(From _Lloyd's Story Magazine_)
1922
Charlie had no true vice in him. All the same, a man may be overtaxed,
over-harassed, over-routined, over-driven, over-pricked, over-preached
and over-starved right up to the edge; and then the fascination of the
big space below may easily pull him over.
But his wife's uncle's assertion that he must always, inwardly, have
been naturally wild and bad, was as wrong as such assertions usually
are, for he was no more truly vicious than his youngest baby was.
On the warm evening when he came home on that fateful autumn day,
Charlie had been pushed, in the course of years, right up to the edge,
and was looking into the abyss, though he was hardly aware of it, so
well had he been disciplined. He emerged from a third-class carriage of
the usual train without an evening paper because his wife had shown him
the decency of cutting down small personal expenses, and next morning's
papers would have the same news in anyway; he walked home up the
suburban road for the four thousandth five hundredth and fiftieth time;
entered quietly not to disturb the baby; rubbed his boots on the mat;
answered his wife brightly and manfully; washed his hands in cold
water--the hot water being saved for the baby's bath and the washing-up
in the evenings--and sat down to about the four thousandth five
hundredth and fiftieth cold supper.
His wife said she was tired and seemed proud of it.
"But never mind," she said, "one must expect to be tired." He went on
eating without verbally questioning her; it was an assertion to which
she always held firmly. But in his soul something stirred vaguely, as
if mutinous currents fretted there.
"I have been thinking," she said, "that you really ought not to buy
that new suit you were considering if Maud is to go to a better school
next term. I have been looking over your pepper-and-salt, and there are
those people who turn suits like new. You can have that done."
"But----" he murmured.
"We ought not to think of ourselves," she added.
"I never have," said Charlie in rather a low voice.
"We ought to give a little subscription to the Parish Magazine," she
continued. "The Vicar is calling round for extra subscriptions."
Charlie nodded. He was wishing he knew the football results in the
evening paper.
His wife served a rice shape. She doled out jam with a careful hand and
a measuring eye. "We ought to see about the garden gate," she said.
"I'll mend it on Saturday," Charlie replied.
"I was thinking," she said presently, "that we ought to ask Uncle Henry
and Aunt round soon. They will be expecting it."
Charlie put his spoon and fork together, hesitated and then replied
slowly: "Life is nothing but 'ought.' 'Ought' to do this: 'Ought' to do
that."
His wife looked at him, astonished. He could see that she was
grieved--or rather, aggrieved--at his glimmer of anarchy.
"Of course," she explained at last. "People can't have what they like.
There's one's duty to do. Life isn't for enjoyment, Charlie. It's given
to us ... it is given to us...."
As she paused to crystallise an idea, Charlie cut in.
"Yes," he said, "it is given to us.... What for?"
He leaned his head on his hand. He was not looking at her. He was
looking at the cloth, weaving patterns upon it. And with this question
something of boyhood came upon him again, and he weaved visions upon
the cloth.
"To do one's duty in," she replied gently, but rebukingly.
Charlie did not know the classic phrase, "Cui bono." He merely
repeated:
"What for?"
After supper he helped her to wash up, for the daily help left early in
the afternoon; and then he asked her, idle as he knew the question to
be, if she would like to come for a walk--just a short walk up the
road.