It had seemed to her sometimes that he was not a human being at all. She
was not able to tell what was buffoonery and what was real. If there
were anything real in him.... It filled her with despair; she wondered
if she had really done him any good. And when she doubted that, there
was no foundation left for her life. If it hadn’t helped him, then all
her misery was in vain, the terrible years which stretched before her
would be filled with a pain quite useless, quite barren.
Her health began to fail. The irregular life, the fantastic meals
Lawrence insisted upon, the noisy parties which kept her up night after
night until almost dawn, the unceasing anxiety and unhappiness were too
much for her. She did her very best; she was kind, patient, and loyal;
she struggled to stifle her dreadful regrets, her disillusionment, she
clung desperately to the one belief that kept her from absolute despair,
the belief that she was indispensable, that Lawrence needed her and
could not do without her.
He had singularly few friends. He knew almost every artist of
reputation, but casually. He had been engrossed in his desire to enter
society, and he hadn’t troubled much with his colleagues. His chief
object in “entering society” had been to find a rich wife; and although
he knew that any such thing would now have been impossible, still he
blamed Rosaleen in his heart.
At last he had started this infernal “borrowing.” And Rosaleen had
consented. It outraged her pride, her self-respect, her dignity; but it
didn’t seem _wicked_ to her. She thought that perhaps it was her duty to
sacrifice this pride and self-respect for the sake of her husband. One
man after the other....
Landry interrupted her.
“Didn’t they ever make love to you?” he asked, brutally. “Didn’t they
expect anything in return? Or were they all fools--like me?”
“I hardly _know_!” she said, wearily. “I never bothered.... I only had
to get money....”
“Which you knew you couldn’t repay. That didn’t bother you either, did
it?”
“Yes, it did! But I always hoped and hoped that some day I could, in
some way. Mr. Landry, what was I to _do_?”
“There are women who’d rather die than be dishonourable.”
Her pale face flushed again.
“I wouldn’t have done it for myself,” she said. “I wouldn’t have thought
of such a thing.... But I _couldn’t_ let Lawrence want!”
Landry stood up.
“Listen to me, Rosaleen!” he said. “There’s just one hope for you.
Either you leave this demoralising, degrading atmosphere at
once--or----”
“Or what?” she asked, with interest.
“Or else I’m done with you.”
She shook her head sadly.
“No,” she said. “It’s no use talking like that. I shouldn’t dream of
leaving him, ever. I only wanted you to understand. I couldn’t bear for
you not to. But I see that you don’t. Do you, Mr. Landry?”
“I don’t know!” he said, miserably.
They were silent for a very long time. The ceiling shook from the
dancing feet in the studio overhead, but no sound reached them. They
were completely isolated in there, behind the drawn red curtains. At
last Rosaleen looked up.
“_Anyway_,” she said. “I think the best thing is--not to see each other
any more.”
She waited.
“Don’t _you_?” she asked.
He regarded her, the unhappy wife, the victim of so many peoples’
selfishness, and it suddenly occurred to him that after all, she wasn’t
much more than a young girl. Only twenty-four.... The thought startled
him. She was so young, so friendless, and yet so strong. She hadn’t
gone under, she was not destroyed. What did that wretched “borrowing”
amount to anyway? How had he dared reproach her with it?... He felt as
if he could never take his eyes from that worn face, with its beautiful
honesty and benevolence. After all, there must be some force in her
forlorn youth that was greater than intellect, more irresistible than
beauty, something indestructible, beyond his comprehension....
He turned away, dazzled by his vision.
“Yes,” he said. “It _is_ best!”