If she were to approach him again now, without any reasonable excuse for doing so, she feared that she might fail to gain his help, and such a failure would mean lasting defeat. There was no means that she could think of by which she could bring him to her. To wait indefinitely was not only dangerous but repugnant to her daily intensifying longing for escape from her present life. So far, she had considered only two of the three factors in the case—herself and Maddison. It remained to be proved whether or not she could work her will by the instrumentality of her husband.
She knew his intense devotion to her, but that, great as it was, it weighed nothing against his sense of right and wrong. She did not hold the first place in his life: that was given to his work. Love, health, comfort, success—all were nothing in the scales against duty. Further, even if he were willing to give up all for her, he could neither help her ambitions nor satisfy her longings, the chief of which, indeed, was to be free from him.
More than once he had spoken to her almost sternly of her idleness and unwillingness to assist him. Was it not possible in this connection to bring about some breach between them? In some indefinite way she felt a desire to quarrel with him. At this very time he was constantly urging her to join the small band of women who, under his guidance, were laboring to bring something of decency and comfort into the lives of the wretched dwellers in some notorious slum property in the parish. She steadfastly refused. It was not work which she could or would do.
When this thought came to her, she was engaged upon some accounts, which he had asked her to have complete for an important meeting in the evening.
She closed the books almost untouched, feeling fairly confident that this remissness would lead to remonstrance on his part, which she could make an excuse for defiance.
Coming home late in the afternoon, Squire found her, as often he had done of late, sitting idly in the dusk by the window, looking out at the dreary prospect. The fire had sunk low, and the glowing coals shed but a dim light over the room.
He was tired, physically and mentally, and a stir of anger came to him to find her sitting there thus, knowing that she knew that he considered this idleness wrong.
He sat down heavily in the worn armchair, and began to unlace his boots; his feet would be rested by an hour or so of slippers.
“I’m very tired,” he said; but she made no answer.
“How have you got on with the accounts?” he asked after a pause. “I suppose they were all right?”