There was a sort of dreary surrender in his tone; but every inflection of his voice, and every glance, conveyed passionate love for me. I should have felt no reproach or misgiving had it been otherwise, but his apparent giving up, and hopelessness, touched me.
I do not know that I have done right. I have not mentioned the subject, nor has he referred to it in any way since he got back this evening. I don't know that it is anything sufficiently out of the usual order of things to justify my decision. That Edgar is cruelly disappointed is certain. That he does not reproach me is certain. That he loves me better than he ever has done before, is certain.
Two months ago, had I greeted him after a twenty-four hours' absence as indifferently as I fear I did to-night, he would not have forgotten it in a month, but he was so thoroughly engrossed in his own happiness in getting home to me to-night, that he did not even notice my manner.
I feel my purpose suddenly shaken. The memory of his face, its resignation, its weary expression, haunts me. One moment I am impelled to say "I will do anything you ask," and the next, I am seized with repulsion at the thought of accomplishing anything by such a means.
The idea of a woman's receiving adulation from another man than her husband, seems a scandalous thing; but the idea of her courting it—setting out with a deliberate purpose to win it—seems monstrous.
And yet, if Edgar doesn't rebel, I don't really see much excuse for obstinacy on my part. It does seem a little "far fetched" in me when I come to consider the circumstances. If it were a usual thing, a thing that would be considered as a matter of course, I should feel less strongly about it, but it is so extraordinary—at least it seems so to me.
I can imagine Mrs. Hetherington exclaiming: "Disgraceful!" and see Gladys's look of cold surprise, tinged with her ironical expression that she preserves for the little, unconventional escapades of A, B and C. This kind of thing is intolerable to me. When I think of this, every fibre of my body resents the possibility of such a thing. And when I remember his face to-night, I can no longer think on the other side of the question.
He is over at the Arlington at this moment, engaged in heaven knows what, that will send him home to me looking more depressed and miserable than ever.
Some one taps lightly on the door, and opens it without ceremony, and Helen throws down her pen as Braine enters.