She read the letter through twice, and then she stood for a few minutes
looking in front of her, with her arms hanging loosely by her sides,
and her foot tapping on the carpet. She was looking into the future
with the thoughtful gaze of one who has cut off all communication with
the past, and, with a strange feeling of detachment, she was wondering
how that future would reveal itself, and whether he. . .? She crossed
to the fireplace, sat down, and read the letter over again.
Her husband had gone out that evening with a friend. In his usual
hit-or-miss fashion, he kissed his wife and asked her to settle his
tie. He was always asking her to do something, but he never did
anything for her.--It was, "Will you hand me the paper, like a good
girl?" and, "I say, dear, my pipe is stuffed, you might stick a hairpin
through it," or, "You might see, old lady, if there is a match
anywhere." Before their marriage she had been accustomed to men who
did things for her, and the change was sudden: likeable enough at
first--
. . . How red the fire is to-night! They must be sending better coal
than we usually get--there is not a single dark spot in it, and how the
shape continually changes! Now it is a deep cave with stalactites
hanging from the roof, and little swelling hillocks on the floor, and,
over all, a delicate, golden glow surging and fading. The blue flame
on the top that flits and flickers like a will-o'-the-wisp is gas, I
suppose--I wonder how they extract it. . . . I wonder will he be sorry
when he comes home, and finds. . . . Perhaps his friend will be
sufficient for him then. . . . It is curious to think of oneself as a
piece of animated furniture, a dumb waiter, always ready when required,
and decently out of sight when not wanted--not dumb, though! He cannot
say I failed to talk about it: but, of course, that is nagging and bad
temper, and "making yourself ridiculous for nothing, my dear."
Nothing! I warned him over and over again; but he must have company.
He would be stifled unless he went among men now and again--"Male
company is a physical necessity for men, my dear." I suppose women do
not need any other company than that of their husbands, and they must
not ask too much of that. . . . What strange, careless, hopeful
creatures they are, and how they cease to value what they have got!
Does the value rise again when it is gone, I wonder? . . . Out all
day, and he cannot understand why I ask him to stay with me at night.
"A man wants air, sweetheart." A woman does not, of course--she would
not have the cheek to want anything: there is something not "nice"
about a woman wanting anything. Do all men stifle in the air their
wives have breathed? If I ask him "do you love me still?" he replies,
"of course, do you mind if I run out for an hour or two, dear." One
will ask questions, of course. . . . A kiss in the morning, another at
night, and, for Heaven's sake, don't bother me in the interval: that is
marriage from a man's point of view. Do they really believe that women
are alive? Is matrimony always a bondage to them? Are all women's
lives so lonely? Are their wishes neglected, their attempts to think
laughed at, their pride stricken?--I wonder. . . . And he did love me,
I know that: but if he has forgotten I must not remember it. He could
not see enough of me then: and the things he said, and does not
remember--I was a wonder that the world could not equal--it is
laughable.--A look from me was joy, a word delight, a touch ecstasy.
He would run to the ends of the earth to gratify a whim of mine, and
life without me was not worth living. . . . If I would only love him!
If I could only bring myself to care for him a little--he was too
humble, too unworthy to imagine--and so forth, and so forth; and it was
all true then. Now I am some one who waits upon him. He wants this
and that, and asks me for it. He has cut his finger and shouts for me
to bind it up, and I must be terribly concerned about it; somehow, he
will even manage to blame me for his cut finger. He cannot sleep in
the night, so I must awaken also and listen to his complaint. He is
sick, and the medicine tastes nasty; I am to understand that if the
medicine tastes nasty I am responsible for it--I should not have given
him anything nasty: he is surprised: he trusted me not to do such a
thing to him. He turns to me like a child when he has any . . . he
turns to me like a child and trusts . . . he turns to me . . . like a
child. . . .
The sound of a horse's hooves came to her, and she arose from her chair
with frightened haste. She looked swiftly at the clock, and then stood
listening in a rigid attitude, with a face that grew white and peaked,
and flushed and paled again. The car came swiftly nearer and stopped a
little way from the house. Then a foot crunched the gravel, and her
desperate eyes went roving quickly about the room as though she were
looking for a place to hide in. Next, after a little interval of
silence, a pebble struck the window. She stood for a moment staring at
the window and then ran to it, swung open a pane of glass, and, leaning
out, she called in a high, strained voice, "I will not go." Then,
closing the window again, she ran back to the fireplace, crouched down
on the rug and pushed her fingers into her ears.
Her husband came home before eleven o'clock, brushed the wraith of a
kiss half an inch from her lips, and asked was there anything nice for
supper? The supper things were already on the table, and, after
tasting a mouthful--
"Who cooked this?" said he.