In April of 1917 this country joined the Allies in the Great War. The
nation was transfigured with that spiritual and sacrificial emotion
which invariably follows the sending of vast armies of men to be
slain. The profits on patriotism were enormous for those who knew how
to do business at the expense of the people. Cutter was one of these
eminently sane profiteers. He had doubled his fortune during the first
few months. He remained in New York most of the time. He had been away
from home the whole of July.
One morning early in August he arrived at the door of his own house in
Shannon. Helen had not expected him. She was flustered. Breakfast had
been served, but she would have another breakfast prepared at once.
No, George explained briefly, he had had something on the train; she
was not to trouble herself on his account.
This consideration was unusual. Well, he must go in and lie down; she
knew he must be worn out, Helen suggested.
No, he was not tired; and no, he would not go in and lie down.
He behaved like a visitor in the house. But he remained at home all
day, puttering about the house and garden with a curious gentle air.
After lunch he took a nap on the sofa in the parlor. To Helen’s
question as to whether he would go out for some golf as usual, he had
replied that he would not play golf and that she might have an early
dinner. Afterwards she remembered a faint embarrassment in his manner
during the whole of this day, as if it were an effort to talk or reveal
the simplest word of himself. But at the time Helen was pleased without
questioning why he was behaving in this vaguely domestic fashion.
Late in the afternoon she had followed him into the garden, seated
herself on a bench there with her hands folded--merely present, you
understand. Cutter continued to pace slowly back and forth along the
walk. Helen observed him gently. She thought he looked spent. She was
glad he was taking the day off; this was all she thought about that.
Now and again Cutter regarded his wife with a sort of remorseful
tenderness. He was experiencing one of those futile reactions a bad man
has toward ineffable goodness when he knows he is about to be rid of
the burden and reproach of it. Presently he came and sat down beside
her in the sweet, unaccusing silence she always made for him.
Her skin was still very fair, her hair darker, with golden lights, her
brows much darker, the same blue eyes, white lidded. Strange he had
never noticed before that the clothes she wore were like her--this
grave little frock she was wearing now, white, sheer, like a veil, long
pretty sleeves, a kind little waist with darts in it to fit her figure.
Who but Helen would ever think of taking up darts in her bodice this
year when every other woman was fluffing herself? He smiled at this,
but the humor of his face was neither intimate nor affectionate. It was
a sort of grinning footnote to Helen’s character.
He began presently to feel the old irritation at her silence. He
halted, dropped down on the bench beside her, but at the other end,
hung himself by one elbow over the back of it, crossed his legs and
addressed her with a question which he frequently used like a key to
turn in the lock of his wife’s silence.
“Helen, if you were about to say anything, what would you say?” he
asked.
“I was just thinking,” she answered, implying that she preferred not
to publish these thoughts in speech.
But he wanted to know. His manner was that of a husband who wanted to
start something.
“If we had children,” she began, looking at him, then away from him, “I
was wondering what they would be doing now.”
His eyes widened over her, but she did not feel this amazement. Her own
gaze appeared to be trailing these children among the flowers in this
garden.
“I often think of them,” she went on. “Our son--I always expected the
first one to be a son--he should be quite a lad now. What do boys of
fourteen do at this hour of the day?” regarding him with a sort of
dreaming seriousness.
He made no reply. He had slumped; with lowered lids he was staring at
the graveled walk in front of this bench.
“But the two little girls, much younger, would be here in the garden
with us. Isn’t it strange, I always know what they would be doing,
but not the boy. I have seen them in my heart like bright images in a
mirror; I have heard them laugh many a time.”
He was appalled. Never before had he known Helen to talk like this.
Why was she doing it? Did she knew what was in his mind? Was she
deliberately torturing him?
“Everything would have been so different if they had lived,” she went
on, as if she had actually lost these children, “your life and mine.
They would have changed us, our ways and our hopes. We should have
built the house we planned--for them,” turning to him with a dim smile.
“I suppose so,” he said, obliged to answer this look; “but you know I
have never regretted that we have no children.”
“At first you wanted them,” she reminded him.
