-----
A day in bed! Oh! the horror of it to a man who has never ailed anything
in his life! A day away from the excitement (pleasurable or otherwise)
of business, the moving throng of city streets, the anticipated chats
with business friends and casual acquaintances--the world of men.
Nothing to look upon but the four walls of the room, which, in spite of
its cosiness, he only associates with dreams, nightmares, and dull
memories of sleepless nights, and chilly mornings. Nothing to listen to
but the twittering of the canary downstairs, and the distant wrangling
of children in the nursery: no one to speak to but the harassed
housewife, wanted in a dozen places at once, and the pert housemaid,
whose noisiness is distracting. The man lay there, cursing his
helplessness. In spite of his iron will, the unseen enemy, who had
stolen in by night, conquered, holding him down with a hundred tingling
fingers when he attempted to rise, and drawing a misty veil over his
eyes when he tried to read, till at last he was forced to resign
himself, with closed eyes, and turn day into night. But the lowered
blind was a sorry substitute for the time of rest, and brought him no
light, refreshing sleep, so, in the spirit, he occupied his customary
chair at the office, writing and receiving cheques, drawing up new
circulars, and ordering the clerks about in the abrupt, peremptory
manner he thought proper to adopt towards subordinates--the wife
included.
He tortured himself by picturing the disorganisation of the staff in his
enforced absence--for he had grown to believe that nothing could prosper
without his personal supervision, though the head clerk had been ten
years in his employ. Then he remembered an important document, that
should have been signed before, and a foreign letter, which probably
awaited him, and fretted himself into a fever of impatience and
aggravation.
[Illustration: "RETURNING WITH A DAINTILY-SPREAD TRAY."]
Just at the climax of his reflections his wife entered the room. She was
a silent little woman, with weary eyes. Perhaps her burden of household
cares, and the complaints of an exacting husband, had made her
prematurely old, for there were already silver threads among the dark
brown coils of hair that were neatly twisted in a bygone fashion, though
she was young enough to have had a bright colour in her cheek, a merry
light in her dark eyes, and a smile on her lips. These, and a becoming
dress, would have made her a pretty woman; but a friendless, convent
girlhood, followed by an early marriage, and unswerving obedience to the
calls of a husband and family who demanded and accepted her unceasing
attention and the sacrifice of her youth, without a word of gratitude or
sympathy, had made her what she was--a plain, insignificant,
faded-looking creature, with unsatisfied yearnings, and heartaches that
she did not betray, fearing to be misunderstood or ridiculed.
[Illustration: "FAST ASLEEP IN THE LOW WICKER ARMCHAIR."]
She listened quietly to his complaints, and bore without reproach his
mocking answers to her offers of help. Then she softly drew up the
blind, and went downstairs, returning with a daintily-spread tray. But
the tempting oysters she had had such trouble to procure were pettishly
refused, and the tray was not even allowed to be in the room. The wife
sat down near the window, and took up a little garment she was
making--her face was flushed, and her lips trembled as she stitched and
folded--it seemed so hard that she could do nothing to please him,
knowing, as she did, that he considered hers an idle life, since they
kept servants to do the work of the house. He did not know of her
heart-breaking attempts to keep within the limits of her weekly
allowance, with unexpected calls from the nursery, and kitchen
breakages; he forgot that it would not go so far now that there were
more children to clothe and feed, and, when she gently hinted this, he
hurled the bitter taunt of extravagance at her, not dreaming that she
was really pinched for money, and stinting herself of a hundred and one
things necessary to her comfort and well-being for the sake of her
family. Indeed, it was part of his theory never to yield to requests of
this kind, since they were sure to be followed by others at no distant
date, and, besides, he greatly prided himself on firmness in domestic
matters.
She was very worried to-day; anxious about her husband's health, and
sorely grieved at the futility of all her efforts to interest or help
him. Great tears gathered in her eyes, and were ready to fall, but they
had to be forced back, for she was called out of the room again.
