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diff --git a/old/51926-0.txt b/old/51926-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index acb4ddd..0000000 --- a/old/51926-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6155 +0,0 @@ -50497The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Eighth Year, by Philip Gibbs - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you’ll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: The Eighth Year - A Vital Problem Of Married Life - -Author: Philip Gibbs - -Release Date: May 1, 2016 [EBook #51926] -Last Updated: November 6, 2016 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE EIGHTH YEAR *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger, from page images generously -provided by Google Books - - - - - - - - - - -THE EIGHTH YEAR - -A Vital Problem Of Married Life - -By Philip Gibbs - -New York - -The Devin-Adair Company 437 Fifth Avenue - -1913 - -“_The Eighth Year is the most dangerous year in the adventure of -marriage._” - -Sir Francis Jeune (afterwards Lord St. Helier). President of the Divorce -Court. - - - - - -PART I--THE ARGUMENT - - - - -CHAPTER I - -It was Sir Francis Jeune, afterwards Lord St. Helier, and President -of the Divorce Court, who first called attention to the strange -significance of the Eighth Year of married life. “The Eighth Year,” he -said, “is the most dangerous year in the adventure of marriage.” - -Afterwards, in the recent Royal Commission on Divorce, this curious -fact was again alluded to in the evidence, and it has been shown by -statistics of domestic tragedy, by hundreds of sordid little dramas, -that at this period in the partnership of husbands and wives there -comes, in many cases, a great crisis, leading often to moral disaster. - -It is in the Eighth Year, or thereabouts, that there is the tug-of-war -between two temperaments, mated by the law, but not mated, perhaps, in -ideals, in ambitions, or in qualities of character. The man and woman -pull against each other, tugging at each other’s heartstrings. The -Eighth Year is the fatal year, when if there is no give-and-take, no -working compromise, no new pledges of loyalty and comradeship, the -foundations of the home are shattered, and the hopes with which it was -first built lie in ruins like a house of cards knocked down by a gust of -wind. - -But why the Eighth Year? Why not the twelfth, fourteenth, or eighteenth -year? The answer is not to be found in any old superstition. There -is nothing uncanny about the number eight. The problem is not to be -shrugged off by people who despise the foolish old tradition which -clings to thirteen, and imagine this to be in the same class of folly. -By the law of averages and by undeniable statistics it has been proved -that it brings many broken-hearted men and women to the Divorce Court. -For instance, taking the annual average of divorces in England between -1904 and 1908, one finds that there were only six divorces between -husbands and wives who had been married less than a year, and only -eighteen divorces between those married less than two years. Between -the second and the fifth years the number increases to a hundred and -seventeen. Then there is a tremendous jump, and the numbers between the -fifth and tenth years are two hundred and ninety-two. The period of -the Eighth Year is the most productive of divorce. The figures are more -startling and more significant when they cover a longer period. But -apart from statistics and apart altogether from the Divorce Court, -which is only one house of trouble, by using one’s own eyes in one’s -own circle of friends one may see that young married couples who started -happily enough show signs of stress and strain as this year approaches. -The fact is undeniable. What is the cause behind the fact? - -There is not one cause, there are many causes, all leading up from -the first day of marriage, inevitably, with the unswerving, relentless -fatality of Greek Tragedy to the Eighth Year. They are causes which lie -deep in the social system of our modern home life; in the little order -of things prevailing, at this time, in hundreds of thousands of small -households and small flats, inhabited by the middle-classes. It is -mainly a middle-class problem, because the rich and the poor are, for -reasons which I will show later in this argument, exempt in a large -measure from the fatality of the Eighth Year. But all the influences -at work among the middle-classes, in this strange age of intellectual -disturbance, and of blind gropings forward to new social and moral -conditions, have a close hearing upon this seeming mystery. The -economic position of this class, its social ambitions, its intellectual -adventures, its general education, its code of morality, its religion or -lack of religion, its little conventional cults, the pressure of outside -influences, thrusting inwards to the hidden life in these little -homes, bringing dangerous ideas through the front doors, or through the -keyholes, and all the mental and moral vibrations that are “in the -air” to-day, especially in the air breathed by the middle-classes, -produce--the Eighth Year. - -Let us start with the first year of marriage so that we may see how the -problem works out from the beginning. - -Here we have, in the first year, a young man and woman who have come -together, not through any overmastering force of passion, but as -middle-class men and women are mostly brought together, by the accidents -of juxtaposition, and by a pleasant sentiment. They met, before -marriage, at tennis parties, at suburban dances, at evening At Homes. By -the laws of natural selection, aided a little by anxious mothers, this -young man and this young woman find out, or think they find out, that -they are “suited” to each other. That is to say, the young man thrills -in a pleasant way in the presence of the girl, and she sees the timidity -in his eyes when she looks at him, and she knows that her laughter, -the touch of her hand, the little tricks and graces she has learnt from -girl-friends, or from actresses in musical comedy, or from instinct, -attract him to her. She leads him on, by absurd little tiffs, artfully -arranged, by a pretence of flirtation with other boys, by provocative -words, by moments of tenderness changing abruptly to sham indifference, -or followed by little shafts of satire which wound his pride, and sting -him into desire for her. He pursues her, not knowing that he is pursued, -so that they meet half-way. This affair makes him restless, ill at -ease. It interrupts his work and his ambitions. Presently it becomes an -obsession, and he knows that he has “fallen in love.” He makes his plans -accordingly. - -In the middle-classes love still presupposes marriage (though the idea -is not so fast-rooted as in the old days), but how the dickens is he to -manage it? He is just starting his career as Something in the City, or -as a solicitor, barrister, journalist, artist, doctor. His income is -barely sufficient for himself, according to his way of life, which -includes decent clothes, a club, a game of golf when he feels like it, -a motor-cycle or a small car, a holiday abroad, theatres, a bachelor -dinner now and again--the usual thing. He belongs to the younger -generation, with wider interests, larger ideas, higher ambitions than -those with which his father and mother started life. - -He could not start on their level. Times have changed. He remembers his -father’s reminiscences of early struggles, of the ceaseless anxiety to -make both ends meet, of the continual stinting and scraping to keep the -children “decent,” to provide them with a good education, to give them -a fair start in life. He remembers his mother in his own childhood. She -was always mending stockings. There was always a litter of needlework on -the dining-room table after supper. - -There were times when she “did” without a maid, and exhausted herself -with domestic drudgery. There were no foreign holidays then, only a -week or two at the seaside once a year. There was precious little pocket -money for the boys. They were conscious of their shabby gentility, and -hated it. - -The modern young man looks with a kind of horror upon all this domestic -squalor, as he calls it. He couldn’t stand it. If marriage means that -for him he will have none of it. But need it mean that? He and Winifred -will scheme out their lives differently. They will leave out the baby -side of the business--until they can afford to indulge in it. They will -live in a little flat, and furnish it, if necessary, on the hire system. -They will cut out the domestic drudgery. They will enjoy the fun of -life, and shelve the responsibilities until they are able to pay for -them. After all it will not be long before he is earning a good income. -He has got his feet on the first rang of the ladder, and, with a little -luck---- - -So he proposes to the girl, and she pretends to be immensely surprised, -though she has been eating her heart out while he hesitated, and -delayed, and pondered. They pledge each other, “till death do us part,” - and the girl, who has been reading a great many novels lately, is very -happy because her own plot is working out according to the rules of -romance. - -They live in a world of romance before the marriage day. The man seems -to walk on air when he crosses London Bridge on his way to the City. -Or if he is a barrister he sees the beauty of his girl’s face in his -brief--and is in danger of losing his case. Or if a journalist he curses -his irregular hours which keep him from the little house in Tulse Hill, -or the flat in Hampstead, where there is a love-light in the windows. -He knows the outward look of the girl, her softness, her prettiness, -her shy glance when he greets her. He knows her teasing ways, her -tenderness, her vivacity. Only now and then he is startled by her -stupidity, or by her innocence, or by her ignorance, or--still more -startling--by her superior wisdom of the ways of the world, by her -shrewd little words, by a sudden revelation of knowledge about things -which girls are not supposed to know. - -But these things do not count. Only sentiment and romance are allowed to -count. These two people who are about to start on the long road of life -together are utterly blind to each other’s vices or virtues. They are -deeply ignorant of each other’s soul. They know nothing of the real man -or the real woman hidden beneath the mask of social conventions, beneath -the delightful, sham of romantic affection. They know nothing of their -own souls, nor of the strength that is in them to stand the test of -life’s realities. They know nothing of their own weakness. - -So they marry. - -And for the first year they are wonderfully happy. For the first year is -full of excitement. They thrill to the great adventure of marriage. They -are uplifted with passionate love which seems likely to last for -ever. They have a thousand little interests. Even the trivialities -of domesticity are immensely important. Even the little disasters of -domesticity are amusing. They find a lot of laughter in life. They -laugh at the absurd mistakes of the servant-maids who follow in quick -succession. They laugh at their own ridiculous miscalculations with -regard to the expense of house-keeping. They laugh when visitors call -at awkward moments and when the dinner is spoilt by an inefficient cook. -After all, the comradeship of a young man and wife is the best thing in -life, and nothing else seems to matter. They are such good comrades that -the husband never leaves his wife a moment in his leisure time. He takes -her to the theatre with him. They spend week-ends together, far from the -madding crowd. They pluck the flowers of life, hand in hand, as lovers. -The first year merges into the second. Not yet do they know each other. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -It is in the third and fourth year that they begin to find each other -out. The bright fires of their passion have died down, burning with a -fitful glow, burning low. Until then they had been lovers to each -other, hidden from each other by the illusions of romantic love. It was -inconceivable that the man could be anything but kind, and tender, and -patient, and considerate. It was inconceivable that he could hold any -but the noblest ideals, the most exalted aspirations, the most generous -sentiments. He had been so wise, so witty, and so gay. - -And to the man it had seemed that the woman by his side was gifted with -all the virtues. At least she had been eager to please him, to satisfy -his least desire, to bend to his will. She had pandered to his vanity, -fed his self-conceit, listened to his opinions on all the subjects of -life as though they were inspired. If he had been kept out late at work -he had found her waiting for him, quick to put her arms about him, -to cry out, “Oh, my poor dear, how tired you must be?” She had been -grateful to him for all his little gifts, for all his words of love. And -he had seen her as a beautiful thing, without flaw or blemish. He had -worshipped at the foot of the pedestal on which he had placed her in his -ideals. - -But now both the husband and wife begin to see each other, not as -lovers, but as man and woman. It is rather disturbing. It is distressing -to the young wife to discover, gradually, by a series of little -accidents, that this man with whom she has to live all her life is not -made of different clay from other men, that he is made of the same clay. -One by one all the little romantic illusions out of which she had built -up the false image of him, from the heroes of sentimental fiction, from -the dreams of girlhood, are stripped from him, until he stands bare -before her, the natural man. She does not like the natural man at first. -It is quite a long time before she can reconcile herself to the thought -that she is mated to a natural man, with a touch of brutality, with -little meannesses, with moods of