Part 26

"I don't know why it should be. Is he cruel to you?"

"No, that is, he doesn't beat me or anything of that sort. He isn't coarse. But there's a refined sort of cruelty that hurts worse. I--I couldn't bear it any longer, and so I came away."

"Was he willing for you to come?"

"I didn't ask him. I just came."

Madame's glasses dropped from her aristocratic nose in astonishment. "Why, my dear Mrs. Lee! How could you!"

"Edith, please, if you will," she answered, wiping her eyes. Then she laughed bitterly. "Don't be kind to me, for I'm not used to it and it weakens my armour of self-defence. Tell me I'm horrid and have done with it."

"Poor child," breathed Madame. "Poor, dear child!"

For a few moments the young woman bit her lips, keeping back the tears by evident effort. Then, having gained her self-control, she went on.

"I'm twenty-eight, now," she said. "I remember mother used to say she always had her suspicions of a woman who was willing to tell the truth about her age."

"Sounds just like her," commented Madame, taking up a dainty lavender silk stocking that had "run down" from the hem.

"I've been married six years, but it seems like twenty. Almost from the first, there has been friction between us, but nobody knows it, except you--unless he's told his friends, and I don't think he'd do that. We've both had a preference for doing the family laundry work on the premises."

"What?" queried Madame, missing the allusion.

"Not washing our soiled linen in public," Edith explained. "While I live with my husband as his wife, we stand together before the world as far as it is in my power to manage it. I do not intentionally criticise him to anyone, nor permit anyone to criticise him. I endeavour to look ahead, protect him against his own weakness or folly, and, as far as a woman's tact and thought may do, shield him from the consequences of his own mistakes. I lie for him whenever necessary or even advisable. I have tried to be, for six years, shelter, strength, comfort, courage. And," she concluded bitterly, "I've failed."

"How so?"

"We live in the same house, but alien and apart. We talk at the table as two strangers might in a crowded restaurant or hotel, that is, when he's there. I dare not ask people to dinner, for I never know whether he's coming or not. He might promise faithfully to come, and then appear at midnight, without apology or excuse."

"He supports you," suggested Madame, glancing at the sea-green crêpe.

"Yes, of course. That is, the question of money hasn't arisen between us, one way or another. I have no children, father and mother left me plenty of money, and I don't mind using it in any way that seems advisable. In fact, if I had to, I'd rather pay the household bills than beg for money, as many a wife is compelled to do--or, for that matter, even ask for it. It isn't as if I had to earn it myself, you know. If I had to, I'd probably feel differently about it, but, as it is, money doesn't matter between us at all.

"Friends of mine," she resumed, "have to resort to all sorts of subterfuges. I know women who bribe the tradespeople to make their bills larger than they should be and give them the difference in cash. I know men who seem to think they do their wives a favour by paying for the food they themselves eat, and by paying their own laundry bills. Then, every once in a while, I see in some magazine an article written by a man who wonders why women prefer to work in shops and factories, rather than to marry. It must be better to get a pay-envelope every Saturday night without question or comment, than it is to humiliate your immortal soul to the dust it arose from, begging a man for money to pay for the dinner he ate last night, or for the price of a new veil to cover up your last year's hat."

"All this," said Madame, threading her needle again, "is new to me. I live so out of the world, that I know very little of what is going on outside."

"Happy woman! Perhaps I should be happy, also, since this particular phase of the problem doesn't concern me. Money may not be your best friend, but it's the quickest to act, and seems to be favourably recognised in more places than most friends are. For the size of it, a check book is about the greatest convenience I know of."

The brown eyes were cold now, and their soft lights had become a glitter. The scarlet mouth was no longer sweet and womanly, but set into a hard, tight line. Colour burned in her cheeks--not a delicate flush, but the crimson of defiance, of daring. She was, as she sat there, a living challenge to Fate.

"Is he happy?" queried Madame.

"I suppose so. His ideal of a wife seems to be one who shall arrange and order his house, look after his clothing, provide for his material comfort, be there when he comes, sit at the head of his table, dressed in her best, when he deigns to honour dinner with his presence, ask no questions as to his comings or goings, keep still if he prefers to read either the morning or evening paper while he eats, and to refrain from annoying him by being ill, or, at least, by speaking of illness.

"I saw, once, a huge cocoa-husk door-mat, with the word 'Welcome' on it in big red letters. I've been sorry ever since that I didn't buy it, for it typified me so precisely. It would be nice, wouldn't it, to have at your front door something that exactly indicated the person inside, like the overture to a Wagner opera, using all the themes and motifs that were coming? That's what I've been for six years, but, if a worm will turn, why not a wife?"

"If you'll excuse me for saying so," Madame answered, in a tone of quiet rebuke, "I don't think it was quite right to come away without letting him know you were coming."

"Why not?"

"He'll wonder where you are."

"I've had plenty of opportunity to wonder where he was."