Read Online Edith Wharton - SSC 10 by The World Over (v2.1) - Free Book Online

wife.
                 Charlotte took heart; perhaps, after all, she had not
spent her last shaft. She drew nearer and once more laid her hand on his arm. “Poor Kenneth! If you knew how sorry I am for you—”
                 She
thought he winced slightly at this expression of sympathy, but he took her hand
and pressed it.
                 “I
can think of nothing worse than to be incapable of loving long,” she continued;
“to feel the beauty of a great love and to be too unstable to bear its burden.”
                 He
turned on her a look of wistful reproach. “Oh, don’t say that of me. Unstable!”
                 She
felt herself at last on the right tack, and her voice trembled with excitement
as she went on: “Then what about me and this other woman? Haven’t you already
forgotten Elsie twice within a year?”
                 She
seldom pronounced his first wife’s name; it did not come naturally to her
tongue. She flung it out now as if she were flinging some dangerous explosive
into the open space between them, and drew back a step, waiting to hear the
mine go off.
                 Her
husband did not move; his expression grew sadder, but showed no resentment. “I
have never forgotten Elsie,” he said.
                 Charlotte could not repress a faint laugh. “Then, you
poor dear, between the three of us—”
                 “There
are not—” he began; and then broke off and put his hand to his forehead.
                 “Not
what?”
                 “I’m
sorry; I don’t believe I know what I’m saying. I’ve got a blinding headache.”
He looked wan and furrowed enough for the statement to be true, but she was
exasperated by his evasion.
                 “Ah, yes; the gray-envelope headache!”
                 She
saw the surprise in his eyes. “I’d forgotten how closely I’ve been watched,” he
said coldly. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go up and try an hour in the
dark, to see if I can get rid of this neuralgia.”
                 She
wavered; then she said, with desperate resolution: “I’m sorry your head aches.
But before you go I want to say that sooner or later this question must be
settled between us.
                 Someone
is trying to separate us, and I don’t care what it costs me to find out who it
is.” She looked him steadily in the eyes. “If it costs me your love, I don’t
care! If I can’t have your confidence I don’t want anything from you.”
                 He
still looked at her wistfully. “Give me time.”
                 “Time for what? It’s only a word to say.”
                 “Time to show you that you haven’t lost my love or my confidence.”
                 “Well,
I’m waiting.”
                 He
turned toward the door, and then glanced back hesitatingly. “Oh, do wait, my
love,” he said, and went out of the room.
                 She
heard his tired step on the stairs and the closing of his bedroom door above.
Then she dropped into a chair and buried her face in her folded arms. Her first
movement was one of compunction; she seemed to herself to have been hard,
unhuman, unimaginative . “Think of telling him that I
didn’t care if my insistence cost me his love! The lying
rubbish!” She started up to follow him and unsay the meaningless words.
But she was checked by a reflection. He had had his way, after all; he had
eluded all attacks on his secret, and now he was shut up alone in his room,
reading that other woman’s letter.
                   
     
  III.
 
 
                 She
was still reflecting on this when the surprised parlourmaid came in and found
her. No, Charlotte said, she wasn’t going to dress for dinner;
Mr. Ashby didn’t want to dine. He was very tired and had gone up to his room