scene and took over. The widower, a man of exceptional self-control, neither wept nor raved. He staggered a bit, that he did; but he opened his mouth only to impart such information or issue such directions as were strictly necessary in connection with the identification, examination and disposal of a dead woman, the top of her head a porridge of bone, brains, bronze hair and blood. The sun was still a blinding red when he was put to bed in Dollys room by his two friends, gentle John and dewy-eyed Jean; who, to be near, retired to the Humberts bedroom for the night; which, for all I know, they may not have spent as innocently as the solemnity of the occasion required.
I have no reason to dwell, in this very special memoir, on the pre-funeral formalities that had to be attended to, or on the funeral itself, which was as quiet as the marriage had been. But a few incidents pertaining to those four or five days after Charlottes simple death have to be noted.
My first night of widowhood I was so drunk that I slept as soundly as the child who had slept in that bed. Next morning I hastened to inspect the fragments of letters in my pocket. They had got too thoroughly mixed up to be sorted into three complete sets. I assumed that and you had better find it because I cannot buy came from a letter to Lo; and other fragments seemed to point to Charlottes intention of fleeing with Lo to Parkington, or even back to Pisky, lest the vulture snatch her precious lamb. Other tatters and shreds (never had I thought I had such strong talons) obviously referred to an application not to St. A. but to another boarding school which was said to be so harsh and grey and gaunt in its methods (although supplying croquet under the elms) as to have earned the nickname of Reformatory for Young Ladies. Finally, the third epistle was obviously addressed to me. I made out such items as after a year of separation we may oh, my dearest, oh my worse than if it had been a woman you kept or, maybe, I shall die. But on the whole my gleanings made little sense; the various fragments of these three hasty missives were as jumbled in the palms of my hands as their elements had been in poor Charlottes head.
That day John had to see a customer, and Jean had to feed her dogs, and so I was to be deprived temporarily of my friends company. The dear people were afraid I might commit suicide if left alone, and since no other friends were available (Miss Opposite was incommunicado, the McCoos were busy building a new house miles away, and the Chatfields had been recently called to Maine by some family trouble of their own), Leslie and Louise were commissioned to keep me company under the pretence of helping me to sort out and pack a multitude of orphaned things. In a moment of superb inspiration I showed the kind and credulous Farlows (we were waiting for Leslie to come for his paid tryst with Louise) a little photograph of Charlotte I had found among her affairs. From a boulder she smiled through blown hair. It had been taken in April 1934, a memorable spring. While on a business visit to the States, I had had occasion to spend several months in Pisky. We met and had a mad love affair. I was married, alas, and she was engaged to Haze, but after I returned to Europe, we corresponded through a friend, now dead. Jean whispered she had heard some rumours and looked at the snapshot, and, still looking, handed it to John, and John removed his pipe and looked at lovely and fast Charlotte Becker, and handed it back to me. Then they left for a few hours. Happy Louise was gurgling and scolding her swain in the basement.
Hardly had the Farlows gone than a blue-chinned cleric called and I tried to make the interview as brief as was consistent with neither hurting his feelings nor arousing his doubts. Yes, I would devote all my life to the childs welfare. Here, incidentally, was a little cross that Charlotte Becker had given me when we were both young. I had a female cousin, a respectable spinster in New York. There we would find a good private school for Dolly. Oh, what a crafty Humbert!
For the benefit of Leslie and Louise who might (and did) report it to John and Jean I made a tremendously loud and beautiful enacted long-distance call and simulated a conversation with Shirley Holmes. When John and Jean returned, I completely took them in by telling them, in a deliberately wild and confused mutter, that Lo had gone with the intermediate group on a five-day hike and could not be reached.
Good Lord, said Jean, what shall we do?
John said it was perfectly simple he would get the Climax police to find the hikers it would not take them an hour. In fact, he knew the country and
Good Lord, said Jean, what shall we do?
John said it was perfectly simple he would get the Climax police to find the hikers it would not take them an hour. In fact, he knew the country and
Look, he continued, why dont I drive there right now, and you may sleep with Jean (he did not really add that but Jean supported his offer so passionately that it might be implied).