irritability, with occasional bad -tempers, when he uses bad words. She sees, too clearly for her spiritual -comfort, that they are not “twin-souls.” They have not been made in -the same mould. His childhood was different from her childhood, his -upbringing from her upbringing. She sees that in little things--mere -trifles, but monstrously annoying, such as his untidy habits, the -carelessness with which he flicks his cigarette ash about the carpet, -the familiarity with which he speaks to the servant-maid. She begins to -dislike some of his personal habits--the way in which he sneezes, his -habit of shaving after breakfast instead of before breakfast, his habit -of reading the newspaper at the breakfast table instead of chatting with -her as he used to do about the programme for the day. In things less -trivial she finds out that her first ideal of him was false. They do not -think alike on the great subjects of life. He is a Radical and she is -Conservative, by education and upbringing. It hurts her when he argues -with revolutionary ideas which seem to her positively wicked, and -subversive of all morality. He has loose views about morality in -general, and is very tolerant about lapses from the old-fashioned -moral code. That hurts her too--horribly. It begins to undermine the -foundations of her faith in what used to seem the essential truth of -things. But, above all, it hurts her to realize that she and her husband -are not one, in mind and body, but utterly different, in temperament, in -their outlook on life, in their fundamental principles and ideas. - -On the other side the husband makes unpleasant discoveries. He finds -out, with a shock, that he was utterly ignorant of the girl whom -he asked to be his wife, and that this woman who sits at his -breakfast-table is not the same woman as the one who dwelt in his -imagination, even as the one who lived with him during the first and -second year. She has lost her coyness, her little teasing ways, her -girlish vivacity. She begins to surprise him by a hard common-sense, and -no longer responds so easily to his old romantic moods. He can no longer -be certain of her smiles and her tenderness when he speaks the old -love-words. She begins to challenge his authority, not deliberately, nor -openly, but by ignoring his hints, or by disregarding his advice. - -She even challenges his opinions, and that is a shock to him. It is a -blow to his vanity. - -It takes down his self-conceit more than a peg or two, especially when -he has to acknowledge, secretly, that she is in the right, as sometimes -happens. He finds out faults in her now--a touch of selfishness, a trace -of arrogance, an irritability of temper of which he has to be careful, -especially when she is in a nervous state of health. They begin to -quarrel rather frequently about absurd things, about things that do not -matter a brass farthing. Some of these quarrels reach passionate heights -and leave them both exhausted, wondering rather blankly what it was all -about. Then the wife cries a little, and the husband kisses her. - -By the end of the fourth year they know each other pretty well. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -In the fifth and sixth years they have settled down to the jog-trot -of the married life. Not yet do they see the shadow of the Eighth Year -looming ahead. They have faced the reality of life, and knowing each -other as they really are have made a working compromise. Their love has -steadied down to a more even flame, and passion is almost extinguished. -They have decided to play the game, according to the creed of their -class, exactly as their neighbors are playing it. - -It is largely a game of bluff, as it is played in thousands of small -households. It is a game, also, of consequences, as I shall have to -show. It consists in keeping up appearances, in going one better than -one’s neighbor whenever possible, and in making a claim to a higher rung -of the social ladder than is justified by the husband’s income and rank -in life. It is the creed of snobbishness. For this creed everything -is sacrificed--contentment of mind, the pleasure of life, the little -children of life. - -In many flats of Intellectual Mansions, and even in the small houses -of the “well-to-do” suburbs, children do not enter into the scheme of -things. The “babies have been left out of the business.” For people -who are keeping up appearances to the last penny of their income cannot -afford to be burdened by babies. Besides, they interfere seriously -with social ladder-climbing, drag down a married couple of the younger -generation to the domestic squalor of their parents’ early life. The -husband cannot bear the thought that his wife should have to make -beds in the morning and mend stockings in the evening, and wheel out a -perambulator in the park. It is so very “low down.” The husband wants -to save his wife from all this domestic drudgery. He wants her to look -pretty in the frocks he buys her. He wants her to wear more expensive -frocks than any other woman in his circle of friends. He likes to hear -his friends say, “How charming your wife looks to-night, old man!” and -to hear elderly ladies say to his wife, “What a beautiful gown you are -wearing, my dear!” - -He is working hard now in order to furnish his wife’s wardrobe--not only -for her pleasure, but for his pride. After the first romance of love, -ambition comes to gild reality. He is ambitious to build up a beautiful -little home. The furniture with which they started married life on the -hire system has been bought and paid for, and is now replaced here and -there by “genuine antiques.” He puts some good prints on his walls and -buys some water-color sketches, and becomes in a small way a patron of -the arts. It is pleasant during one of his wife’s evening At Homes to -take a guest on one side and say “What do you think of that? Pretty -good, eh? It’s an original, by Verdant Green, you know.” - -He has urged upon his wife the necessity of giving _recherché_ little -dinners, to which he can invite friends better off than himself, and -distinguished guests whom he wishes to impress. As he explains to his -wife, “one has to do these things.” And he does them rather well, paying -some attention to his wines--he keeps a good dinner claret--and to his -cigars, which he buys at the stores. He also suggests to his wife that -now she has an extra servant she had better establish a weekly At Home, -an informal little affair, but pleasant and useful, because it shows the -world, their world, that they are getting on in the social scale. Here -again, distinguished visitors may be invited to “drop in.” It is good -for business. A pretty, well-dressed wife makes a favourable impression -upon solicitors who have briefs to give away or upon wealthy clients. -One must keep up appearances, and make a good show. Besides, it is -pleasant to put on evening clothes after a hard day’s work and to play -the host. It gives a man some return for all