“No; my husband says his Uncle Archibald always was a fool. But how can anyone be so narrow! He seemed to take Mrs. Frothingham as a personal affront.”
This was the most definite bit of vexation against her husband that she had ever let me see. I decided to turn it into a jest. “Mrs. Frothingham will be glad to know she was understood,” I said.
“But seriously, why can’t men have open minds about politics and money?” She went on in a worried voice: “I knew he was like this when I met him at Harvard. He was living in his own house, aloof from the poorer men—the men who were most worth while, it seemed to me. And when I told him of the bad effect he was having on these men and on his own character as well, he said he would do whatever I asked—he even gave up his house and went to live in a dormitory. So I thought I had some influence on him. But now, here is the same thing again, only I find that one can’t take a stand against one’s husband. At least, he doesn’t admit the right.” She hesitated. “It doesn’t seem loyal to talk about it.”
“My dear girl,” I said with an impulse of candour, “there isn’t much you can tell me about that problem. My own marriage went to pieces on that rock.”
I saw a look of surprise upon her face. “I haven’t told you my story yet,” I said. “Some day I will—when you feel you know me well enough for us to exchange confidences.”
There was more than a hint of invitation in this. After a silence, she said: “One’s instinct is to hide one’s troubles.”
“Sylvia,” I answered, “let me tell you about us. You must realise that you’ve been a wonderful person to me; you belong to a world I never had anything to do with, and never expected to get a glimpse of. It’s the wickedness of our class-civilization that human beings can’t be just human beings to each other—a king can hardly have a friend. Even after I’ve overcome the impulse I have to be awed by your luxury and your grandness; I’m conscious of the fact that everybody else is awed by them. If I so much as mention that I’ve met you, I see people start and stare at me—instantly I become a personage. It makes me angry, because I want to know you.”
She was gazing at me, not saying a word. I went on: “I’d never have thought it possible for anyone to be in your position and be real and straight and human, but I realise that you have managed to work that miracle. So I want to love you and help you, in every way I know how. But you must understand, I can’t ask for your confidence, as I could for any other woman’s. There is too much vulgar curiosity about the rich and great, and I can’t pretend to be unaware of that hatefulness; I can’t help shrinking from it. So all I can say is—if you need me, if you ever need a real friend, why, here I am; you may be sure I understand, and won’t tell your secrets to anyone else.”
With a little mist of tears in her eyes, Sylvia put out her hand and touched mine. And so we went into a chamber alone together, and shut the cold and suspicious world outside.
20. We knew each other well enough now to discuss the topic which has been the favourite of women since we sat in the doorways of caves and pounded wild grain in stone mortars—the question of our lords, who had gone hunting, and who might be pleased to beat us on their return. I learned all that Sylvia had been taught on the subject of the male animal; I opened that amazing unwritten volume of woman traditions, the maxims of Lady Dee Lysle.