And so it went on throughout the afternoon--in and out--up and
down--never resting--never still--her thoughts always with the
discontented invalid, who fell asleep towards evening, after a
satisfactory meal, cooked and served by his patient helpmate, and eaten
in a desultory manner, as if its speedier consumption would imply too
much appreciation of her culinary kindness.
About midnight he awoke, refreshed in body and mind, and singularly
clear of brain.
His first feeling was one of intense relief, for he felt quite free from
pain, and to-morrow would find him in town, writing and scolding--in
short, himself again. He sat up in bed, and looked round. The gas was
turned low, but on a little table consecrated to his wants stood a
carefully-shaded lamp. By its soft light he discovered his wife, fast
asleep in the low, wicker armchair, whose gay chintz cover contrasted
strangely with her neat dark dress. She had evidently meant to sit up
all night in case he felt worse, but had succumbed from sheer weariness,
still grasping the tiny frock she had been mending. He noticed her
roughened forefinger, but excused it, when he saw the little, even
stitches. Finally, he decided not to disturb her, but, as he settled
down again on the comfortable pillow, he was haunted by the image of her
pale face, and, raising himself on his elbow, looked at her again,
reflectively. She was certainly very white.
He blamed the lamplight at first, but his conscience spoke clearly in
the dim silence, as he recalled her anxiety for him, and her gentle,
restless footsteps on the stairs, and, now that he began to think of it,
she had not eaten all day. He scolded her severely for it in his mind.
Was there not plenty for her if she wanted it?
But that inner self would not be silenced. "How about her idle life?" it
said--"has she had time to eat to-day?"
He could not answer.
She sighed in her sleep, and her lashes were wet as from recent tears.
For the first time he noticed the silver hairs, and the lines about her
eyes, and wondered at them.
[Illustration: "SOBBING OUT YEARS OF LONELINESS."]
And the still, small voice pierced his heart, saying, "Whose fault is
it?"
As he shut his eyes--vainly endeavouring to dismiss the unwelcome
thoughts that came crowding in upon his mind, and threatened to destroy
his belief in the perfect theory he loved to expound--a past day rose
before him. He held her hand, and, looking into her timid, girlish face,
said to himself, "I can mould her to my will." Then she came to him,
alone and friendless, with no one to help hide her inexperience and
nervousness.
He recalled the gentle questions he was always too busy to answer, till
they troubled him no more; and the silent reproach of her quivering lips
when he blamed her for some little household error. And, though he
believed that his training had made her useful and independent, he
remembered, with a pang of remorse, many occasions on which an
affectionate word of appreciation had hovered on his tongue, and
wondered what foolish pride or reserve had made him hesitate and choke
it down, when he knew what it meant to her. Birthdays, and all those
little anniversaries which stand out clearly on the calendar of a
woman's heart, he had forgotten, or remembered only when the time for
wishes and kisses was over. Yet he had never reproached himself for this
before. But to-day he had seen enough to understand something of the
responsibility that rested on her, the ignorance of the servants, the
healthy, clamouring children, who would only obey _her_, and the hundred
and one daily incidents that would have worried him into a frenzy, but
which only left her serene and patient, and anxious to do her duty. The
poor wan face had grown lovely to him, and the lines on her forehead
spoke with an eloquence beyond the most passionate appeal for sympathy
that she could have uttered--what would the house be without her? What
if he were going to lose her? His heart was shaken by a terrible fear as
he sat up with misty eyes, and, brokenly uttering her name, held out his
arms imploringly.
_Oh! God, if she should never wake again!_.... But she answered him,
breathlessly, waking from a wonderful dream, in which she saw him
wandering afar through a fragrant garden, that she longed to enter--then
as she wept, despairingly hiding her face in her hands, she heard him
calling her, first softly, then louder--and louder--
And the garden faded away.
But the dawn found her sobbing out years of loneliness on her husband's
breast.
_Memoirs of a Female Nihilist._