“A son or a daughter would be company for you now,” he said after a pause.
“Yes; it’s been dull, not having them with me now. One grows so quiet inside. It must be a little like dying, to be getting older and stiller all the time.”
He could not bear this. He had a vision of what had happened to her. And now it was too late; she was predestined, even as he was doomed to his fate.... What follies love imposed upon youth! He had loved her and taken her, when she belonged to another kind of man, when he might have been happy with another kind of woman. Now he no longer loved her, and the other woman might give him pleasure, but never peace or happiness.... He supposed, after all, there must be something moral about happiness. Well, then, why had he missed happiness with Helen? Heaven knew she was made of every virtue. And he had kept his vows to her. He had not actually broken faith with her—yet.
He rose and walked to the other end of the garden. He stood with his back to Helen, still thinking fiercely, like a man trying with his mind to break the bonds that held him.... What a horror that this woman should be his wife. Nothing could change that. She was not of his kind. She was different; that was the whole trouble. If she were not his wife she would be the sort of woman he would never notice or meet. In view of everything—the vision of life and society, and what was coming to a man of his quality—he regarded it as remarkable that he had been so long faithful to her. It was stupid, silly, bucolic—the kind of husband he had been to this kind of wife!
He turned. Helen was still seated on the bench. The sight of her filled him with irritation, a sort of peevish remorse. He was going to have the deuce of a time getting through his next encounter with her. He meant to put it off to the last minute. Meanwhile he simply must get to himself, away from her. If she hung about he felt that he might lose control of himself. And he must be careful not to say anything which he might regret afterwards.
He came back, stepping briskly along the walk, passed her as he would have passed a carpenter’s wife on the street and went on toward the house.
Helen’s eyes had met him far down the walk. They followed him until he disappeared around the corner of the house. Then, as if she had received some dreadful warning from within, she pressed her hand to her breast, her lips unfolded, her cheeks blanched, her eyes widened as if she beheld the very face of fear.
What was this? George was not like himself. She was aware of some frightful change in him. There was a flare about him, something feverish, disheveled in his apparent neatness. She began to think over this day, his unexpected return that morning. Now that she came to think of it, there was no train upon which he could have arrived at that hour. His reserve, it was a fortification. She realized that now.
She sprang up, started for the house. Something had happened, something horrible. What was it? She must see George. She must touch him, speak to him.
She found him seated on the veranda with the afternoon paper spread before him, held up so that she could see only the top of his head, not his face. She stood struggling with herself. She wished to run to him, fling herself upon his breast and cry out: “George, what has happened? Do you love me? I am your wife. Kiss me.”