"So you say."
Then she flamed and turned upon him, in such anger as he had never seen from her before.
"What are you doing? What are you trying to do? D'you want to smash up your home? D'you want me away? If my record these seventeen years is that of a woman you can't trust out of your sight, then say so and I shall know what to do. But think—think for God's sake first, and use your wits, and get your mind clear of all this beastliness. Try and look at life from my point of view, for a change, if you can. I'm many years younger than you and I married you for pure love, well knowing that I'd have to give up a few things—nothing compared with the joy of wedding with you—but little knowing how many things I'd have to give up. I've lived here—and never hungered for the pleasures—the fun and stir—that meant so much to me; I've let much that would have made my life fuller and happier go without a sigh, because I had what was better; and now—now, in sight of middle age—this. And I'll not endure it, Jacob. Much I'd endure—anything—everything in justice and reason but this is out of reason. It's a needless thorn—a scourge for an innocent back. You wish you could look in my heart. I wish to God you could; and you'd see what would shame you—shame you. D'you know what stock I am, if you don't know what I am myself? And I tell you this: I've been a good, faithful mother to your children and a good, faithful wife to you. That all the world knows, and if I was to start and whine about being kept like a broody hen under a coop, there's many would sympathise with me and blame you; but if you were to whisper in any ear on earth that I was not all I ought to be, the people would call you a moon-struck liar—and that's what you would be."
"I don't shout my troubles, Margery."
"No; because you well know what they'd sound like if you did. Instead you breathe the bad air of 'em, and let 'em foul and sicken you. They only look out of your eyes when I look into them. You take cruel, good care to hide them from everybody else—and so do I—for common decency. Why d'you hide them? Tell me that. And I tell you I won't much longer hide them—I swear I won't. If you think evil of me, then let it out. Point your finger at me before the people and hear what they'll say about it. I've lived your life without a murmur, but if so to do, and sink myself in you as I have done, is to win no better reward than—— There, we'd best to leave it before I say what could never be unsaid."
He did not immediately answer. He was impressed—for a moment relieved. Her indignation rang true. He felt disposed to express sorrow and even promise practical proofs of his regret at causing her such suffering; but he considered deeply first. He had to convince himself that these words were sincere and not merely uttered by a woman acting cleverly to hide her cherished secrets. They sounded as though from her heart: she had never spoken with such passion; but such a clever woman might be quite capable of pretending, if she thought it wise. He wanted to believe her; for if he could do so, it would lift his immense agony off his shoulders at one gesture and lighten the load of the past as well as promise some brighter hope in the present. He perceived that, if he could believe her, the situation was saved, for he would have no difficulty in thinking of a thousand things to prove the sincerity of his own regret and the size of his own amendment. He would not be ashamed to confess his errors to Margery, if she could convince him that they were errors.
They walked silently side by side for a few hundred yards and she waited for him to speak. She grew calmer and realised the quality of her tremendous counter-attack. She had never stripped him bare to himself in this fashion; but she did not regret a word. She was hating him heartily while she spoke. Only his tyranny and her long endurance held her thoughts. Apart from his own troubles, which she scorned as the folly of a lunatic, she was glad that opportunity had offered to remind him of hers. He had outraged her, and no word that she could speak was too hard for him. So she still felt.
Her temper rose again at his continued silence.
"Things are at a climax now," she said, "and I won't have no more doubt and darkness between us. It's wrong and sordid and mean and hateful. You've got to say you're sorry, Jacob—you've got to tell me straight out, in plain words, that you're sorry for what you've thought against me, for God knows how long. You've got to do it, and you've got to show me you mean it. Either that, or I'll leave you. I'll go and live my own clean life and not share yours another week."
"That's quite true, Margery. There's no third course."