Fergus stirred nervously and blushed a little, perhaps in doubt of what Clarence was to say.
“It’s about Ellen,” Clarence repeated, looking down at the quilt. “I don’t think she’s happy and I don’t know what to do about it.”
The boy laughed. “Oh, she’s always like that.... It doesn’t mean anything. She used to be cross with us at home most of the time.” He knew Ellen well enough. She was a cross, bad-tempered girl whom you could control if you understood the method.
“I don’t mean that.... I’ve known her when she’s like that.... This is different.” He halted for a moment and fell to tracing the design on the quilt with his thin finger. He was thinking, thinking, trying to explain. “No, it’s not like that,” he said presently. “It’s worse than that. She never complains.... She never says anything. Only it doesn’t go away.... It hangs ... like a cloud. I’m not meaning to complain about her.... It’s my fault if it’s any one’s.... But she’s sad now ... in spite of anything I can do.” And then he added painfully, “She’s unhappy.”
Fergus waited. He sat with the air of a man desiring to escape, as if he would in some way repel these confidences and force Clarence into silence. He hated confidences, sorrow, trouble, of any sort. But Clarence was not to be silenced. He even grew a little excited.
“You see, the trouble goes back farther than that.... I can’t explain it.... I don’t know how.... Only she’s never belonged to me at all. She’s always escaping me.... And I try and try.”
“It’s her music,” repeated Fergus. “She’s crazy about it.... She always has been.” Sitting there he seemed the symbol of a youth which could have no belief in disaster. He would never be hurt as Clarence was being hurt.
Clarence, ignoring the interruption, continued. “I married her and she’s my wife.... She’s a good wife and she does everything for me.... She never refuses me anything....” He coughed and, looking down, added, “Not even herself.”
The color in Fergus’ cheeks flamed out now. He too became ill at ease.
“Don’t think,” said Clarence, “that I mean to complain. It’s all my fault. A man ought to be able to make his wife happy.... I’ve tried hard. I’ve tried to make money. I’m good to her ... but....” He trailed into silence for a time and when he returned it was easy to say, “But somehow she escapes me always.... There’s something in her that doesn’t belong to me. I don’t know what it is because I’ve never been able to discover it.... And you can’t talk to her about such things.... I’ve tried. Once I got almost to the point and she said, ‘Don’t worry, Clarence. You mustn’t take things so seriously.... I’m all right. Don’t think about me.’ But I can’t help thinking, because when she’s unhappy I am too, because I love her so much. I’d do anything for her.”