“But not now. It is better as it is,” he returned moodily.
“No; not for me; not for either of us,” she sighed.
For the first time in her life she saw tears in his eyes.
“For them?” she asked putting out her hand to him.
“No, for you,” he answered, drawing back from this hand.
She noticed that. Her attitude toward him was one of submission. She
did not ask herself now why he shrank from her touch. She knew nothing
about the psychology of passion, its strange and merciless revulsions.
“A son or a daughter would be company for you now,” he said after a
pause.
“Yes; it’s been dull, not having them with me now. One grows so quiet
inside. It must be a little like dying, to be getting older and stiller
all the time.”
He could not bear this. He had a vision of what had happened to her.
And now it was too late; she was predestined, even as he was doomed to
his fate.... What follies love imposed upon youth! He had loved her
and taken her, when she belonged to another kind of man, when he might
have been happy with another kind of woman. Now he no longer loved
her, and the other woman might give him pleasure, but never peace or
happiness.... He supposed, after all, there must be something moral
about happiness. Well, then, why had he missed happiness with Helen?
Heaven knew she was made of every virtue. And he had kept his vows to
her. He had not actually broken faith with her--yet.
He rose and walked to the other end of the garden. He stood with his
back to Helen, still thinking fiercely, like a man trying with his
mind to break the bonds that held him.... What a horror that this
woman should be his wife. Nothing could change that. She was not of
his kind. She was different; that was the whole trouble. If she were
not his wife she would be the sort of woman he would never notice or
meet. In view of everything--the vision of life and society, and what
was coming to a man of his quality--he regarded it as remarkable that
he had been so long faithful to her. It was stupid, silly, bucolic--the
kind of husband he had been to this kind of wife!
He turned. Helen was still seated on the bench. The sight of her filled
him with irritation, a sort of peevish remorse. He was going to have
the deuce of a time getting through his next encounter with her. He
meant to put it off to the last minute. Meanwhile he simply must get to
himself, away from her. If she hung about he felt that he might lose
control of himself. And he must be careful not to say anything which he
might regret afterwards.
He came back, stepping briskly along the walk, passed her as he would
have passed a carpenter’s wife on the street and went on toward the
house.
Helen’s eyes had met him far down the walk. They followed him until
he disappeared around the corner of the house. Then, as if she had
received some dreadful warning from within, she pressed her hand to
her breast, her lips unfolded, her cheeks blanched, her eyes widened as
if she beheld the very face of fear.
What was this? George was not like himself. She was aware of some
frightful change in him. There was a flare about him, something
feverish, disheveled in his apparent neatness. She began to think over
this day, his unexpected return that morning. Now that she came to
think of it, there was no train upon which he could have arrived at
that hour. His reserve, it was a fortification. She realized that now.
She sprang up, started for the house. Something had happened, something
horrible. What was it? She must see George. She must touch him, speak
to him.
She found him seated on the veranda with the afternoon paper spread
before him, held up so that she could see only the top of his head, not
his face. She stood struggling with herself. She wished to run to him,
fling herself upon his breast and cry out: “George, what has happened?
Do you love me? I am your wife. Kiss me.”
Never had she felt like this, the nameless terror, the beating of her
heart like hammers in her breast. And all in this maddening moment,
she realized that she dared not approach him. He did not feel like a
husband, but like a stranger who did not belong in this house.
She stood leaning against the spindle-legged pillar of the veranda and
waited. She did not know for what, but as if she expected a blow. And
she wanted it to fall. She wished to be put out of this pain as soon as
possible.
Cutter laid aside his paper, stood up, swept a glance this way and that
as if he could not decide which way to retreat, then he went inside,
and affected to be looking for a book on the shelves in the parlor. He
heard Helen pass down the hall, knew that she had halted a moment in
the doorway. He felt as if he was being trailed. What he wished was
that she would have dinner, so that he could get through with this
business. It must be done after dinner, because he could not sit down
to the table with her afterward.
She came back presently to fetch him to this meal. She wanted to cling
on his arm, as she used to do years ago. But he evaded her, she could
not have told how, only that if he had shouted to her not to touch him,
she would not have been surer of what he meant.