his toil. It gives him a -reason for living. And it brightens up one’s home-life. “Man does not -live by bread alone,” he must have some cakes and ale, so to speak. - -But it is expensive. As every year of marriage passes, the expenses -increase, steadily, miraculously. It is difficult to account for them, -but there they are, facing a man in his quarterly reckoning. And the two -ends must be made to meet, by extra work, by putting one’s nose down to -the grindstone. The husband does not come home so soon as he used to do -in the early days. But he has the satisfaction of knowing that while he -is away at work his wife is keeping up his social reputation and doing -all the things which a lady in her station of life is expected to do. He -thanks heaven that his wife is happy. - -She is not unhappy, this wife, in the fifth and sixth year of marriage. -After the first romantic illusions failed her she settled down quietly -enough to play the game. It is quite interesting, quite amusing. Now and -again queer doubts assail her, and she has strange flutterings at the -heart, and little pinpricks of conscience. It is about the question of -motherhood. Perhaps it would be better for her to have a baby. However, -she has threshed out the question a hundred times with her husband, and -he has decided that he cannot afford a family yet, and after all the -flat _is_ very small. Besides, she shirks the idea herself--all the pain -of it, and the trouble of it.... She thrusts down these queer doubts, -does not listen to the flutterings at the heart, ignores the little -pinpricks of conscience. She turns quickly to the interests of her -social life and falls easily into the habit of pleasant laziness, -filling her day with little futile things, which seem to satisfy her -heart and brain. When her husband has gone to business she dresses -herself rather elaborately for a morning stroll, manicures her nails, -tries a new preparation for the complexion, alters a feather, or a -flower, in one of her hats, studies herself in the glass, and is pleased -with herself. It passes the time. Then she saunters forth, and goes -to the shops, peering in through the great plate-glass windows at the -latest display of lingerie, of evening gowns, of millinery. She fancies -herself in some of the new hats from Paris. One or two of them attract -her especially. She makes a mental note of them. She will ask her -husband to let her buy one of them. After all Mrs. Fitzmaurice had a new -hat only last week--the second in one month. She will tell him that. -It will pique him, for there is a rather amusing rivalry between the -Fitzmaurices and them. - -So the morning passes until luncheon, when she props the morning -newspaper against the water-jug, reading the titbits of news and the -fashion page while she eats her meal, rather nicely cooked by the new -servant, and daintily served by the little housemaid. Another hour of -the day passes, and it is the afternoon. - -She lies down for half an hour with the latest novel from Mudie’s. It -has a good plot, and is a rather exciting love-story. It brings back -romance to her. For a little while she forgets the reality which she -has learnt since her own romantic days. Here love is exactly what -she imagined it to he, thrilling, joyous, never-changing. The hero -is exactly what she imagined her husband to be--before he was her -husband--strong, gentle, noble, high-souled, immensely patient. And -after many little troubles, misadventures, cross-purposes, and strange -happenings, marriage is the great reward, the splendid compensation. -After this the hero and heroine live happily ever afterwards, till death -does them part, and--there is nothing more to be said. The novel ends -with the marriage bells. - -She knows that her novel has not ended with the marriage hells, that, -in fact, the plot is only just beginning as far as she is concerned. -But she does not allow herself to think of that. She revels in romantic -fiction, and reads novel after novel at the rate of three a week. -Occasionally one of these novels gives her a nasty shock, for it deals -with realism rather than romance, and reveals the hearts of women rather -like herself, and the tragedies of women rather like herself, and the -truth of things, in a cold, white light. She reads the book with burning -eyes. It makes her pulse beat. It seems rather a wicked book, it is -so horribly truthful, not covering even the nakedness of facts with a -decent layer of sentiment, but exposing them brutally, with a terrible -candor. She hates the book. It makes her think of things she has tried -to forget. It revives those queer doubts, and makes her conscience prick -again. She is glad when she has sent it back to the library and taken -out another novel, of the harmless kind, in the old style. She lulls -her conscience to sleep by the dear old love-stories, or by the musical -comedies and the costume-plays to which she goes with one of her -girl-friends on Wednesday or Saturday matinées. - -She goes to the theatre a good deal now, because she is living more -independently of her husband. That is to say she no longer waits for his -home-coming, as in her first days of marriage, with an impatient desire. -She has long seen that they cannot be all in all to each other, sharing -all pleasures, or having none. He has realized that, too, and goes -to his club at least once a week--sometimes more often, to enjoy the -society of men, to get a little “Bohemianism,” as he calls it. - -She has made her own circle of friends now, the young wives of men like -her husband, and many of her afternoons are taken up with little rounds -of visits, when she is amused by the tittle-tattle of these wives, by -their little tales and scandals, by their gossips about servants, frocks -and theatres. - -She, too, has social ambitions like her husband. Her evenings At Home -are agreeable adventures when she is pleased with the homage of her -husband’s friends. She takes some trouble with her little dinner-parties -and writes out the _menus_ with a good deal of care, and arranges the -flowers, and occasionally looks into the kitchen to give a word to -the cook. She wears her new evening gown and smiles at her husband’s -compliments, with something of her old tenderness. After one of these -evening At Homes the husband and wife have moments of loving comradeship -like those in the first days of their marriage. It is a pity that some -trivial accident or dispute causes ill-temper at the breakfast-table. - -But, on the whole, they play the game rather well in the fifth and -sixth years of their married life. The husband takes the rough with the -smooth. In spite of occasional bad tempers, in spite of grievances which -are growing into habits of mind, he is a good fellow and--he thanks -heaven his wife is happy. