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to
rest; later she would have something brought on a tray to the drawing-room. She
mounted the stairs to her bedroom. Her dinner dress was lying on the bed, and
at the sight the quiet routine of her daily life took hold of her and she began
to feel as if the strange talk she had just had with her husband must have
taken place in another world, between two beings who were not Charlotte Gorse
and Kenneth Ashby, but phantoms projected by her fevered imagination. She
recalled the year since her marriage—her husband’s constant devotion; his
persistent, almost too insistent tenderness; the feeling he had given her at
times of being too eagerly dependent on her, too searchingly close to her, as
if there were not air enough between her soul and his. It seemed preposterous,
as she recalled all this, that a few moments ago she should have been accusing
him of an intrigue with another woman! But, then, what—
Again
she was moved by the impulse to go up to him, beg his pardon and try to laugh
away the misunderstanding. But she was restrained by the tear of forcing
herself upon his privacy. He was troubled and unhappy, oppressed by some grief
or tear; and he had shown her that he wanted to fight out his battle alone. It
would be wiser, as well as more generous, to respect his wish. Only, how
strange, how unbearable, to be there, in the next room to his, and feel herself
at the other end of the world! In her nervous agitation she almost regretted
not having had the courage to open the letter and put it back on the hall table
before he came in. At least she would have known what his secret was, and the
bogy might have been laid. For she was beginning now to think of the mystery as
something conscious, malevolent: a secret persecution before which he quailed,
yet from which he could not free himself. Once or twice in his evasive eyes she
thought she had detected a desire for help, an impulse of confession, instantly
restrained and suppressed. It was as if he felt she could have helped him if
she had known, and vet had been unable to tell her!
There
flashed through her mind the idea of going to his mother. She was very fond of
old Mrs. Ashby, a firm-fleshed clear-eyed old lady, with an astringent
bluntness of speech which responded to the forthright and simple in Charlotte ’s own nature. There had been a tacit bond
between them ever since the day when Mrs. Ashby senior, coming to lunch for the
first time with her new daughter-in-law, had been received by Charlotte
downstairs in the library, and glancing up at the empty wall above her son’s
desk, had remarked laconically: “Elsie gone, eh?” adding, at Charlotte’s
murmured explanation: “Nonsense. Don’t have her back. Two’s
company.” Charlotte , at this reading of her thoughts, could hardly refrain from exchanging
a smile of complicity with her mother-in-law; and it seemed to her now that
Mrs. Ashby’s almost uncanny directness might pierce to the core of this new
mystery. But here again she hesitated, for the idea almost suggested a
betrayal. What right had she to call in any one, even so close a relation, to
surprise a secret which her husband was trying to keep from her? “Perhaps, by
and by, he’ll talk to his mother of his own accord,” she thought, and then
ended: “But what does it matter? He and I must settle it between us.”
She
was still brooding over the problem when there was a knock on the door and her
husband came in. He was dressed for dinner and seemed surprised to see her
sitting there, with her evening dress lying unheeded on the bed.
“Aren’t
you coming down?”
“I
thought you were not well and had gone to bed,” she faltered.
He
forced a smile. “I’m not particularly well, but we’d better go down.” His face,
though still drawn, looked calmer than when he had fled upstairs an
rest; later she would have something brought on a tray to the drawing-room. She
mounted the stairs to her bedroom. Her dinner dress was lying on the bed, and
at the sight the quiet routine of her daily life took hold of her and she began
to feel as if the strange talk she had just had with her husband must have
taken place in another world, between two beings who were not Charlotte Gorse
and Kenneth Ashby, but phantoms projected by her fevered imagination. She
recalled the year since her marriage—her husband’s constant devotion; his
persistent, almost too insistent tenderness; the feeling he had given her at
times of being too eagerly dependent on her, too searchingly close to her, as
if there were not air enough between her soul and his. It seemed preposterous,
as she recalled all this, that a few moments ago she should have been accusing
him of an intrigue with another woman! But, then, what—
Again
she was moved by the impulse to go up to him, beg his pardon and try to laugh
away the misunderstanding. But she was restrained by the tear of forcing
herself upon his privacy. He was troubled and unhappy, oppressed by some grief
or tear; and he had shown her that he wanted to fight out his battle alone. It
would be wiser, as well as more generous, to respect his wish. Only, how
strange, how unbearable, to be there, in the next room to his, and feel herself
at the other end of the world! In her nervous agitation she almost regretted
not having had the courage to open the letter and put it back on the hall table
before he came in. At least she would have known what his secret was, and the
bogy might have been laid. For she was beginning now to think of the mystery as
something conscious, malevolent: a secret persecution before which he quailed,
yet from which he could not free himself. Once or twice in his evasive eyes she
thought she had detected a desire for help, an impulse of confession, instantly
restrained and suppressed. It was as if he felt she could have helped him if
she had known, and vet had been unable to tell her!
There
flashed through her mind the idea of going to his mother. She was very fond of
old Mrs. Ashby, a firm-fleshed clear-eyed old lady, with an astringent
bluntness of speech which responded to the forthright and simple in Charlotte ’s own nature. There had been a tacit bond
between them ever since the day when Mrs. Ashby senior, coming to lunch for the
first time with her new daughter-in-law, had been received by Charlotte
downstairs in the library, and glancing up at the empty wall above her son’s
desk, had remarked laconically: “Elsie gone, eh?” adding, at Charlotte’s
murmured explanation: “Nonsense. Don’t have her back. Two’s
company.” Charlotte , at this reading of her thoughts, could hardly refrain from exchanging
a smile of complicity with her mother-in-law; and it seemed to her now that
Mrs. Ashby’s almost uncanny directness might pierce to the core of this new
mystery. But here again she hesitated, for the idea almost suggested a
betrayal. What right had she to call in any one, even so close a relation, to
surprise a secret which her husband was trying to keep from her? “Perhaps, by
and by, he’ll talk to his mother of his own accord,” she thought, and then
ended: “But what does it matter? He and I must settle it between us.”
She
was still brooding over the problem when there was a knock on the door and her
husband came in. He was dressed for dinner and seemed surprised to see her
sitting there, with her evening dress lying unheeded on the bed.
“Aren’t
you coming down?”
“I
thought you were not well and had gone to bed,” she faltered.
He
forced a smile. “I’m not particularly well, but we’d better go down.” His face,
though still drawn, looked calmer than when he had fled upstairs an
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