Nicholas Aubray had no idea that he made certain remarks at certain
hours of every day, with almost clock-work regularity.
It was left to his wife to make this discovery and others; her critical
faculty developing with every year, the years themselves still too few
to prevent her from putting her discoveries into words.
"You mustn't be too sharp in your judgment of other people, my dear,"
Nicholas said to her from time to time, without any more direct
reference to an increasing uneasiness in the atmosphere, that he would
not, indeed, admit even to himself.
Lily, too, had her reticences.
The shibboleth declared any criticism of another to be uncharitable at
best, disloyal at worst. Unthinkable, to criticize one's husband.
Lily sought valiantly to ignore that which certain perceptions in her
registered almost automatically.
She loved Nicholas, therefore she must see Nicholas as perfect.
The effort, in the course of time, became considerable, and very
wearying.
She lived in a constant searching of spirit, fond of Nicholas
and grateful to him when he petted her, touched by his many
thoughtfulnesses and frequent gifts, intensely desirous of believing
that she loved him, and irritated almost--although never quite--to the
point of protesting aloud when he sang out of tune.
Nicholas sang very often, from exuberance of spirits, and it was almost
always out of tune.
He had a singular faculty for remembering the words of popular
musical-comedy songs, and no ability at all to retain the simplest of
airs correctly.
"I say, Lily, that was a catchy sort of thing we heard last night."
"Oh yes, I know."
Lily spoke hurriedly, trying to escape from the conviction that she was
in dread lest Nicholas should attempt to reproduce the tune that he had
liked.
"The one that girl sang in the second act--very fine girl, too!"
His tone was jocosely significant, and although such humorous allusions
did not really amuse her in the least, Lily eagerly caught at this one.
"I saw you look at her, Nicholas! She's rather your type, isn't she?"
"What do you mean by my type, madam, I should like to know? How do you
know I've got a type, eh?"
He began to laugh spasmodically, and Lily's lips mechanically took on
the curves of the amusement that she did not share.
"My type, indeed! Ha, ha!"
Lily's meaningless laughter echoed his genuine mirth. Then he began to
hum:
"In Lou-is-ville--I've left my little home,
The folk I used to know
In Lou-is-_ville_--where--something--something--roam.
Tra-la-la-la-_lah_
In Lou-is-_ville_."
"Catchy sort of tune, that."
"Oh yes. Would you like me to get the score?"
"Not unless you want it yourself. I thought that was pretty nearly the
only good thing in it, didn't you? Besides, what do you want with a
score when you've got a husband who can reproduce it note for note to
you next morning? Ah--hum----!"
Nicholas cleared his throat and expanded his chest in facetious
burlesquing of an operatic performance.
"In Louisville! I've left my little home."
He sang it through again, with mock dramatic emphasis and
gesticulation, and Lily dug her nails into the palms of her hands and
stretched her mouth into a fixed smile.
She was unspeakably disgusted at herself.
Why should she mind these things? And why, minding them, should not
love for Nicholas make her minding of no account?
For she still maintained to herself that she loved Nicholas.
That which perplexed her perhaps most was her own increasing tendency
to dwell upon a recollection that for several years now had been almost
altogether obscured----Vonnie.
The memory of her childish championship of Vonnie, the sick despair of
knowing herself to be better loved and cared for than was Vonnie, the
pain that she had suffered through Vonnie's pain--all recurred to her
with an odd sense of contrast.
How could one compare the two? The kindly derision of common-sense
sounded in her imagination, insensibly clothing itself in the accents
of that embodiment of common-sense, Monica Melody. "Childie, childie,
think what you're saying. Why, how can you compare the two, Lily? The
affection of a little child for another little child, and the love of a
woman for her husband! Oh Lily, Lily!"
Miss Melody would certainly conclude with mellow, tolerant laughter.
And yet the comparison existed, and remained insistent.
She would never suffer for Nicholas as she had suffered for Vonnie.
"Perhaps I am better balanced now," Lily wistfully suggested to
herself, but the suggestion carried no conviction.
She found the phrase that elucidated the question for her almost by
chance:
_To the limit of capacity._
Quite involuntarily, the application leaped to her mind.
She had loved Vonnie to the limit of capacity. Her feeling for Nicholas
did not extend even to the first outposts of that limit.
But she loved him, nevertheless. It was a question of degree.
Lily stifled the illuminating thought, accused herself of the extreme
of disloyalty, and watched eagerly for signs in herself that she did
love Nicholas. That he loved her, she could not doubt, and the thought
filled her with remorseful gratitude. It still surprised and touched
her that her husband, unlike her father, should so seldom find fault
with her either directly or by implication, and that he should share
and enjoy her enjoyment of almost every form of entertainment.
He listened, with obvious pleasure and interest, to everything she
said, and no subject was too trivial for discussion. He seemed never
to be _blasé_ or indifferent. Occasionally, only, he was out of temper
or depressed, when his already long face would become indescribably
elongated, and his conversation monosyllabic.
Lily found that if she asked him a direct question, on such occasions,
he would gravely and curtly reply: "Why should anything be the matter?"
after the manner of a sulky child that desires to draw attention to its
sulks but is too proud to give a reason for them. If she said nothing,
he either recovered himself quickly, or spoke, with a sort of remote,
detached condemnation, of the circumstance that had annoyed him. He
never admitted to a trivial disturbance of mind, but sometimes, with
transparent self-satisfaction, he would lay claim to outbursts of
stupendous fury.
"I'm afraid I lost my temper pretty thoroughly to-day. The fellow won't
try that game on again. He got my monkey up, and I let him have it
straight. Hit out straight from the shoulder. I told him exactly what
I thought of him, and you should have seen his face, Lily--the poor
little devil was _green_. I don't remember, word for word, exactly what
I said, but I fancy I let him have it pretty straight. I don't mince
matters when my blood's up. Mind you, Lily, a temper like mine's no
joke. I've always been afraid of going too far, one of these days."
