One Man's View

by Leonard Merrick

The maid came back, and he forced himself to dine. The first spoonfuls of the soup he took were but heat, entirely tasteless, to his mouth, and at the pit of his stomach a sensation of sickness rose and writhed like something living. When she retired once more, his head fell forward on his arms; it was a relief to rest it so. He did not know how he could support the long strain of her vigilance.

By degrees his stupor began to pass, as he stared at the vacant place where his wife should have sat; the dazed brain rallied to comprehension. His wife was not there because she was with her lover! Oh, God! with her "lover"—Mamie had given herself to another man! Mamie! Mamie had gone to another man. His face was grey and distorted now, and the glass that he was lifting snapped at the stem. She had gone. She was no longer his wife. She was guilty, shameless, defiled—Mamie!

He rose, an older, a less vigorous, figure.

"I shall be busy to-night," he muttered; "don't let me be disturbed."

He went to his study, and dropped upon the seat before his desk. Her photograph confronted him, and he took it down and held it shakenly. How young she looked! was there ever a face more pure? And Heaven knew that he had loved her as dearly only an hour ago as on the day that they were married! Not a whim of hers had been refused; not a request could he recollect that he had failed to obey. Yet now she was with a lover! She smiled in the likeness; the eyes that met his own were clear and tender; truth was stamped upon her features. He recalled incidents of the past three years, incidents that had been rich in the intimacy of their life. Surely in those hours she had loved him? That had not been gratitude—a sense of duty merely?—had she not loved him then? He remembered their wedding-day. How pale she had been, how innocent—a child. Yet now she was with a lover! A sob convulsed him, and he nodded slowly at the likeness through his tears. Presently he put it back; he was angered at his weakness. He had deserved something better at her hands! Pride forbade that he should mourn for her. He had married wildly, yes, he should have listened to advice; Francis had warned him. Perhaps while he wept, they were laughing at him together, she and Field! How did he know that it was Field—had she mentioned his name in the letter? He knew that it was Field instinctively; he marvelled that he had not foreseen the danger, and averted it. How stupid had the petitioners in divorce suits often appeared to him in his time!—he had wondered that men could be so purblind—and he himself had been as dense as any!... But she would not laugh. Ah, guilty as she was, she would not laugh—she was not so vile as that! The clock in the room struck one. He heard it half unconsciously—then started, and threw out his arms with a hoarse cry. He sprang to his feet, fired with the tortures of the damned. The sweat burst out on him, and the veins in his forehead swelled like cords. He was a temperate man, at once by taste and by necessity, but now he walked to where the brandy was kept and drank a wineglassful in gulps. "Mamie!" he groaned again; "Mamie!" The brandy did not blot the picture from his brain; and he refilled the glass.... Nothing would efface the picture.

He knew that it was hopeless to attempt to sleep, yet he went to the bedroom. The ivory brushes were gone from the toilet-table—she had been able to think of brushes! In the wardrobe the frocks were fewer, and the linen was less; the jewellery that he had given to her had been left behind. All was orderly. There were no traces of a hurried departure; the room had its usual aspect. He looked at the pillows. Against the one that had been hers lay the bag of silk and lace that contained her night-dress. Had she forgotten it; or was it that she had been incapable of transferring that? He picked it up, and dropped it out of sight in one of the drawers.

He did not go to bed; he spent the night in an armchair, re-reading the letter, and thinking. When the servant knocked at the door, he went to his dressing-room, and shaved. He had a bath, and breakfasted, and strolled to the station. Outwardly he had recovered from the blow, and his clerk who gave him his list of appointments remarked nothing abnormal about him. In court, Heriot remembered that Mamie and he were to have dined in Holland Park that evening, and during the luncheon adjournment he sent a telegram of excuse. If any one had known what had happened to him, he would have been thought devoid of feeling.

He had scarcely re-entered the flat when Mrs. Baines called. His first impulse was to decline to see her; but he told the maid to show her in.

A glance assured him that she was ignorant of what had occurred.

"Dear Mamie is away, the servant tells me," she said, simpering. "I hadn't seen her for such a long time that I thought I'd look in to-day. Not that I should have been so late, but I missed my train! I meant to come in and have a cup of tea with her at five o'clock. Well, I am unfortunate! And how have you been keeping, Mr. Heriot?"