THAT afternoon Marian had gone out, thinking it possible Maddison might
call, and she was pleased to hear on her return that he had done so. He
was anxious then: waiting makes the heart grow fonder.
But it had not occurred to her that he might stalemate her by adopting
similar tactics to her own. Several days went by and he neither made any
appearance nor gave any sign, so that she began to fear that she
possessed either little or no influence over him.
If he failed her she could think of no means by which she could effect
her escape from the life which she so loathed. Merely to leave her
husband would be cutting herself off from the security of respectability
without gaining any compensating advantages. To go to Maddison would be
different; through him she would make friends and acquaintances, whom
she did not doubt she could use to her advantage.
In the country the growth of her mind had been stunted, though, on the
other hand, to those years of fresh air and simple life she owed her
superb health. Her education had been scanty, with the one exception of
music—singing and the pianoforte having been taught her by the church
organist, an enthusiastic old bachelor of small means but of fine taste
and accomplishment. She was not an expert performer; she had not a voice
which could be coined into guineas; but to her own accompaniment she
sang with feeling and effect simple ballads, sometimes those of her own
countryside. Of literature and art she knew little and was content in
her ignorance. Innate good taste enabled her to dress to advantage. In
conversation she had the knack of making such use of the small knowledge
she possessed as to hide deficiencies. With curious acuteness and
minuteness she had taken stock of her capabilities and defects,
realizing fully that on the whole she was well equipped for the world of
adventure.
Two rules she had laid down for herself; never to lose control over her
emotions and always to remember that the most powerful woman is she who
seems most weak. She understood clearly that her chief handicap was lack
of experience, but she believed that in a woman instinct takes the place
of knowledge. She would feel her way carefully, step by step, watching
and probing, but the first step and the most difficult was to free
herself and to obtain a footing in the greater world. She had almost
despaired of ever doing this, when so unexpectedly she had met with
Maddison. She had watched his career with interest and with admiration
of its brilliant and rapid success, and now she upbraided herself
because it had never entered into her calculations that she might be
able to utilize him in the attaining of her ambitions. She ought to have
remembered how near to loving her he had once been.
So far, in her dealings with him, she did not think that she had made
any error. She had shown no interest in him, which she believed was the
best way to pique him into feeling interest in her. She had talked of
herself, had told him enough to enable him to see clearly how
dissatisfied she was with her present lot. She now felt that all that
remained for her to do was to persuade him that she was worth winning,
not merely for her beauty, but because she could add to the
attractiveness and pleasure of his life. She, however, did not know
anything of his way of life, and did not even know whether any other
woman held the place she wished to obtain for herself.
He had vaguely said that he was willing to help her; he had shown
anxiety by at once calling when she had failed to go to him; but, since
then, silence. The next move was left to her, and with all her care she
might make a false one. She knew that he was emotional, and conjectured
that, once roused, no scruple of conventional morality would be a
hindrance to him in achieving his desire.
If she were to approach him again now, without any reasonable excuse for
doing so, she feared that she might fail to gain his help, and such a
failure would mean lasting defeat. There was no means that she could
think of by which she could bring him to her. To wait indefinitely was
not only dangerous but repugnant to her daily intensifying longing for
escape from her present life. So far, she had considered only two of the
three factors in the case—herself and Maddison. It remained to be
proved whether or not she could work her will by the instrumentality of
her husband.
She knew his intense devotion to her, but that, great as it was, it
weighed nothing against his sense of right and wrong. She did not hold
the first place in his life: that was given to his work. Love, health,
comfort, success—all were nothing in the scales against duty. Further,
even if he were willing to give up all for her, he could neither help
her ambitions nor satisfy her longings, the chief of which, indeed, was
to be free from him.
More than once he had spoken to her almost sternly of her idleness and
unwillingness to assist him. Was it not possible in this connection to
bring about some breach between them? In some indefinite way she felt a
desire to quarrel with him. At this very time he was constantly urging
her to join the small band of women who, under his guidance, were
laboring to bring something of decency and comfort into the lives of the
wretched dwellers in some notorious slum property in the parish. She
steadfastly refused. It was not work which she could or would do.
When this thought came to her, she was engaged upon some accounts, which
he had asked her to have complete for an important meeting in the
evening.
She closed the books almost untouched, feeling fairly confident that
this remissness would lead to remonstrance on his part, which she could
make an excuse for defiance.
Coming home late in the afternoon, Squire found her, as often he had
done of late, sitting idly in the dusk by the window, looking out at the
dreary prospect. The fire had sunk low, and the glowing coals shed but a
dim light over the room.
He was tired, physically and mentally, and a stir of anger came to him
to find her sitting there thus, knowing that she knew that he considered
this idleness wrong.
