Book Three—Chapter Twenty Two.
Marriage, like every other relationship in life, becomes with time a matter of usage. One by one the demands which the ardour of passion exacts relax imperceptibly, and love finds its level on a practical basis of mutual interests in the common daily round.
Hallam’s marriage was a reversal of the usual order, in which generally it falls to the woman to adapt herself more or less to the altered conditions. In their case the change affected him more materially than it affected Esmé: his life had become, as it were, uprooted, and the roots did not strike freely in new soil. The change was not agreeable to him; but his love for his wife was of a quality which helped him to endure with a certain dogged patience many things that formerly he would not have entertained for a moment. He suppressed his own inclinations: to a large extent he suppressed his feelings: mentally his life with her was a series of small deceptions, of pretences practised deliberately for the purpose of misleading her. He feared to disappoint her. His mind became a storehouse of reserved thoughts and inhibitions upon which he turned the key, locking its surprises against her.
In certain respects, though she was unaware of this, he was a stranger to her: one side of his nature remained hidden from her, the weaker side, which most urgently needed her loving sympathy, and which shrank from exposure and misunderstanding with a sensitiveness of which he was conscious and secretly ashamed. He was not the type of man to make an appeal even to the woman he loved. He gave more than he exacted. He gave more than she realised in her ignorance of the sacrifices he made in his attempts to bridge the abysmal gap in temperaments. For her sake he endured many things which were to him boring and annoying in the extreme. He made stupendous efforts to subdue his prejudices and adjust his life to meet the new demands. But the nature of the man remained unchanged and suffered as a result of the artificial conditions of his self-imposed obligations.
Three brief years of married happiness passed; and then Hallam began at first moderately, and always secretly to drink again.
For a time Esmé was unaware of this relapse on his part; for a further period she suspected it but could not be sure. Then the old symptoms reappeared with terrible convincingness: she saw his hands grow shaky, his whole appearance degenerate, till he looked as she had seen him first on the stoep of the hotel at the Zuurberg, older, ill, nervous and morose, with a disregard for public opinion and a growing indifference as to whether she knew or not.
Esmé’s eyes opened to the condition of things after a short visit paid to her sister, which Hallam readily agreed to her accepting but refused to accept for himself. He had no wish to see his wife’s relations; he preferred to remain at home.
She parted from him reluctantly. A feeling of anxiety gripped her at the thought of leaving him alone. It was their first separation since their marriage. But she wanted to see her sister again. Rose’s letter was reproachful; it conveyed the suggestion that the writer was hurt by her neglect. The neglect on Esmé’s side was not wilful: she had wished to have her sister to stay with her; but Hallam had always seemed so disinclined to entertain any member of her family that she had been obliged to give up the idea. But when Rose’s letter came urging her to take a trip round to the Bay, she decided that she ought to go, unless she wished for a complete estrangement between them. Hallam was quite agreeable. He booked her a passage and saw her off by the boat; but at the last moment he showed a strong disinclination to part from her, and almost persuaded her to give up the idea and return with him.
“It’s too absurd,” she said: “we are like a pair of children. Why don’t you come with me?”
“No,” he said. “I’ll wait at home for you. Don’t stay longer than you need.”
She watched him descend to the quay, and, leaning on the rail, looking down at him, the first intimation that things were not quite as they should be dawned on her, and filled her with a sense of uneasiness which grew with every hour of her separation from him.
In the end she curtailed her visit and returned unexpectedly by train.
She had sent a telegram informing Hallam when to expect her; and she found him on the platform waiting for her, and was struck immediately by the change in him. Her heart sank within her, but she forced a smile to her lips and accompanied him out of the station and got into the waiting taxi. He opened the door for her, fumbling with the catch with unsteady fingers, and got in after her and sat down heavily.
“It didn’t take you long to discover that home’s the best place,” he remarked, with a sideways furtive look at her. “How did you find them all? Jim still grousing, I suppose? And the small boy a perennial note of interrogation?”
“Everything was much the same,” she answered in a dispirited voice. “They were all a little older in appearance, and the children have grown tremendously. I wish you had been with me. Rose was hurt, I think, because you did not go.”
“Oh, really! I should have thought she would have felt relieved.”
“Why?”
He disregarded the question. Abruptly he put out an unsteady hand and laid it upon hers.
“Tired?” he asked.
“A little.” She twisted her hand round in her lap and her fingers closed upon his. “What have you been doing during my absence?”
“Mainly missing you,” he answered. “A reversion to one’s bachelor days is a dull sort of holiday.”
“I know. But what was I to do? I don’t want to lose touch altogether with my ain folk.”
“I have no folk,” he said, “so I can’t understand these family ties. I think them a bore. But if you had a good time that’s the chief thing. You’ve a lot of friends at the Bay, and you find pleasure in them. My friends are silent companions and are better suited to my taste. How did your people think you were looking? None the worse for being tied to this dull person, I hope?”
She laughed and squeezed his hand.
“They were impressed with my staid appearance, and the fact that I am putting on weight,” she said. “I didn’t realise it myself until Jim told me I was getting fat.”
“That is a Jim-like touch,” he returned, and glanced at her cursorily. “The grossness is not apparent to me. Did you meet Sinclair during your stay?”
“Yes,” she said, and looked surprised that he should ask the question. That he had once been jealous of Sinclair was unknown to her.
“And does he still wear the willow for your sake?”
“He isn’t married,” she answered. “But I don’t think that has anything to do with me.”
She regretted that he had opened this subject. The memory of Sinclair was a distress to her. The change in him had struck her more forcibly than the change in any member of her own family. The difference in him was not due alone to the passing years. He was altered in manner as much as in appearance; all the boyish gaiety had departed: he was older, more thoughtful; the irresponsible gladness of youth, formerly so noticeable a characteristic of his, was missing. She could have wept at the change in him. He was still her devoted slave. During her visit he had haunted her sister’s house. He had claimed the privilege of friendship and put himself at her disposal. He was always at hand when she needed him. And never once by word or gesture had he attempted to overstep the boundary of friendship. She felt grateful to him for his consistent and considerate kindness. She did not want to discuss him, even with Paul.
Hallam did not pursue the subject. He fell into silence and left her to do the talking. During the remainder of the drive she chatted fragmentally and brightly of her doings while she had been away. Principally she talked about the children. The sight of John and Mary, the sound of their gay young voices, their insistent claim upon the general attention, had brought home to her the absence of the one great interest in her own home. She wanted children intensely; and it did not seem that her desire would ever be satisfied. A child would have completed her married happiness.
Something of what was in her thoughts she managed to convey to Hallam when they reached the house and entered together, her arm within his. Alone in the drawing-room, when he held her in his embrace and kissed the bright upturned face, she slipped her hands behind his neck and looked back at him with tender loving eyes.
“Paul,” she whispered, “I wish we had a child of our very own—a wee scrap of soft pink flesh, with tiny clinging hands. My dear, my dearest, I do so want a child!”
He gazed down at her, troubled and immeasurably surprised, and gently kissed the tremulous lips. He had never given any thought to the matter until now, when he realised the aching mother-hunger expressed in her desire: she had concealed it so successfully hitherto. He did not himself wish for children; the thought of them even was an embarrassment. With clumsy tenderness he stroked her hair.
“It seems as though it is not to be,” he said. “I didn’t know you cared so much, sweetheart.”
“Don’t you care?” she asked. “I!” He seemed surprised. “I’ve got you,” he said, and drew her close in his embrace.