“If it’s any help to Mrs. Haddon to have me go in with you, I’ll be glad,” said Joslin directly. “She has been very good to me. I’m going back up river tomorrow as far as the Forks.
“But I’ve got to be going now,” he added, and so turned away to the street gate, so shaken with white anger that he scarce cared where he went.
Haddon, mumbling, rose and went into the house, leaving his wife alone. Not long later she heard a giggle, a protest, a chuckle of low laughter. James Haddon had chucked the comely Widow Dunham under the chin, had cast an arm across her somewhat ample shoulders.
“Who was that talkin’ outside?” queried the widow.
“Oh, that? It was that long-legged chambermaid you had working here last year—Jucklin—Joslin—— What’s his name? Never mind him—won’t I do? At least I used to.”
The widow replied in such fashion as was obvious. Their joint murmured, low-laughing conversation became unescapable for the single auditor on the gallery. At length Marcia Haddon rose. Something came upon her on the instant, some swift, unappointed revolt, an unspeakable disgust with the married bondage she had so long borne unwillingly. She could not speak with her husband—quietly she passed the two and went into her own room.
He followed her, after a time, and there she turned upon him suddenly, her cheeks burning in two red spots.
“Jim, I can’t stand this sort of thing any longer. I can’t—I can’t—and I will not!”
He stood suddenly crestfallen at this sudden revolt of one long thought so passive. She went on hurriedly.
“It’s gone too far. If it’s not one woman, it’s another. It’s in your blood now—you’ve been at this sort of thing so long you can’t stop. I’ve been ashamed for years. How can I help knowing?”