The Bird in the Box

by Mary M. Mears

More than once she went to Simon's study determined to speak her mind, but the door remained steadfastly closed against her.

As it was Saturday, Simon did not return to the shop in the afternoon, nor did he emerge from the study at dinner time, and Theresa, with a sly rolling of the eye in her mistress's direction, prepared a tray for him. Simon always expressed his anger by an increase of coldness and silence and by shutting himself up in this way. "He's in there," Rachel reflected, "thinking and drinking." And she preferred the liquor, the effect of which she had often noted, to his thoughts, the effect of which she could not calculate. Until a late hour she heard him walking backward and forward with irregular steps over the echoing floor, and it was after midnight when his door opened and he descended the stairs. This was an old-fashioned house with a cellar and there the wine was kept. It was to the cellar she knew he had gone. Determined to seize the opportunity of speaking to him, she threw a wrapper over her nightdress and hurried after him through the darkened house. He had turned on the light in the hanging electric bulb, and when she came upon him he was standing before a table on which was placed a case of wine. In all probability he had been drinking brandy and was finishing with claret. To her surprise, as if actuated by mere thirsty impatience, she saw him strike off the neck of a bottle. This action in a man of his fastidious habits was big with meaning. He lifted the bottle to his lips, his head flung back. He did not see her until she touched his arm.

"Simon," she cried, "this can't go on!"

Thinking she referred to the liquor, he set down the bottle and regarded her with an abashed and amazed look. His long face, without its usual mask, was fairly pitiful. Later he would not be able to forgive her for surprising him in this way. But she was bent solely on making her confession.

"Simon," she cried, laying hold of the sleeve of his coat, "I was wrong in what I said this afternoon. I own I was wrong; and I ask you to forgive me. But there should be no secrets between us and I have no wish to disguise anything. Simon"—and her eyes, usually serious and a little sulky, flew to his face and clung there brilliant with appeal—"you must know that my feeling for Mr. St. Ives existed before I ever knew you; it is a part of myself. I can't explain it; but it does you no wrong. And never could do you any wrong."

During this explanation Simon had grown paler than was his wont. Pushing aside her hands and standing off from her, he had begun by drawing his fingers nervously through his fringe of hair; but as she proceeded, he became absolutely motionless and his face assumed the lines of a tragic mask.

"I would not have things different even if I could," she went on; "I am content with you and you know it. But oh,"—and she threw, out both hands in a gesture exceedingly simple and genuine,—"please do not misconstrue what you cannot, perhaps, understand!"

But at this point he interrupted her with a violent movement that threw the bottle of wine to the stone floor where the contents spilled in a red flood. "Once and for all," he cried, articulating the words with difficulty, "I want you to know that I will not listen to your analysis. I may deplore your interest in—in St. Ives—I do deplore it, but I do not wish to hear anything of it."

He had put a special accent on the word interest and Rachel once more closely examined his face. Was it possible that he purposely misconstrued the situation and chose to close his eyes to what he believed—or had he understood her? "For it is possible for a woman, as well as a man," she told herself vehemently, "to love two, and to love each differently." Gallant, courageous little heart! Thus did she disguise the truth even from herself.

The wine pouring from the bottle had splashed the bedroom slippers of light felt which she had slipped over her bare feet. Now with a movement, wholly womanly, she bent and tried to remove the spots by rubbing them with her hand, while the loosened mass of her hair, dropping forward, half enveloped her like a veil.