“I DIDN\'T ask your father, after all,” was one of the things that Thorpe said to his wife next day. He had the manner of one announcing a concession, albeit in an affable spirit, and she received the remark with a scant, silent nod.
Two days later he recurred to the subject. They were again upon the terrace, where he had been lounging in an easy-chair most of the day, with the books his sister had bid him read on a table beside him. He had glanced through some of them in a desultory fashion, cutting pages at random here and there, but for the most part he had looked straight before him at the broad landscape, mellowing now into soft browns and yellows under the mild, vague October sun. He had not thought much of the books, but he had a certain new sense of enjoyment in the fruits of this placid, abstracted rumination which perhaps they had helped to induce.
“About your father,” he said now, as his wife, who had come out to speak with him on some other matter, was turning to go away again: “I\'m afraid I annoyed you the other day by what I said.”
“I have no recollection of it,” she told him, with tranquil politeness, over her shoulder.
He found himself all at once keenly desirous of a conversation on this topic. “But I want you to recollect,” he said, as he rose to his feet. There was a suggestion of urgency in his tone which arrested her attention. She moved slowly toward the chair, and after a little perched herself upon one of its big arms, and looked up at him where he leant against the parapet.
“I\'ve thought of it a good deal,” he went on, in halting explanation. His purpose seemed clearer to him than were the right phrases in which to define it. “I persisted in saying that I\'d do something you didn\'t want me to do—something that was a good deal more your affair than mine—and I\'ve blamed myself for it. That isn\'t at all what I want to do.”
Her face as well as her silence showed her to be at a loss for an appropriate comment. She was plainly surprised, and seemingly embarrassed as well. “I\'m sure you always wish to be nice,” she said at last. The words and tone were alike gracious, but he detected in them somewhere a perfunctory note.
“Oh—nice!” he echoed, in a sudden stress of impatience with the word. “Damn being \'nice\'! Anybody can be \'nice.\' I\'m thinking of something ten thousand times bigger than being \'nice.\'”
“I withdraw the word immediately—unreservedly,” she put in, with a smile in which he read that genial mockery he knew so well.
“You laugh at me—whenever I try to talk seriously,” he objected.
“I laugh?” she queried, with an upward glance of demurely simulated amazement. “Impossible! I assure you I\'ve forgotten how.”
“Ah, now we get to it!” he broke out, with energy. “You\'re really feeling about it just as I am. You\'re not satisfied with what we\'re doing—with the life we\'re leading—any more than I am. I see that, plain enough, now. I didn\'t dream of it before. Somehow I got the idea that you were enjoying it immensely—the greenhouses and gardens and all that sort of thing. And do you know who it was that put me right—that told me you hated it?”
“Oh, don\'t let us talk of him!” Edith exclaimed, swiftly.
Thorpe laughed. “You\'re wrong. It wasn\'t your father. I didn\'t see him. No—it was my sister. She\'s never seen you, but all the same she knew enough to give me points. She told me I was a fool to suppose you were happy here.”
“How clever of her!” A certain bantering smile accompanied the words, but on the instant it faded away. She went on with a musing gravity. “I\'m sorry I don\'t get to know your sister. She seems an extremely real sort of person. I can understand that she might be difficult to live with—I daresay all genuine characters are—but she\'s very real. Although, apparently, conversation isn\'t her strong point, still I enjoy talking with her.”
“How do you mean?” Thorpe asked, knitting his brows in puzzlement.
“Oh, I often go to her shop—or did when I was in town. I went almost immediately after our—our return to England. I was half afraid she would recognize me—the portraits in the papers, you know—but apparently she didn\'t. And it\'s splendid—the way she says absolutely nothing more than it\'s necessary to say. And her candour! If she thinks books are bad she says so. Fancy that!”
He still frowned uneasily as he looked down at her. “You never mentioned to me that you had gone there,” he told her, as if in reproach.
“Ah, it was complicated,” Edith explained. “She objects to knowing me—I think secretly I respect her a great deal for that—and therefore there is something clandestine about my getting to know her—and I could not be sure how it would impress you, and really it seemed simplest not to mention it.”
“It isn\'t that alone,” he declared, grave-faced still, but with a softer voice. “Do you remember what I said the other day? It would make all the difference in the world to me, if—if you were really—actually my other half!”
The phrase which he had caught at seemed, as it fell upon the air, to impregnate it with some benumbing quality. The husband and wife looked dumbly, almost vacantly at one another, for what appeared a long time.
“I mean”—all at once Thorpe found tongue, and even a sort of fluency as he progressed—“I mean, if you shared things really with me! Oh, I\'m not complaining; you mustn\'t think that. The agreement we made at the start—you\'ve kept your part of it perfectly. You\'ve done better than that: you\'ve kept still about the fact that it made you unhappy.”
“Oh no,” she interposed, gently. “It is not the fact that it has made me unhappy.”
“Well—discontented, then,” he resumed, without pause. “Here we are. We do the thing we want to do—we make the kind of home for ourselves that we\'ve agreed we would like—and then it turns out that somehow it doesn\'t come up to expectations. You get tired of it. I suppose, if the truth were known, I\'m by way of being tired of it too. Well, if you look at it, that fact is the most important thing in the world for both of us. It\'s the one thing that we ought to be most anxious to discuss, and examine frankly in all its bearings—in order to see if we can\'t better it—but that\'s precisely the thing that doesn\'t get talked about between us. You would never have told me that you were unhappy——”
“You use the word again,” she reminded him, a wan smile softening her protest.
Thorpe stood up, and took a slow step toward the chair. He held her glance with his own, as he stood then, his head bent, gravely regarding her.
“Do you tell me that you are happy?” he asked, with sober directness.
She fluttered her hands in a little restrained gesture of comment. “You consider only the extremes,” she told him. “Between black and white there are so many colours and shades and half-tones! The whole spectrum, in fact. Hardly anybody, I should think, gets over the edge into the true black or the true white. There are always tints, modifications. People are always inside the colour-scheme, so to speak. The worst that can be said of me is that I may be in the blues—in the light-blues—but it is fair to remember that they photograph white.”
Though there was an impulse within him to resent this as trifling, he resisted it, and judicially considered her allegory. “That is to say”—he began hesitatingly.
“To the observer I am happy. To myself I am not unhappy.”
“Why won\'t you tell me, Edith, just where you are?”
The sound of her name was somewhat unfamiliar to their discourse. The intonation which his voice gave to it now caused her to look up quickly.
“If I could tell myself,” she answered him, after an instant\'s thought, “pray believe that I would tell you.”
The way seemed for the moment blocked before him, and he sighed heavily. “I want to get nearer to you,” he said, with gloom, “and I don\'t!”
It occurred to her to remark: “You take exception to my phraseology when I say you always try to be \'nice,\' but I\'m sure you know what I mean.” She offered him this assurance with a tentative smile, into which he gazed moodily.
“You didn\'t think I was \'nice\' when you consented to marry me,” he was suddenly inspired to say. “I can\'t imagine your applying that word to me then in your mind. God knows what it was you did say to yourself about me, but you never said I was \'nice.\' That was the last word that would have fitted me then—and now it\'s the only one you can think of.” The hint that somehow he had stumbled upon a clue to the mysteries enveloping him rose to prominence in his mind as he spoke. The year had wrought a baffling difference in him. He lacked something now that then he had possessed, but he was powerless to define it.
He seated himself again in the chair, and put his hand through her arm to keep her where she lightly rested beside him. “Will you tell me,” he said, with a kind of sombre gentleness, “what the word is that you would have used then? I know you wouldn\'t—couldn\'t&m............