Selma flushed at the reference to divorce. Littleton's sad, simple statement wore on the surface no sign of a design to hark back to her experience with her first husband, yet she divined that it must be in his thoughts and she resented the recurrence. Moreover, separation, certainly for the present, went beyond her purpose.
"I have no wish for divorce or separation. I see no reason why we should not continue to live as we are," she answered. "To separate would cause scandal. It is not necessary that people should know we have made a mistake. I shall merely feel more free now to live my own life—and there is no telling that you may not some day see things from my point of view and sympathize with me more." She uttered the last words with a mixture of pathos and bright solicitation.
Littleton shook his head. "I agree with you that to go on as we are is our best course. As you say, we ought, if possible, to keep the knowledge of our sorrow to ourselves. God knows that I wish I could hope that our life could ever be as it was before. Too many things have become plain to me in the last half-hour to make that possible. I could never learn to accept or sympathize with your point of view. There can be no half-love with me, Selma. It is my nature to be frank, and as you are fond of saying, that is the American way. I am your husband still, and while I live you shall have my money and my protection. But I have ceased to be your lover, though my heart is broken."
"Very well," said Selma, after a painful pause. "But you know, Wilbur," she added in a tone of eager protestation, "that I do not admit for a moment that I am at fault. I was simply trying to help you. You have only yourself to blame for your unhappiness and—and for mine. I hope you understand that."
"Yes, I understand that you think so," he said sadly.
CHAPTER IX.
The breach between Littleton and his wife was too serious to be healed, for he was confronted by the conviction that Selma was a very different being from the woman whom he had supposed that he was marrying. He had been slow to harbor distrust, and loath, even in the face of her own words, to admit that he had misinterpreted her character; but this last conversation left no room for doubt. Selma had declared to him, unequivocally, that his ideas and theory of life were repugnant to her, and that, henceforth, she intended to act independently of them, so far as she could do so, and yet maintain the semblance of the married state. It was a cruel shock and disappointment to him. At the time of his marriage he would have said that the least likely of possible happenings would be self-deception as to the character of the woman he loved. Yet this was precisely what had befallen him.
Having realized his mistake, he did not seek to flinch from the bitter truth. He saw clearly that their future relations toward each other must be largely formal; that tender comradeship and mutual soul alliance were at an end. At the same time his simple, direct conscience promptly indicated to him that it was his duty to recognize Selma's point of view and endeavor to satisfy it as far as he could without sacrifice of his own principles. He chose to remember that she, too, had made a mistake, and that he was not the kind of husband whom she desired; that his tastes were not her tastes, nor his ambitions her's; that she had tastes and ambitions of her own which he, as the man to whom she was bound by the law, must not disregard. Thus reasoning, he resolved to carry out the scheme of life which she appeared to despise, but also to work hard to provide her with the means to fulfil her own aims. She craved money for social advancement. She should have it from him, for there was no other source from which she could obtain it. The poignancy of his own sorrow should not cause him to ignore that she had given up her own career and pursuits in order to become his wife, and was now disappointed and without independent resources. His pride was sorely wounded, his ideals shattered and his heart crushed; yet, though he could not forbear from judging Selma, and was unconscious of having failed in his obligations to her as a husband and a man, he saw what she called her side, and he took up the thread of life again under the spur of an intention to give her everything but love.
On her part Selma felt aggrieved yet emancipated. She had not looked for any such grave result from her vituperation. She had intended to reprove his surrender of the Parsons's contract, in direct opposition to her own wishes, with the severity it deserved, and to let him understand clearly that he was sacrificing her happiness, no less than his own, by his hysterical folly. When the conversation developed stubborn resistance on his part, and she realized that he was defending and adhering to his purpose, a righteous sense of injury became predominant in her mind over everything else. All her past wrongs cried for redress, and she rejoiced in the opportunity of giving free vent to the pent up grievances which had been accumulating for many months. Even then it was startling to her that Wilbur should suddenly utter the tragic ultimatum that their happiness was at an end, and hint at divorce. She considered that she loved him, and it had never occurred to her that he could ever cease to love her. Rather than retract a word of her own accusations she would have let him leave her, then and there, to live her own life without protection or support from him, but his calmer decision that they should continue to live together, yet apart, suited her better. In spite of his resolute mien she was sceptical of the seriousness of the situation. She believed in her heart that after a few days of restraint they would resume their former life, and that Wilbur, on reflection, would appreciate that he had been absurd.
When it became apparent that he was not to be appeased and that his threat had been genuine, Selma accepted the new relation without demur, and prepared to play her part in the compact as though she had been equally obdurate in her outcry for her freedom. She met reserve with reserve, maintaining rigorously the attitude that she had been wronged and that he was to blame. Meantime she watched him narrowly, wondering what his grave, sad demeanor and solicitous politeness signified. When presently it became plain to her that not merely she was to be free to follow her own bent, but that he was ready to provide her with the means to carry out her schemes, she regarded his liberality as weakness and a sign that he knew in his heart that she was in the right. Immediately, and with thinly concealed triumph, she planned to utilize the new liberty at her disposal, purging any scruples from her conscience by the generous reflection that when Wilbur's brow unbent and his lips moved freely she would forgive him and proffer him once more her conjugal counsel and sympathy. She was firmly of the opinion that, unless he thus acknowledged his shortcomings and promised improvement, the present arrangement was completely to her liking, and that confidence and happiness between them would be utterly impossible. She shed some tears over the thought that unkind circumstances had robbed her of the love by which she had set such store and which she, on her part, still cherished, but she comforted herself with the retort that its loss was preferable to sacrificing weakly the development of her own ideas and life to its perpetuation.