We saw each other constantly.And though we had instinctively begun to be careful,I imagine there was some talk among our acquaintances.It is to be noted that the gossip never became riotous,for we had always been friends,and Nancy had a saving reputation for coldness.It seemed incredible that Maude had not discovered my secret,but if she knew of it,she gave no sign of her knowledge.Often,as I looked at her,Iwished she would.I can think of no more expressive sentence in regard to her than the trite one that she pursued the even tenor of her way;and I found the very perfection of her wifehood exasperating.Our relationship would,I thought,have been more endurable if we had quarrelled.And yet we had grown as far apart,in that big house,as though we had been separated by a continent;I lived in my apartments,she in hers;she consulted me about dinner parties and invitations;for,since we had moved to Grant Avenue,we entertained and went out more than before.It seemed as though she were making every effort consistent with her integrity and self-respect to please me.Outwardly she conformed to the mould;but I had long been aware that inwardly a person had developed.It had not been a spontaneous development,but one in resistance to pressure;and was probably all the stronger for that reason.At times her will revealed itself in astonishing and unexpected flashes,as when once she announced that she was going to change Matthew's school.
"He's old enough to go to boarding-school,"I said."I'll look up a place for him.""I don't wish him to go to boarding-school yet,Hugh,"she said quietly.
"But that's just what he needs,"I objected."He ought to have the rubbing-up against other boys that boarding-school will give him.
Matthew is timid,he should have learned to take care of himself.And he will make friendships that will help him in a larger school.""I don't intend to send him,"Maude said.
"But if I think it wise?"
"You ought to have begun to consider such things many years ago.You have always been too--busy to think of the children.You have left them to me.I am doing the best I can with them.""But a man should have something to say about boys.He understands them.""You should have thought of that before.""They haven't been old enough.""If you had taken your share of responsibility for them,I would listen to you.""Maude!"I exclaimed reproachfully.
"No,Hugh,"she went on,"you have been too busymaking money.You have left them tome.It is my task to see that the money they are to inherit doesn't ruin them.""You talk as though it were a great fortune,"I said.
But I did not press the matter.I had a presentiment that to press it might lead to unpleasant results.
It was this sense of not being free,of having gained everything but freedom that was at times galling in the extreme:this sense of living with a woman for whom I had long ceased to care,a woman with a baffling will concealed beneath an unruffled and serene exterior.At moments Ilooked at her across the table;she did not seem to have aged much:her complexion was as fresh,apparently,as the day when I had first walked with her in the garden at Elkington;her hair the same wonderful colour;perhaps she had grown a little stouter.There could be no doubt about the fact that her chin was firmer,that certain lines had come into her face indicative of what is called character.Beneath her pliability she was now all firmness;the pliability had become a mockery.It cannot be said that I went so far as to hate her for this,--when it was in my mind,--but my feelings were of a strong antipathy.And then again there were rare moments when I was inexplicably drawn to her,not by love and passion;I melted a little in pity,perhaps,when my eyes were opened and I saw the tragedy,yet I am not referring now to such feelings as these.
I am speaking of the times when I beheld her as the blameless companion of the years,the mother of my children,the woman I was used to and should--by all canons I had known--have loved....
And there were the children.Days and weeks passed when I scarcely saw them,and then some little incident would happen to give me an unexpected wrench and plunge me into unhappiness.One evening I came home from a long talk with Nancy that had left us both wrought up,and I had entered the library before I heard voices.Maude was seated under the lamp at the end of the big room reading from "Don Quixote";Matthew and Biddy were at her feet,and Moreton,less attentive,at a little distance was taking apart a mechanical toy.I would have tiptoed out,but Biddy caught sight of me.
"It's father!"she cried,getting up and flying to me.
"Oh,father,do come and listen!The story's so exciting,isn't it,Matthew?"I looked down into the boy's eyes shining with an expression that suddenly pierced my heart with a poignant memory of myself.Matthew was far away among the mountains and castles of Spain.
"Matthew,"demanded his sister,"why did he want to go fighting with all those people?""Because he was dotty,"supplied Moreton,who had an interesting habit of picking up slang.
"It wasn't at all,"cried Matthew,indignantly,interrupting Maude's rebuke of his brother.
"What was it,then?"Moreton demanded.
"You wouldn't understand if I told you,"Matthew was retorting,when Maude put her hand on his lips.
"I think that's enough for to-night,"she said,as she closed the book.
"There are lessons to do--and father wants to read his newspaper in quiet."This brought a protest from Biddy.
"Just a little more,mother!Can't we go into the schoolroom?We shan't disturb father there.""I'll read to them--a few minutes,"I said.
As I took the volume from her and sat down Maude shot at me a swift look of surprise.Even Matthew glanced at me curiously;and in his glance Ihad,as it were,a sudden revelation of the boy's perplexity concerning me.He was twelve,rather tall for his age,and the delicate modelling of his face resembled my father's.He had begun to think..What did he think of me?