He sat down heavily in the worn armchair, and began to unlace his boots;
his feet would be rested by an hour or so of slippers.
“I’m very tired,” he said; but she made no answer.
“How have you got on with the accounts?” he asked after a pause. “I
suppose they were all right?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t touched them.”
“Not touched them!” he exclaimed, aghast, and turning sharply to her.
“Not touched them! You—knew they must be ready for to-night!”
“Yes, I knew.”
She stood up, let the blinds down, pulled to the curtains viciously, and
then went over to the chimney-piece for the matches. She struck a light
and turned up the gas, which blazed up into a shrieking flame, and, in
turning it low, she turned it out. She lit the gas again, and then stood
leaning against the table, watching his face of amazement.
“I don’t understand,” he said, looking at her with puzzled eyes. “You
knew they must be done, and you haven’t touched them? You’re not ill?”
“No, quite well. It’s just this, Edward, this life is killing me; you
must change it. I’ve done my best to stand it, but I can’t go on with it
any longer.”
“Change it—change it! How can we change it, even if it was right to?”
“Right! Right! Right!” she repeated fiercely. “Who made _you_ the judge
of what is right for _me_? You’re my husband, but that doesn’t make you
my judge. You live your own life, and I must live mine; and this life
you try to make me lead is not mine. Stop!—listen to me first. You’re
so blinded with self-satisfaction, so obstinately sure that you’re
right, that you’ve forgotten all about me. I’ve become just a mere item
in your existence, a part of yourself. You’ve forgotten that I’ve a
self, or you couldn’t really believe that this life would satisfy me.
I’m young. Am I to have no fun in life? No amusements, no gayety, no
pleasure, no friends? Am I to go on living here, seeing nobody worth
seeing, going nowhere, just drudging along in this dismal hole?”
She stopped, panting, and he broke in——
“I can’t listen to you, Marian. Do you understand what you’re saying?”
“Yes, yes,” she interrupted, “I understand; it’s you who can’t. Can’t?
Won’t—won’t! I sometimes wonder if you’re a man or a mere machine?”
“If you knew how much you are hurting me, Marian, you’d know how much of
a man I am. Don’t you think I’ve seen how discontented you are, but you
wouldn’t take my advice; you wouldn’t try to do what I know would make
you happy. You’re—you’re so selfish; you criticise everything by
whether it brings happiness to you. You have everything that I have, and
could share everything with me, and be quite content and happy. But you
do nothing; you keep outside my life and won’t let me help you.”
“I’ve heard all this before! What’s the use of preaching to me? Keep
your sermons for those who agree with you. You’ve talked like this at me
till I’m sick of hearing you.”
“Why not do as I ask you—work?”
“Why should I work?” she asked fiercely.
“Is it really you, Marian? I thought you so different.”
“I was different when you married me; I was a baby then, an ignorant
fool of a girl. I’ve grown into a woman, but you haven’t noticed it.”
“A woman has more heart——”
“Copy-book platitudes won’t help us.”
“Don’t you love me?” he asked, straining eagerly toward her for the
reply.
“No. I never did.”
“You never loved me?” he stammered, standing up and leaning heavily on
the back of the chair. “You said you did—why did you marry me?”
“I suppose I thought I loved you—because I was lonely, poor; because I
didn’t understand what love was; because I didn’t love anyone else;
because I didn’t know any other man. If we’d gone on living down there
in the country, I daresay I should have gone on vegetating. But you
dragged me up here, and I’ve woken up. You said I was selfish. What
about you? You knew what you were bringing me to and never stopped to
think whether it would be good for me, this dull, stupid life, with
nothing to care for, nothing to hope for, nothing to do.”
“You never really loved me? Oh, my God, why am I punished like this?”
He dropped his arms helplessly, standing before her, looking at her
bewildered, as though struggling to shake himself free from some
oppressive dream.
“Selfish again,” she said. “Your punishment! What about mine? You’ve
often preached that there is no real happiness in life but to do your
duty. Haven’t you done yours?”
“I can’t have.... What can I do?”
“Free me from this existence. Go away from here; somewhere there is
life——”
“You know I can’t leave my work.”
“Others can do it.”
“If we all said that? You know I can’t leave my appointed work.”
Marian sat down and beat with her clenched fists upon the table.
“Can’t you see anyone’s life but your own?” she exclaimed fiercely. “You
make me loathe you when you talk that way. Can’t you be a bit practical?
Don’t you understand that things can’t go on like this? That you’re
killing me? You’ve no pluck; I believe you’d be quite content to live
all your life in these dingy lodgings. You say you love me——”
“I do—I do——”
“And won’t do a thing to make me happy! We can’t go on living together
like this. Can we? Don’t you see we can’t?”
