Читать книгу The Wayfarers - Mary Stewart Cutting - Страница 5

They both sat dreamily watching the blue pinnacle of flame

Lois had married her husband because of the bright honor and force of character which attracted others, and because of his conquering love for her. She would have felt it impossible for any girl in her senses not to have loved Justin if he wanted her to, although he was the most unconscious of men as to his powers in that way. She had exulted in the thought that when other women were satisfied with mere half-men, her lover was a Saul among his brethren; and she was not deceived in her estimate of him—the honor, the sweetness, the force, the nobility of disposition which made it a pain for him to make note of the defects of those he liked, the love of her—all were there; but she was beginning gradually to find out, after all these years, that inside that shining outer circle of character was a whole world of thought and feeling and preference and habit of which she knew nothing—only as time went on did she begin to perceive the extent of it.

Those disappointing moments when they were not in accord—whole days sometimes dropped out of the week—left a void which no caresses filled. It hurts a woman to be forgotten both before and after she is kissed. Lois had discovered with resentful surprise that her husband was one of those men to whom women, in spite of the companionship of wedlock, are a thing apart, to be mentally left and returned to. Those disappointing moments and days were not the intimation of a transitory feeling, but evidences of a permanent quality that grew instead of lessening. She could hardly believe this, although she felt it, and was continually seeking for disclaimers of what she knew. Barred indefinitely from some larger interest, her efforts to reach her husband on the known lines became more and more trivial, more and more futile. The first years had held a certain floridity of living, of affection, in which one was always striving in some way to keep up the first feelings; everything was more or less upsetting,—marriage, babies, sickness, housekeeping,—years when domestic situations changed their shape daily, an evening together depending on whether the baby slept or waked; an entertainment abroad depending not only on that, but on the event of the servants being in or out, or on the event of having any at all. There were summer afternoons when Lois had wept because her husband had gone to the tennis courts, without her, and days when she had gone with him, after elaborately arranging babies and household matters to that end; when she had kept him waiting while she dressed, and they had started off heated and asunder in the broiling sun to something which she did not enjoy after all, and had kept him from enjoying. It was strange to find that the profession of a wife and mother seemed to imply a contradiction to everything that she had ever been before.

The meeting on the boat had brought a dear delight with it, a revivifying warmth which here, in this intimate stillness of the night, was lacking.

When she spoke again it was to say: “When do you take the new place?”

“Next month.”

“I am so glad you will be your own master at last! Will you go in on a later train in the mornings, dear?”

“I’ll take an earlier one.”

“But then you’ll come out sooner in the afternoon?”

“I’ll come out much later.”

“Oh, oh!” she sighed, with the prevision of long hours of loneliness for herself.

“At least, you can take more than that miserable two weeks’ holiday in the summer.”

“My dear girl, I shall probably have no vacation at all. You don’t understand; I’ve got to work.”

There was another pause. The fire was burning low, and the room had sunk into partial obscurity. She was the first to speak, as before, conquering anew the tremulousness in her voice:

“Did you hear me say that Theodosia is coming next month?”

“Yes. How long is she to stay?”

“For all winter. She’s to study music, you remember?”

“For all winter!” He sat up straight with the emphasis of his words. “Why, where will you put her?”

“Oh, I’ll manage that. But I do wish we had a larger house; this is maddening sometimes.”

“Perhaps we’ll be able to build some day.”

“Oh, if we could really have our own house!”

She paused, her imagination leaping forward to that future which is the summit of good to suburban dwellers, when the contracted space of a rented house can be changed for a roomy one honeycombed with impossible closets and lined with hard-wood floors throughout.

“I know exactly how I should furnish it; I saw the loveliest things to-day in town.”

Already the thought of brass and mahogany and Oriental rugs, rich in texture and delicious in coloring, filled her mind.

To Lois, an intelligent and practical woman, the possession of money meant the opportunity to buy; the possession of yet more money would mean more opportunity to buy. To Justin, on the other hand, it meant the ability to pay; the comfort of being able to accede, with ease and promptness, to the demands upon him. Like most American husbands in his station, the sum spent upon house and family far exceeded in ratio his own personal expenses. There were a few luxuries which he casually looked forward to enjoying, but beyond this money represented to him pre-eminently further business possibilities, the power to play competently in the great game, with the result of a sufficient provision for his wife and children in case of his death. His heart leaped now at the thought of taking a front rank among the players. If in this next year——

“Do you think I had better buy the new rug when I go to town Friday, or wait until next month?” asked Lois suddenly.

“You had better wait,” said Justin, with decision. He rose, and added: “You must go to bed, Lois.”

She rose also, in obedience, and he kissed her officially.

“Good night.”

“You are not going to sit up later!”

“Just a minute. I want to light the candle and look for something in this paper I forgot to notice earlier.”

He loved his wife, but felt, without owning it, that he must stay for a brief space beyond the sound of her voice.

“Now, don’t wait another moment, or you’ll get cold.” He spoke authoritatively. “The fire’s almost out.”

He had already turned from her, and was sitting down by the dim flicker of the newly lighted candle, absorbed once more in figures, with the newspaper before him. The midnight hour had failed of its inspiration; both experienced the spiritual dearth and fatigue which follows time-worn and trivial conversation.

Lois’ pensive eyes were full of a wistful question as she left the room; but after a slight interval she returned with a gliding step and softly placed a fresh log upon the dull red embers of the dying fire, and fanned them noiselessly until a flame leaped out again, holding her white draperies to one side the while, with one long curl falling across her bosom. As her husband looked up, her beautiful self-forgetting smile shone out and became a part of the light around him before she vanished once more through the doorway.