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -It is the seventh year. The wife is still doing exactly what she did in -the fifth and sixth years. Her daily routine is exactly the same. Except -that she can afford extra little luxuries now, and indulge in more -expensive kinds of pleasure--stalls at the theatre instead of seats -in the pit, an occasional visit to the opera, an easy yielding to -temptations in the way of hats. Her husband has been “getting on,” and -he is glad to give her what she wants. - -But somehow or other she is beginning to realize that she has not got -what she wants. She does not know what she wants, but she knows that -there is a great lack of something in her life. She is still “playing -the game,” but there is no longer the same sport in it. The sharp edge -of her interest in things has worn off. It has been dulled down. She -goes languidly through the days and a matinée jaunt no longer thrills -her with a little excitement. The plays are so boring, full of stale old -plots, stale old women, stale old tricks. She is sick of them. She still -reads a great number of romantic novels, but how insufferably tedious -they have become! How false they are! How cloying is all this sickly -sentiment! She searches about for the kind of novel which used to -frighten her, problem novels, dangerous novels, novels dealing with real -problems of life. They still frighten her a little, some of them, but -she likes the sensation. She wants more of it. She wants to plunge -deeper into the dangerous problems, to get nearer to the truth of -things. She broods over their revelations. She searches out the -meaning of their suggestions, their hints, their innuendoes. It is like -drug-drinking. This poisonous fiction stimulates her for a little while, -until the effect of it has worn off and leaves her with an aching head. -Her head often aches now. And her heart aches--though goodness knows -why. Everything is so stale. The gossip of her women friends is, oh--so -stale! She has heard all their stories about all their servants, all -their philosophy about the servant problem in general, all their shallow -little views about life, and love, and marriage. She has found them all -out, their vanities, their little selfish ways, their little lies and -shams and fooleries. They are exactly like herself. She has been brought -up in the same code, shaped in the same mould, cut out to the same -pattern. Their ideas are her ideas. Their ways of life her ways. They -bore her exceedingly. - -She is bored by things which for a time were very pleasant. It is, for -instance, boring to go shopping in the morning. It is annoying to her to -see her own wistful, moody eyes in the plate-glass windows, and in the -pier-glasses. She has not lost her love of pretty frocks and pretty -things, but it bores her to think that her husband does not notice them -so much, and that she has to wear them mostly to please herself. She is -tired of the little compliments paid to her by her husband’s middle-aged -friends. She has begun to find her husband’s friends very dull people -indeed. Most of all is she bored by those evening At Homes with their -familiar ritual--the girl who wants to sing but pleads a bad cold, the -woman who wants to play but says she is so fearfully “out of practice,” - the man who asks the name of a piece which he has heard a score of -times, the well-worn jokes, the well-known opinions on things which do -not matter, the light refreshments, the thanks for “a pleasant evening.” - Oh, those pleasant evenings! How she hates them! - -She is beginning to hate this beautiful little home of hers. The very -pictures on the walls set her nerves on edge. She has stared at them -so often. She wishes to goodness that Marcus Stone’s lovers on an -old-fashioned stone seat would go and drown themselves in the distant -lake. But they do not move. They sit smirking at each other, eternally. -She wishes with all her heart that the big Newfoundland dog over there -would bite the fluffy haired child who says “Does ‘oo talk?” But it will -not even bark. She stares at the pattern on the carpet, when a Mudie’s -novel lies on her lap, and comes to detest the artificial roses on the -trellis-work. She digs her heels into one of them. If the roses were -real she would pluck them leaf by leaf and scatter the floor with them. -The ticking of the clock on the mantelshelf irritates her. It seems a -reproach to her. It seems to be counting up her waste of time. - -She stays more at home, in spite of hating it, because she is beginning -to loathe her round of visits. She feels lonely and wishes her husband -would come home. Why does he stay so late at the office now? Surely it -isn’t necessary? When he comes home she is so snappy and irritable that -he becomes silent over the dinner-table, and then she quarrels with him -for his silence. After dinner he sits over his papers, thinking out some -knotty point of business, which he does not discuss with her as in the -old days. He buries his nose in the evening paper, and reads all the -advertisements, and is very dull and uninteresting. Yet she nourishes -a grievance when he goes off on his club-nights and comes home in the -early hours of the morning, cheerful and talkative when she wants to go -to sleep. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -In some cases, indeed in many cases, the presence of an “outsider” - adds to the unhappiness of the wife and divides her still more from her -husband. It is the presence of the mother-in-law. - -She, poor soul, has had a terrible time, and no one until now has said a -good word for her. The red-nosed comedian of the music-hall has used her -for his most gross vulgarities, sure that whenever he mentions her name -he will raise guffaws from the gallery, and evoke shrieks of ill-natured -merriment from young women in the pit. In the pantomimes the man dressed -up as a woman indulges in long monologues upon his mother-in-law as -the source of all domestic unhappiness, as the origin of all quarrels -between husbands and wives, as the greatest nuisance in modern life, and -so long as he patters about the mother-in-law the audience enjoys itself -vastly. - -It is idle to pretend that the mother-in-law is a blessing in a small -household. I am bound to admit that the success of the rednosed comedian -who uses her as his text is due to the truth which lies hidden beneath -his absurdity. He raises roars of laughter because the people who make -up his audience realize that he is giving a touch of humor to something -which is a grim tragedy, and according to the psychology of humor -this is irresistibly comic, just as the most primitive and -laughter-compelling jokes deal with corpses, and funerals, and death -made ridiculous. They have suffered from their own mothers-in-law, those -elderly women who sit in the corner with watchful eyes upon the young -wives, those critics of their sons’ marriages, those eavesdroppers of -the first quarrel, and of all the quarrels that follow the first, those -oracles of unwelcome wisdom, whose advice about household affairs, -about the way of dealing with the domestic servants, with constant -references to _their_ young days, are a daily exasperation to young -married women. - -All that is painfully true. In many cases the mother-in-law becomes so -terrible an incubus in small households that domestic servants leave -with unfailing regularity before their month is “up,” husbands make a -habit of being late at the office, and wives are seriously tempted to -take to drink. - -But what of the mother-in-law herself? Is _she_ to be envied? Did she -willingly become a mother-in-law? Alas, her tragedy is as great as that -of the young wife upon whose nerves she gets so badly, as great as that -of the young husband who finds his home-life insufferable because of her -presence. - -For the mother-in-law is a prisoner of fate. She is the unwanted -guest. She is dependent upon the charity of those who find her a daily -nuisance. During the days of her own married life she devoted herself -to her husband and children, stinted and scraped for them, moulded -them according to her ideals of righteousness, exacted obedience to -her motherly commands, and was sure of their love. Then, one day, death -knocked at the door, and brought black horses into the street. After -that day, when her man was taken from her, she became dependent upon her -eldest son, but did not yet feel the slavery of the dependence. - -For he paid the debt of gratitude gratefully, and kept up the little -home. - -But one day she noticed that he did not come home so early, and that -when he came home he was absent-minded. He fell into the habit of -spending his evenings out, and his mother wondered, and was anxious. He -was not so careful about her comforts, and she was hurt. Then one day -he came home and said, “Mother, I am going to get married,” and she -knew that her happiness was at an end. For she knew, with a mother’s -intuition, that the love which had been in her boy’s heart for her must -now be shared with another woman, and that instead of having the first -place in his life, she would have the second place. - -For a little while her jealousy is like that of a woman robbed of her -lover. She hides it, and hides her hate for that girl whose simpering -smile, whose prettiness, whose coy behavior, light fires in her son’s -eyes, and set his pulse beating, and make him forgetful of his mother. - -Then the marriage takes place and the mother who has dreaded the day -knows that it is her funeral. For she is like a queen whose prerogatives -and privileges have been taken away by the death of the king, and by -the accession of a new queen. Her place is taken from her. Her home is -broken up. She is moved, with the furniture, into the new home, put into -the second-best bedroom, and arranged to suit the convenience of the new -household in which another woman is mistress. - -She knows already that she has begun to be a nuisance, and it is like a -sharp dagger in her heart. She knows that the young wife is as jealous -of her as she is of the young wife, because her son cannot break himself -of the habit of obedience, cannot give up that respect for his mother’s -principles and advice and wisdom, which is part of the very fibre of his -being, because in any domestic crisis the son turns more readily to the -mother than to the young woman who is a newcomer in his life, and in any -domestic quarrel he takes the mother’s part rather than the wife’s. -It is the law of nature. It cannot be altered, but it is the cause of -heartburning and squalid little tragedies. - -The mother-in-law, in the corner of the sitting-room, watches the drama -of the married life, and with more experience of life, because of her -years, sees the young wife do foolish things, watches her blundering -experiments in the great adventure of marriage, is vigilant of her -failures in housekeeping, and in the management of her husband. She -cannot be quite tongue-tied. She cannot refrain from criticism, advice, -rebuke. Between the mother-in-law and the daughter-in-law there is a -daily warfare of pinpricks, a feud that grows bitter with the years. - -But the mother-in-law is helpless. She cannot escape from the lamentable -situation. She must always remain a hindrance, because she needs a roof -over her head, and there is no other roof, and she is dependent for her -daily bread upon the son who is faithful to her, though he is irritable, -moody and sharp of speech, because of the fretfulness of his wife. - -This is the eternal tragedy of the mother-in-law, which is turned into -a jest by the red-nosed comedian to get the laughter from “the gods.” - It is also a tragedy to the daughter-in-law, who could shriek aloud -sometimes when the presence of the elderly woman becomes intolerable. - -Many things are becoming intolerable to the young wife. Her nerves are -out of order. Sometimes she feels “queer.” She cannot explain how queer -she feels, even to herself. She says bitter things to her husband, and -then hates herself for doing so. She has a great yearning for his love, -but is very cold when he is in a tender mood. She cannot understand her -own moods. She only knows that she is beginning to get frightened when -she thinks of the long vista of years before her. She cannot go on like -this always. She cannot go on like this very long. She is getting rather -hysterical. She startles her husband by laughing in a queer shrill way -when he expresses some serious opinions, or gives vent to some of his -conventional philosophy, about women, and the duties of married life, -and the abomination of the Suffragettes. But he does not see her tears. -He does not see her one day, when suddenly, after she has been reading -a Mudie’s novel, page after page, without understanding one word, tears -well up into her eyes, and fall upon the pages, until she bends her head -down and puts her hands up to her face, and sobs as though all her heart -had turned to tears. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -I_t is the Eighth Year_. The wife does not know the significance of -that. The husband goes on his way without seeing the ghosts that have -invaded his little household. He is too busy to see. The whole energy of -his mind now is devoted to the business of his life. He must earn money, -more money, still more money, because expenses still keep increasing, -by leaps and bounds. He finds it more and more difficult to cut his coat -according to his cloth. He is often surprised because with a much larger -income he seems to be just as “hard up” as when he started the adventure -of marriage. He wonders, sometimes, whether the game is worth the -candle. What does he get out of it? Precious little. Not much fun. In -the evenings he is tired, although his brain is still worrying over the -details of his work, over his business disappointments and difficulties, -and plans. Now and again he is surprised at the strange quietude and -lassitude of his wife. He catches a look of tragedy in her eyes, and it -startles him for a moment, so that he asks her if she is feeling unwell. -She laughs, in a