“What do you mean?”
“That something must be done to change it.”
“Wait, wait, let me think!” he said, tramping about the room; “let me
think, let me think. No, Marian, I can’t go away; I must stop here and
go on with my work. You see, dear, you’ve never really tried my way; if
you worked hard all day like I do you’d have no time to be unhappy.”
“Why should I _work_?”
“Why shouldn’t you? That’s what we all have to do. And there’s so much
work. You don’t know, I didn’t like to tell you, how it handicaps me,
people knowing that you do nothing to help me. How can I urge them on
when my wife does nothing? Then—what is it you want?”
“If I told you, oh! I know what you’d say. The same old sermons—the
things I do want wouldn’t make me happy, the things I don’t would.
You’ve made up your mind what I ought to do and you _are_ so certain
you’re right.”
“It’s not what _I_ think——”
“Yes, yes, it _is_ what you think; what others believe is right when you
agree with them. I don’t agree with you. Your beliefs don’t make me
happy.”
He sat down opposite her and began idly tracing with his finger the
pattern on the shabby green cloth. She waited, wondering what he would
say. So far there had been little more than a repetition of previous
scenes between them. At last, after what seemed to her an interminable
silence, he said—
“Don’t you see how you are breaking my heart? I believed you loved me.
You deceived me. Then—do you think my work is easy to me? Don’t you
know I would like to give you everything you want? But I can’t leave my
work, and you—you do nothing to help me.”
“How can I when I think you’re all wrong?”
“Wrong in what way?”
“In everything. You preach about a merciful, just God! Is there any
mercy or justice in allowing people to be born to live the life you are
working to save them from? Nonsense!”
“Do you know what you’re saying?”
“Quite well.”
“It’s blasphemy”—he stood up, looking down on her with the light of
fanaticism in his eyes—“blasphemy! Pray to God you may be forgiven for
it. Do you ever pray—truly?”
“What’s the use? I’ve prayed for what I want and can’t go on believing
when I don’t get it. Of course you’ll tell me I pray for what wouldn’t
be good for me! Praying doesn’t alter things, so what’s the use of it?”
“It’s because you don’t believe.”
“Yes, that’s religion all over!—Argue in a way that would be simply
idiotic if you applied it to real life.”
“Marian! Marian!” he said, leaning across the table toward her, “God
help you!”
“Soon, I hope,” she answered, turning away with a gesture of disgust.
He sprang up, but bit his lip, stopping the rush of words that came to
his tongue. She looked up at him, laughing bitterly.
“Will you ever realize that our marriage was a mistake? We weren’t made
for one another, that’s all about it. And we’re so poor we can’t afford
to separate.”
“Separate!”
“What’s the use of stopping together? I tell you I _can’t_ go on with
this life; you must change it; you must.”
“I can’t. Marian, won’t you try once more?”
“No, I won’t. I’ve one life to live and I won’t be driven into wasting
it. I’m young, full of life; you’ve often told me I’m beautiful, and you
want me to go on living here and sharing your miserable work. I won’t.
You must make a change.”
“I can’t,” he repeated doggedly. “You know I can’t. Not even you can
tempt me to do that. I’ve listened to what you said, horrible as much of
it was. I’ve felt hopeless about you for some time; you were so out of
touch with me, you were becoming a stranger to me. I’ve asked you to try
my way once more. I’ve often asked things of you. I begin to think I’ve
been weak. I’ve tried to make you my true comrade and I’ve failed. Now,
I must—must—make a change.” There was a tone in his voice that
compelled her to stand up face to face with him. “I must make a change.
Instead of our ruling our house together——”
“House! Lodgings!”
“_I_ will be its master. I blame myself for not having been so sooner.
Your life and salvation were intrusted to me and I should not have let
my love for you interfere and tempt me to make life easy for you. Life
is not easy and you must face it. Remember, I’m God’s minister.”
“So you say. You never give me a chance of forgetting it, with your
continual preaching. So, now you can’t bend me, you’ll break me?”
“I must try to teach you that God must be obeyed.”
“How do you know His commands? But it’s no good talking this way any
more. I shall leave you to-morrow”—her voice trembled, half with fear,
half with defiant anger as she repeated—“I shall leave you to-morrow.”
“Leave me?”
“Leave you.”
“Where are you going?”
“What does that matter to you? You think divorce sinful, so my future
address doesn’t concern you.”
She walked quickly out of the room, leaving him dazed.
For some moments he seemed scarcely conscious, scarcely able to breathe.
Then, slowly, heavily, he kneeled down at the table, and, burying his
face in his hands, prayed for forgiveness, the while he shook with
sobbing and his heart ached.