They accomplished this dinner together. Cutter keeping his eyes
withdrawn from her, taking his food with that sort of foreign
correctness which a man never practices at his own table. Many times
they had passed through a meal in silence, but not a silence like this,
potential, strained. Once Cutter caught sight of Helen’s hand, which
was trembling. But he spared himself the sight of her face.
She scanned his, marked the new lines in it, the sullen droop to his
eyes, usually so frank. She recalled the fact that he had not gone into
their bedroom during this day; that he had kept to the public places in
this house, as if it were no longer his house; that he had answered all
her questions briefly; that in the garden he had drawn back from the
touch of her hand; that now he was hurrying secretly to finish dining.
She had premonitions of some unimaginable disaster which intimately
concerned herself, but she could not bear to think what it was. By a
forlorn faith many a woman receives strength to remain stupidly blind
to her fate. Helen had some sort of faith that, if she kept perfectly
quiet, this horror, whatever it was, would pass without being revealed
to her. Then suddenly her courage broke.
Cutter thrust back his chair, rose from the table and made for the
door.
She followed him. “George,” she cried, “what is it? I am frightened”;
the last word keyed to a wail.
They were standing where she had overtaken him in the hall. He took out
his watch, stared at it. “Twenty minutes past seven. The express is due
at eight,” he muttered with the air of a man who times himself, leaving
not a minute to spare.
“Yes, the express is due then, but--” she began.
“I am leaving on that train for New York,” he said, addressing her
point-blank.
“But, George, this is only one day for me; and you have been away five
weeks,” she exclaimed.
“Helen, come in here. I have something to tell you, and very few
minutes to spare,” standing aside that she might precede him into the
parlor.
She went in, sat in one of the mahogany chairs and regarded him with
that long, winged look. The suppressed harshness of his voice had
steadied her. She was calm. Women can withdraw to some quiet corner,
sit perfectly still and watch you condemn yourself without a tremor,
although the moment before they may have been distracted by every fear.
I have sometimes thought it might be a form of spiritual catalepsy. In
any case, it is a very fortunate seizure.
“I am returning to New York to-night,” Cutter informed her, still
standing as if this departure was imminent. “I shall make my home there
in the future.”
“Without me?” she asked, as if it was merely information she wanted.
“Without you,” he repeated, nodding his head for emphasis.
“For how long?”
“I have resigned as president of the bank here, disposed of all my
interests. It is not my intention ever to come back to Shannon.” He
did not look around to see how she had received this blow. He waited;
silence, no movement, not a sound. “You can get a divorce. It will be
easy,” he suggested.
“No,” she answered.
“I inferred that you would not now. Later, you may decide differently.”
She said “No,” and she did not repeat it.
“Meanwhile, I have provided for you. The house, the car, everything
here is yours. The deeds are made to you. And I have placed securities
to the amount of exactly half my estate in the bank here. They are in
your name. You will have an income of something more than ten thousand
a year. It is not much; but more, I think, than you will care to
spend.” He thrust two fingers into his waistcoat pocket and drew forth
a slender key. “This is the key to your safety deposit box,” dropping
it on the table. “You will need only to clip the coupons and cash
them,” he explained.
She had not moved, but as she listened her face changed to scarlet. Her
eyes sparkled and were dry.
There was another moment’s silence. Cutter picked up his hat, fumbled
it. He had not expected much of a scene, since Helen was so little
given to emotional scenery. But neither had he been able to predict
this indictment in fearful silence.
“You have been a good wife, Helen. I have not one reproach. But things
cannot go on as they have gone. My life and my opportunities lie in a
broader field. I have sacrificed them too long already. You have not
been happy here as my wife; but you would be miserable in New York as
my wife. I am doing the wisest--in the long run the kindest--thing for
both of us, giving you your liberty and taking mine.”
Since she would not answer he went on nervously.
“I have told no one of--our plans. I leave that to you also. The one
thing I must have is the right to achieve my own life in my own way. I
give you the same privilege and--”
“You have only ten minutes before the train is due,” she interrupted.
PART THREE
PART THREE