During dinner I bore the whole burden of conversation--though burden I did
not find it. Like most close-mouthed men, I am extremely talkative. Silence
sets people to wondering and prying; he hides his secrets best who hides
them at the bottom of a river of words. If my spirits are high, I often
talk aloud to myself when there is no one convenient. And how could my
spirits be anything but high, with her sitting there opposite me, mine,
mine for better or for worse, through good and evil report--my wife!
She was only formally responsive, reluctant and brief in answers,
volunteering nothing. The servants waiting on us no doubt laid her manner
to shyness; I understood it, or thought I did--but I was not troubled.
It is as natural for me to hope as to breathe; and with my knowledge of
character, how could I take seriously the moods and impulses of one whom I
regarded as a childlike girl, trained to false pride and false ideals? “She
has chosen to stay with me,” said I to myself. “Actions count, not words or
manner. A few days or weeks, and she will be herself, and mine.” And I went
gaily on with my efforts to interest her, to make her smile and forget the
role she had commanded herself to play. Nor was I wholly unsuccessful.
Again and again I thought I saw a gleam of interest in her eyes or the
beginnings of a smile about that sweet mouth of hers. I was careful not to
overdo my part.
As soon as we finished dessert I said: “You loathe cigar smoke, so I'll
hide myself in my den. Sanders will bring you the cigarettes.” I had myself
telephoned for a supply of her kind early in the day.
She made a polite protest for the benefit of the servants; but I was firm,
and left her free to think things over alone in the drawing-room--“your
sitting-room,” I called it, I had not finished a small cigar when there
came a timid knock at my door. I threw away the cigar and opened. “I
thought it was you,” said I. “I'm familiar with the knocks of all the
others. And this was new--like a summer wind tapping with a flower for
admission at a closed window.” And I laughed with a little raillery, and
she smiled, colored, tried to seem cold and hostile again.
“Shall I go with you to your sitting-room?” I went on. “Perhaps the cigar
smoke here--”
“No, no,” she interrupted; “I don't really mind cigars--and the windows are
wide open. Besides, I came for only a moment--just to say--”
As she cast about for words to carry her on, I drew up a chair for her.
She looked at it uncertainly, seated herself. “When mama was here--this
afternoon,” she went on, “she was urging me to--to do what she wished.
And after she had used several arguments, she said something I--I've been
thinking it over, and it seemed I ought in fairness to tell you.”