"She was afraid that I—that people might think her old and foolish."
"And you made her believe that she was—I mean, wasn't?"
"Yes, and I told her that you had often said that people ought to consider it a duty to—to live so that—that they would enjoy the companionship of suitable companions when—they got up in years, and that an elderly person living around among relatives was to be pitied."
It was a garbled version of an argument I had used during a previous discussion on the propriety of second marriages. I had contended, with personal indifference, that to an impersonal entity, left alone in this vale of tears with no embarrassing family ties, and feeling no dread of complications in a future state of existence, a second marriage might prove both expedient and happy. This suggestion I had offered in entire innocence, as I might have distended a paper bag for a child to burst, fancying it would please Marion, as it usually did, to worry a weak argument to tatters; an operation which I enjoyed for the sake of seeing her eyes flash and the becoming color that mounted to her cheeks. But when, amid a torrent of tears, she accused me of being just like other men, and of planning to marry another wife, I was struck dumb with horror. It was painful enough to be brought face to face with the thought of her dying first, but to be branded as a probably faithless wretch was agony. I can try to justify myself for wrong-doing; I can resent the injustice of being blamed for actions that I refrain from; but when I suffer for deeds that I wouldn't do in the distant future I am staggered by improbable possibilities. Given the opportunity, might I not have caused the death of my great-great-grandfather? Consequently, I remained silent, guiltily silent, in appearance; and Marion no longer condemned second marriages—at least, she hadn't for some months—as a disgrace to civilization, her manner indicating sorrowful resignation to the inevitable.
It is strange, but true, that I didn't know what was coming; and yet I thought I knew, too well. My wife had apparently told her aunt of my supposititious inclinations; they had wept in each other's arms; they had apperceived together; awful thought, they had apperceived ME.
Never before had I been so moved. I rose to my feet, my teeth tightly clenched, vaguely pleased to notice that I stood unsteadily; it was the proper, the most effective way. "Marion," I said, in an undertone, gripping her arm, yet careful to press only hard enough for a grip—she was such a tender little thing, though so cruel. I had intended to say more, but the one word seemed so full of meaning that I stopped to let it penetrate; also to give one swift glance at the reflection of my face in the mirror of the wall-cabinet. That glance showed me that I appeared to be struggling with the unutterable; I went on doing so.
Marion's face grew pale and rigid. "Good gracious, Henry!" she cried, trying to rise; "what's the matter?"
"Sit still," I commanded fiercely, with a bitter smile; a smile that made my teeth gleam back at me wolfishly from the wall-cabinet. "Matter enough! You've wrecked my happiness by telling Aunt Sophy that I wanted another wife."
"I never did!" she cried indignantly. "Do you think I could bear to tell anyone if—if it was true?"
My grasp relaxed. I knew there must be something wrong in my reasoning. "Do you mean," I asked cautiously, "that you couldn't have told her because it wasn't true—or—or because it was."