In April of 1917 this country joined the Allies in the Great War. The nation was transfigured with that spiritual and sacrificial emotion which invariably follows the sending of vast armies of men to be slain. The profits on patriotism were enormous for those who knew how to do business at the expense of the people. Cutter was one of these eminently sane profiteers. He had doubled his fortune during the first few months. He remained in New York most of the time. He had been away from home the whole of July. One morning early in August he arrived at the door of his own house in Shannon. Helen had not expected him. She was flustered. Breakfast had been served, but she would have another breakfast prepared at once.
No, George explained briefly, he had had something on the train; she was not to trouble herself on his account.
This consideration was unusual. Well, he must go in and lie down; she knew he must be worn out, Helen suggested.
[158]No, he was not tired; and no, he would not go in and lie down.
He behaved like a visitor in the house. But he remained at home all day, puttering about the house and garden with a curious gentle air. After lunch he took a nap on the sofa in the parlor. To Helen’s question as to whether he would go out for some golf as usual, he had replied that he would not play golf and that she might have an early dinner. Afterwards she remembered a faint embarrassment in his manner during the whole of this day, as if it were an effort to talk or reveal the simplest word of himself. But at the time Helen was pleased without questioning why he was behaving in this vaguely domestic fashion.
Late in the afternoon she had followed him into the garden, seated herself on a bench there with her hands folded—merely present, you understand. Cutter continued to pace slowly back and forth along the walk. Helen observed him gently. She thought he looked spent. She was glad he was taking the day off; this was all she thought about that.
Now and again Cutter regarded his wife with a sort of remorseful tenderness. He was experiencing one of those futile reactions a bad man has toward ineffable goodness when he knows he is[159] about to be rid of the burden and reproach of it. Presently he came and sat down beside her in the sweet, unaccusing silence she always made for him.
Her skin was still very fair, her hair darker, with golden lights, her brows much darker, the same blue eyes, white lidded. Strange he had never noticed before that the clothes she wore were like her—this grave little frock she was wearing now, white, sheer, like a veil, long pretty sleeves, a kind little waist with darts in it to fit her figure. Who but Helen would ever think of taking up darts in her bodice this year when every other woman was fluffing herself? He smiled at this, but the humor of his face was neither intimate nor affectionate. It was a sort of grinning footnote to Helen’s character.
He began presently to feel the old irritation at her silence. He halted, dropped down on the bench beside her, but at the other end, hung himself by one elbow over the back of it, crossed his legs and addressed her with a question which he frequently used like a key to turn in the lock of his wife’s silence.
“Helen, if you were about to say anything, what would you say?” he asked.
“I was just thinking,” she answered, implying[160] that she preferred not to publish these thoughts in speech.
But he wanted to know. His manner was that of a husband who wanted to start something.
“If we had children,” she began, looking at him, then away from him, “I was wondering what they would be doing now.”
His eyes widened over her, but she did not feel this amazement. Her own gaze appeared to be trailing these children among the flowers in this garden.
“I often think of them,” she went on. “Our son—I always expected the first one to be a son—he should be quite a lad now. What do boys of fourteen do at this hour of the day?” regarding him with a sort of dreaming seriousness.
He made no reply. He had slumped; with lowered lids he was staring at the graveled walk in front of this bench.
“But the two little girls, much younger, would be here in the garden with us. Isn’t it strange, I always know what they would be doing, but not the boy. I have seen them in my heart like bright images in a mirror; I have heard them laugh many a time.”
He was appalled. Never before had he known[161] Helen to talk like this. Why was she doing it? Did she knew what was in his mind? Was she deliberately torturing him?
“Everything would have been so different if they had lived,” she went on, as if she had actually lost these children, “your life and mine. They would have changed us, our ways and our hopes. We should have built the house we planned—for them,” turning to him with a dim smile.
“I suppose so,” he said, obliged to answer this look; “but you know I have never regretted that we have no children.”
“At first you wanted them,” she reminded him.
“But not now. It is better as it is,” he returned moodily.
“No; not for me; not for either of us,” she sighed.
For the first time in her life she saw tears in his eyes.
“For them?” she asked putting out her hand to him.
“No, for you,” he answered, drawing back from this hand.
She noticed that. Her attitude toward him was one of submission. She did not ask herself[162] now why he shrank from her touch. She knew nothing about the psychology of passion, its strange and merciless revulsions.
“A son or a daughter would be company for you now,” he said after a pause.
“Yes; it’s been dull, not having them with me now. One grows so quiet inside. It must be a little like dying, to be getting older and stiller all the time.”
He could not bear this. He had a vision of what had happened to her. And now it was too late; she was predestined, even as he was doomed to his fate.... What follies love imposed upon youth! He had loved her and taken her, when she belonged to another kind of man, when he might have been happy with another kind of woman. Now he no longer loved her, and the other woman might give him pleasure, but never peace or happiness.... He supposed, after all, there must be something moral about happiness. Well, then, why had he missed happiness with Helen? Heaven knew she was made of every virtue. And he had kept his vows to her. He had not actually broken faith with her—yet.
He rose and walked to the other end of the garden. He stood with his back to Helen, still thinking fiercely, like a man trying with his mind[163] to break the bonds that held him.... What a horror that this woman should be his wife. Nothing could change that. She was not of his kind. She was different; that was the whole trouble. If she were not his wife she would be the sort of woman he would never notice or meet. In view of everything—the vision of life and society, and what was coming to a man of his quality—he regarded it as remarkable that he had been so long faithful to her. It was stupid, silly, bucolic—the kind of husband he had been to this kind of wife!
He turned. Helen was still seated on the bench. The sight of her filled him with irritation, a sort of peevish remorse. He was going to have the deuce of a time getting through his next encounter with her. He meant to put it off to the last minute. Meanwhile he simply must get to himself, away from her. If she hung about he felt that he might lose control of himself. And he must be careful not to say anything which he might regret afterwards.............