He looked at her as though for confirmation, and she said, knowing that
it would please him:
"It's a fault on the right side, I suppose. A man who hasn't got a
temper doesn't get very far, I imagine."
"You're right there, my dear. I shouldn't be where I am now if I
hadn't been able to put the fear of God into those who work for me,
from time to time."
Nicholas laughed.
"You've never seen me angry, my dear, and I hope you never will."
"Only over a collar-stud," observed Lily, with defective tact.
The mild joke was not at all a successful one.
Nicholas's hatchet face lengthened immediately and grew inordinately
grave.
"I'm talking about necessary anger, my dear girl, the sort of wrath
that's pretty nearly indispensable when you're dealing with men and
women, if you want to get the best out of them. Weaklings have got to
be made to feel that they're up against strength. If a man's strong,
he's got to have a temper."
"Nobody could call you weak, Nicholas," said Lily, and the remark, as
she had meant it to do, restored his complacency.
"Well, I've many faults, but there are two feelings for which I don't
think I shall be held to account, I must say. I'm not a weak man,
Lily--and I fancy I'm a pretty shrewd judge of human nature. I think I
can sum up men and women fairly correctly, even at first sight."
Lily did not like Nicholas when he boasted. In the depths of her heart,
uneasily conscious of arrogance the while, she disputed his statement
that he was a judge of human nature, for his judgments seldom tallied
with her own, especially where women were concerned.
"I don't suppose," said Nicholas, laughing, "that the fellow I told off
this morning will come near me again for a fortnight. I imagine he was
pretty thoroughly scared."
"I daresay," smiled Lily.
She went on smiling, and Nicholas went on laughing. His laughter had
long ago got upon her nerves, but she did not own to herself that this
was the case.
Even when her amusement was genuine, she never found it easy to prolong
her laughter to the extent of his. Very often, her amusement was not
genuine at all.
Nicholas had a fund of anecdotes, quotations, and good stories, some
of which he retailed over-frequently. Many of the stories were witty;
one or two, to the daughter of Philip Stellenthorpe, appeared to be
merely coarse. It seemed to her that Nicholas was totally unable to
distinguish between wit, even if admittedly "improper," and the form of
rather gross vulgarity that claims to be funny merely on the grounds of
its vulgarity.
Sometimes she despised herself for making the distinction, which with
her was entirely instinctive. Nicholas, however, so far as she could
see, did not discover that she made any distinction at all in her
appreciation of his sallies.
His perceptions, acute in some directions, appeared to Lily to be
astonishingly blunt in others. Whenever he perceived in her any sign
of physical weakness or fatigue, it touched her sharply and always
afresh, but it always surprised her. At times, when his simplicity and
enthusiasm were most in evidence, she welcomed in herself a rush of
tenderness for him.
His frequent demonstrations of affection she accepted with a sort of
passive pleasure, as might an affectionate child, but she dwelt little
on the subject of outer demonstrations in her own thoughts, aware that
Nicholas, disappointed, had at first thought her unawakened, and then
frigid.
There were many thoughts, indeed, upon which she lacked courage to
dwell in her resolute suppression of the lurking consciousness of an
irrevocable mistake.
She hoped that she might have a child, and then, forlornly, that
repeated disappointment and anxiety might not alienate Nicholas's love
for her, which she knew subconsciously, to be the thing in him that she
cared for most.
Nearly four years after her marriage she had a long illness, and once
more the hope of motherhood was taken from her.
"Poor child!" said Nicholas, much harassed.
He was very busy, and it distressed him to think of the many hours that
he was out of the house.
"That nurse is no companion for you--stupid, uneducated woman. I wish
we could get hold of a younger one. Or is there anyone whom you'd like
to have, little girl? What about one of the Hardinges?"
"No, thank you," said Lily wearily. She did not want Janet or Sylvia
with her. "I think I'd rather be alone. I'm so tired--and nurse is
really very kind."
But Nicholas was not satisfied. To please him, Lily made pretence that
she would like to invite Miss Stellenthorpe to stay with her, and was
secretly relieved when Aunt Clo, in the minute handwriting described
by herself as "scholarly," wrote and lamented that she could not leave
Italy for another six weeks.
* * * * *
"Alas, _Bambina mia_, that I should not be able to fly to you! But
there is one here who needs me--a sick, broken creature, whose bruised
soul requires patience and tenderness. Yours, my Lily, is a sickness of
the body. This other has been deeply, cruelly, wounded in the spirit.
Can I, who have plumbed the very depths, refuse to give of my healing,
such as it may be?
"But courage, little one! I will fly to you when once this frail craft
has been piloted into safe harbour. Ah, these conflicting claims! Are
they the penalty exacted of Strength, I ask myself? I smiled with
a great tenderness, my Lily, at your enclosure, and the many words
in which you wrapped the offering. These things matter so little!
Nevertheless, you know that I have denuded myself of much, and I
accept, with willing and gracious thanks, your so charming thought. It
matters little to me how I travel to you, but an you will it to be in
the luxury of a _wagon-lit_, so be it!
"In six weeks, then, my beloved child."
* * * * *
There was never any formal beginning to Aunt Clo's letters, and her
signature, launched abruptly onto the page with no conventional
valedictory phrase, was a complicated hieroglyphic of initials,
understood to be characteristic.
"What a splendid person she is," Nicholas remarked, as he did with
punctuality whenever Miss Stellenthorpe was mentioned, "always helping
somebody. Helping lame dogs over stiles, eh?"