mirthless way, and seems to resent the question. -“Perfectly well, thanks,” she says. He shrugs his shoulders. He cannot -bother about a woman’s whims and moods. Women are queer kittle-cattle. -He can’t make ‘em out. Even his own wife is a perfect mystery to him. -It is a pity they get on each other’s nerves so much. What more does she -want? He has given her everything a woman may desire--a beautiful little -home, many little luxuries, plenty of pin-money. He does not stint her. -It is he that does the stinting. He is always working for her so that -she may play. However--work is best. To do our job in life is the best -philosophy. - -So the husband has on one side the passing suspicion that something is -wrong with his wife, and the wife hides her heart from him. - -Something _is_ wrong with her. Everything is wrong, though she does not -know why and how. She feels lonely--horribly lonely in spite of all her -friends. She feels like a woman alone in a great desert with no other -human soul near her, thrust back upon her own thoughts, brooding over -her own misery. There is a great emptiness in her heart, and she has -a great hunger and a great thirst of soul which she cannot satisfy. -Nothing satisfies that empty, barren heart of hers, that throbbing -brain. She has finished with Mudie’s novels. She can find no -satisfaction in _them_. She revolts from the tittle-tattle of her women -friends. That is no longer amusing. She finds no pleasure in the beauty -of her face. It is no longer beautiful. She hates the sight of her face -in the glass. She is afraid of those big wistful eyes which stare at -her. She is sick to death of dressing herself up. How futile it is! How -utterly vain and foolish! - -She is haunted with ghosts; the ghosts of What-Might-Have-Been. They -whisper about her, so that she puts her hands to her ears, when she is -alone in her drawing-room. Faces peer at her, with mocking eyes, or with -tempting eyes--the faces of men who might have been her lovers, baby -faces of unborn children. Little hands flutter about her heart, pluck at -her, tease her. The ghosts of her girlhood crowd about her, the ghosts -of dead hopes, of young illusions, of romantic dreams. She thrusts them -away from her vision. She puts her hands before her eyes, and moans a -little, quietly, so that the servants in the kitchen shall not hear. - -She is assailed by strange temptations, horrible temptations, from -which she shrinks back afraid. This hunger and thirst in her soul are so -tormenting that she has frightful cravings for Something to satisfy her -hunger and quench her thirst. She is tempted to take to drink, or to -drugs, to dull the throbbing of her brain, to wake her up out of this -awful lassitude, to give her a momentary excitement and vitality, and -then--forgetfulness. She must have some kind of excitement--to break -the awful monotony of her life, this intolerable dullness of her little -home. If only an adventure would come to her! Some thrilling, perilous -adventure, however wicked, whatever the consequences. She feels the -overmastering need of some passionate emotion. She would like to plunge -into romantic love again, to be set on fire by it. Somewhere about the -world is a man who could save her, some strong man with a masterful way -with him, brutal as well as tender, cruel as well as kind, who would -come to her, and clasp her hands, and capture her. She would lean -upon him. She would yield, willingly.... She tries to crush down these -thoughts. She is horrified at the evil in them. Oh, she is a bad woman! -Even in her loneliness her face scorches with shame. She gives a faint -cry to God to save her. But again and again the devilish thoughts leer -up in her brain. She begins to believe that the devil is really busy -with her and that she cannot escape him. - -She has a strange sense of impending peril, of something that is going -to happen. She knows that something _must_ happen. - -In this Eighth Year she is in a state bordering on hysteria, when -anything may happen to her. Even her husband is beginning to get -alarmed. He is at last awakened out of his self-complacency. He is -beginning to watch her, with a vague uneasiness. Why does she look so -queerly at him sometimes as though she hated him? Why does she say such -bitter, cruel, satirical things, which stab him and leave a poison in -the wound? Why does she get into such passionate rages about trivial -things, and then reveal a passionate remorse? Why does she sink into -long silences, sitting with her hands in her lap, staring at the -pattern on the carpet, as though it had put a spell upon her? He cannot -understand. She says there is nothing wrong with her health, she refuses -to see a doctor. She scoffs at the idea of going away for a little -holiday to the seaside. She says it would bore her to death. Once she -bursts into tears and weeps on his shoulder. But she cannot, or will -not, explain the cause of her tears, so that he becomes impatient with -her and talks to her roughly, though he is sorry afterwards. He begins -to see now that marriage is a difficult game. Perhaps they were not -suited to each other. They married too young, before they had understood -each other.... However they have got to make the best of it now. That is -the law of life--to make the best of it. - -So in the Eighth Year the husband tries to take a common-sense view of -things, not knowing that in the Eighth Year it is too late for common -sense as far as the wife is concerned. She wants uncommon sense. Only -some tremendous and extraordinary influence, spiritual, or moral, or -intellectual, beyond the limits of ordinary common sense, may save her -from the perils in her own heart. She must find a way of escape, for -these unsatisfied yearnings, for this beating heart, for this throbbing -brain. Her little home has become a cage to her. Her husband has become -her jailer. Her life has become too narrow, too petty, too futile. In -the Eighth Year she must find a way of escape--anyhow, anywhere. And in -the Eighth Year the one great question is in what direction will she go? -There are many ways of escape. