I do not say that it is a queer thing about a man of this quality, but it is one of the abortive characteristics of every man of this quality, that he has a dog-in-the-manger instinct always toward the wife he discards. He expects her to remain cravenly faithful to him, to love and cherish him tearfully and patiently while he takes a whiff around, because, heaven bless us, isn’t that the nature of good and chaste women? It was. And yet here was Helen, instantly assuming the autonomous attitude of a free state. She was making no effort to hold him or save him.
Hang it all, a man never could understand a woman! Here he was standing before his discarded wife, having done the best he could for her, divided his fortune with her, released her from her normal duties to him, while he might have kept this property and lived as he pleased. And in spite of all this, he was made to feel strangely humiliated, worthless and unspeakable to her. This was what her look and manner meant. Good heaven, he could not slink off defeated like this! He had meant to go with his head up, not diminished. The sting of that would interfere with his pleasure, and he had made expensive plans for a gratifying existence in New York.
“What I want, Helen,” he began after this tumultuous pause, speaking in the husband tone of voice, “is a sensible understanding, not a breach. I have provided for you as my wife should be provided for. If you should ever need my help or protection—”
“You have barely time to make your train,” she interrupted, glancing at the clock and keeping her eye now on this clock. Her voice was not that of a wife, but of a lady, speaking probably to some agent whom she was determined to get out of the house before he sold her something she did not want and could not use.
“Oh, very well, if you won’t be reasonable!” he exclaimed as he strode flashily past her.
But when he reached the door he halted, looked back at her like an actor being put out of the scene and required by his lines to pause, show indecision, the fangs of his outraged emotions to the appreciative audience. But there was no audience to witness Cutter’s histrionic exit; only this neat, cool, little star of a lady with flaming cheeks, whose eyes remained resolutely upon the face of the clock.
This man, who a while ago could not bear the touch of his wife’s hand, experienced a momentary revulsion toward his own future, to all it offered. He wanted to go back, take Helen in his arms, kiss her, feel the cleanness and sweetness of her goodness and nearness to him. But this was only momentary. He remembered the dullness of the years. He must buck up, he told himself hastily; just let him get through, escape this last tug of the old life and he would be a free man. Beneath this shrewd calculation of himself, there was a faint premonition that he had better not go back in there to perform these last sacred rites of parting with his wife. He was afraid of her, as criminals fear law.
He went out, closing the front door softly behind him. He walked hurriedly toward the station, disturbed and shamed by the thoughts his very steps seemed to toss up in his mind. For months, while his affair in New York was progressing lightly but surely toward this crisis, he had dreaded this scene with Helen. He had felt for her, the distress and anguish she must suffer at the idea of losing him. He had always been as sure as that of her deep devotion. Now it appeared that he had lost Helen. He realized suddenly that he had counted on her. Whatever he became, back here in that quiet house Helen would always be his wife. She was not the woman to think of a divorce.
Well, he had been a fool not to have understood all along that Helen would be true to herself as usual, to her own convictions, whatever they were. And he was no longer one of these convictions. Life was a mess, anyhow. If a man failed, he had poverty pawing at his door. If he succeeded, made a fortune, his nature, his tastes and desires all changed. If only Helen had gone out and made a name or a fortune, achieved something in the world, he supposed she would be different too. Maybe she would have understood—
The whistle of a locomotive in the distance ended these speculations. He stepped from the pavement and swung with long strides down the railroad track to where the sleeping cars would stop. A moment later there was a rattle of the rails, a roar and a grinding of brakes. The self-bereaved husband climbed aboard, walked magnificently up the aisle of the car to his section, sat down, rumbled a command to the porter and heaved a sigh.