"And you always went there such a lot before we were married."
This, too, was undeniable. "At the same time," I replied, "I have other
friends. I'm fond of the Blackwoods and the Peterses, I'm not advocating
seeing less of them, but their point of view, if taken without any
antidote, is rather narrowing. We ought to see all kinds," I suggested,
with a fine restraint.
"You mean--more worldly people," she said with her disconcerting
directness.
"Not necessarily worldly," I struggled on. "People who know more of the
world--yes, who understand it better."
Maude sighed.
"I do try, Hugh,--I return their calls,--I do try to be nice to them. But
somehow I don't seem to get along with them easily--I'm not myself, they
make me shy. It's because I'm provincial."
"Nonsense!" I protested, "you're not a bit provincial." And it was true;
her dignity and self-possession redeemed her.
Nancy was not once mentioned. But I think she was in both our minds....
Since my marriage, too, I had begun to resent a little the attitude of
Tom and Susan and the Blackwoods of humorous yet affectionate tolerance
toward my professional activities and financial creed, though Maude
showed no disposition to take this seriously. I did suspect, however,
that they were more and more determined to rescue Maude from what they
would have termed a frivolous career; and on one of these occasions--so
exasperating in married life when a slight cause for pique tempts husband
or wife to try to ask myself whether this affair were only a squall,
something to be looked for once in a while on the seas of matrimony, and
weathered: or whether Maude had not, after all, been right when she
declared that I had made a mistake, and that we were not fitted for one
another? In this gloomy view endless years of incompatibility stretched
ahead; and for the first time I began to rehearse with a certain cold
detachment the chain of apparently accidental events which had led up to
my marriage: to consider the gradual blindness that had come over my
faculties; and finally to wonder whether judgment ever entered into
sexual selection. Would Maude have relapsed into this senseless fit if
she had realized how fortunate she was? For I was prepared to give her
what thousands of women longed for, position and influence. My resentment
rose again against Perry and Tom, and I began to attribute their lack of
appreciation of my achievements to jealousy. They had not my ability;
this was the long and short of it.... I pondered also, regretfully, on my
bachelor days. And for the first time, I, who had worked so hard to
achieve freedom, felt the pressure of the yoke I had fitted over my own
shoulders. I had voluntarily, though unwittingly, returned to slavery.
This was what had happened. And what was to be done about it? I would not
consider divorce.
Well, I should have to make the best of it. Whether this conclusion
brought on a mood of reaction, I am unable to say. I was still annoyed by
what seemed to the masculine mind a senseless and dramatic performance on
Maude's part, an incomprehensible case of "nerves." Nevertheless, there
stole into my mind many recollections of Maude's affection, many passages
between us; and my eye chanced to fall on the ink-well she had bought me
out of the allowance I gave her. An unanticipated pity welled up within
me for her loneliness, her despair in that room upstairs. I got up--and
hesitated. A counteracting, inhibiting wave passed through me. I
hardened. I began to walk up and down, a prey to conflicting impulses.
Something whispered, "go to her"; another voice added, "for your own
peace of mind, at any rate." I rejected the intrusion of this motive as
unworthy, turned out the light and groped my way upstairs. The big clock
in the hall struck twelve.
I listened outside the door of the bedroom, but all was silent within. I
knocked.
"Maude!" I said, in a low voice.
There was no response.
"Maude--let me in! I didn't mean to be unkind--I'm sorry."