A lady and her husband

by Amber Reeves Blanco White

But she could not find any courage or any justice in her heart, she could find nothing but horror. It was impossible—it was unbearable. She tried to think calmly, but James's tread as he walked about the room seemed to break down her attempts to reason, to excuse, to lift herself above mere bitterness and suffering. She closed her eyes, but a moment later she opened them again, because the sound of his feet had stopped.

James, as he walked, could only abuse himself. Fool!—he'd been worse than a fool! He could not imagine now what had kept him from speaking, what had made him drag out all this. It was only a chance that he had remembered it—red hair. Now he would have to explain, to tell her about it, or God knows what infamy she would be imagining! But what good would his explanation be—how could he make her understand? When a woman knows as little of evil as Mary....

His heart sank, he felt a sudden fear of the unknown. By his minutes of hesitation, of silence, he asked himself, what had he done? He turned suddenly, and glanced across at the sofa. As he saw Mary lying there, her eyes shut and her face contorted, he was shaken by a wave of nervous anger. Why was she carrying on like that? he thought, in the phrase of his boyhood—she had insisted on asking her question, why couldn't she take the answer like a man? An instant later he was horrified with himself for his brutality. How could he be thinking of anything now but of how to make it easier for her? What had he better do? He went to the sofa, and as he looked down on her, she opened her eyes. For a moment they faced one another, but their gaze meant nothing—each was too tormented to find access to the other's thought. Then James spoke. "I think, if you don't mind, it would be better if I told you," he said; "I don't want you to imagine——"

Mary still looked at him without knowing why. "Yes, I think so," she agreed.

James did not find it possible to stand there, staring like that. He started again on his restless walk. "It was a woman I'd known—before I knew you—she wasn't a bad sort, I always felt kindly towards her. She came to me years afterwards because she was in trouble, hadn't any money, and asked me to help her. She was very unhappy because she felt that she was getting old, and that she wasn't as beautiful as before, and I—really—she seemed to expect it—I didn't want to hurt her feelings—" He had been going to add, "It seemed so natural," but he pulled himself up. A sudden horror had seized him of himself, of what he was saying, of the conversation. It was appalling that he should be speaking to Mary of things like this! It was indecent.

The story, the simple facts, restored some of Mary's self-control. She could realise, as a definite event, what in the abstract had seemed incredible. She drew a deep breath and tried to face the position. "Then you never cared for her?" she asked him. James turned round again. "Of course I never cared for her, I never dreamed of caring. Didn't I tell you that I have never cared for anyone but you!" It seemed to him just then that his not having cared for her was of vital importance. Whatever else Mary did not realise she must realise that. "I'd forgotten all about her, until you reminded me." Good God! that he should be standing there, in front of Mary, justifying himself!

Mary shivered. She did not disbelieve James, but what he said seemed to her incredible. How was it possible to do what James had done and not care? It did not occur to her to feel sorry for James, for his discomfort and his humiliation, but she found herself for a moment pitying the woman who dwelt in so monstrous a world. To be a woman of whom a man could say, "I never dreamed of caring!"

Then a new doubt assailed her. "When was it?" she cried. "Oh, James, was it anybody I know?"

But James could bear it no longer. Every instinct of self-preservation urged him to stop her questions. And he did not want her to know when it had happened. She would not understand. "I don't think I need tell you," he said. "She wasn't much of a woman, but who she is, is her affair, and the other is mine."

Mary did not understand him. "How do you mean, yours?"