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -One way of escape is through the door of the Divorce Court. Sir Francis -Jeune, when he was President of the Divorce Court, saw before him many -of these escaping women, and he noted down the fact about the Eighth -Year; and sitting there with an impassive face, but watchful eyes, he -saw the characters in all these little tragedies and came to know the -type and the plot from constant reiteration. Sometimes the plot varied, -but only in accidentals, never in essentials. As the story was rehearsed -before him, it always began in the same way, with a happy year or two -of marriage. Then it was followed by the first stress and strain. Then -there came the drifting apart, the little naggings, the quarrels, the -misunderstandings, until the wife--it was generally the wife--became -bored, lonely, emotional, hysterical, and an easy victim for the first -fellow with a roving eye, a smooth tongue, and an easy conscience. The -procession still goes on, the long procession of women who try to escape -through the Divorce Court door. Every year they come, and the same story -is told and retold with sickening repetition. In most cases they are -childless wives. That is proved, beyond dispute, by all statistics of -divorce. Sometimes they have one or two children, but those cases are -much more rare. But even when there are children to complicate the -issues and to be the heirs of these tragedies, the causes behind the -tragedies are the same. The woman has had idle hands in her lap before -the Eighth Year of marriage has been reached. In the early years her -little home was enough to satisfy her mind and heart, and her interests -were enough to keep her busy. The coming of the first child, and of the -second, if there is a second, was for a time sufficient to crowd her -day with little duties and to prevent any restlessness or any deadly -boredom. All went well while she had but one maidservant, and while -her husband’s feet were still on the lower rungs of the ladder. But -the trouble began with the arrival of the extra servant and with the -promotion of her husband. It began when gradually she handed over -domestic duties to paid people, when she was seldom in the kitchen and -more in the drawing-room, when the children were put under the charge -of a nurse, and when the responsibilities of motherhood had become a -sinecure. The fact must be faced that a child is not always a cure for -the emptiness of a woman’s heart, nor an absolute pledge of fidelity -between husband and wife. These women who seek a way of escape from -their little homes are not always brought to that position by the -unfulfilled instincts of motherhood. For many of them have no instincts -of motherhood. They feel no great natural desire to have a child. -They even shrink from the idea of motherhood, and plead their lack of -courage, their ill-health, their weakness. With their husbands they are -partners in a childless scheme, or if they have a child--they quickly -thrust it into the nursery to leave themselves free. - -But, on the other hand, it is a fact borne out by all the figures that -a child does in the vast majority of cases bind together the husband and -wife, as no other influence or moral restraint; and that among all the -women who come to the Divorce Court the overwhelming majority is made up -of childless wives. - -These women are not naturally vicious. They have not gone wrong because -their principles are perverted. They are not, as a rule, intellectual -anarchists who have come to the conclusion that the conventional moral -code is wrong and that the laws of marriage are neither divine nor just. -On the contrary, they are conscience-stricken, they are terrified by -their own act. Many of them are brokenhearted and filled with shame. -It is pitiful to hear their letters read in court, letters to their -husbands pleading for forgiveness, asking for “another chance,” - or trying, feebly, to throw the blame on the man, and to whitewash -themselves as much as possible. To judge from their letters it would -seem that they were under some evil spell, and that they were conscious -of being dragged away from their duty as though Fate had clutched them -by the hair, so that although they struggled they could not resist, and -were borne helplessly along upon a swift tide of passion carrying them -to destruction. “I could not help myself” is the burden of their cry, as -though they had no free-will, and no strength of will. Occasionally they -give tragic pictures of their idle lives, so lacking in interest, so -barren, so boring. There is another phrase which crops up again and -again: “Oh, I was bored--bored--bored!” It was the man that saved her -from boredom who now shares the woman’s guilt, and stands in the witness -box in this court of honor. He came to her just at that moment in the -Eighth Year when she was bored to death. He was kind, sympathetic, -understanding. He brought a little color back into her cheeks, a little -laughter into her eyes, a little sunshine into her life. He seemed such -a boy, so youthful and high-spirited, such a contrast to her husband, -always busy, and always worrying over his business. He told good -stories, took her to the theatre, arranged little supper-parties, made -a new adventure of life. He would sit chatting with her over the fire, -when there were flickering shadows on the walls. He chased away the -ghosts, gave her new dreams, brought new hopes.... And then suddenly he -begins to tempt her; and she shrinks back from him, and is afraid. He -knows she is afraid, but he tries to laugh away her fears. She pleads -with him to go away, but there is insincerity in her voice, her words -are faltering. She knows that if he were to go away she would be left -more lonely than before, in intolerable loneliness till the ghosts would -rush back at her. So he stays, and tempts her a little more. Gradually, -little by little, he becomes her great temptation, overwhelming all -other things in life dwarfing all other things, even her faith and -honor. How can she resist? By what power within her can she resist? - -She does not resist. And yet by yielding she does not gain that -happiness to which she stretched out her hands. She does not satisfy the -great hunger in her heart or quench her burning thirst. She has not -even killed the ghosts which haunt her, or healed the pin pricks of her -conscience. Her conscience is one great bleeding wound. For this woman -of the middle-classes is a creature of her caste Nor in most cases can -she break the rules of her caste without frightful hurt to herself. She -was brought up in a “nice” home. Her mother was a woman of old-fashioned -virtues. Her father was a man who would have seen her dead rather than -shamed. She received a High School education, and read Tennyson and -Longfellow with moral notes by her class-mistress. She used to go to -church, and sometimes goes there still, though without any fervor or -strength of faith. She has heard the old words, “The wages of sin is -death,” and she shrinks a little when she thinks of them. Above all she -has been brought up on romantic fiction, and that is always on the side -of the angels. The modern problem novel has arrested her intellect, has -startled her, challenged her, given her “notions”; but in her heart of -hearts she still believes in the old-fashioned code of morals, in the -sweet old virtues. This sin of hers is a great terror to her. She is not -brazen-faced. She does not justify it by any advanced philosophy. She is -just a poor, weak, silly woman, who has gone to the edge of a precipice, -grown giddy, and fallen off the cliff. She throws up her hands with a -great cry. The way of escape through the Divorce Court door is not a way -to happiness. It is a way to remorse, to secret agonies, to a life-long -wretchedness. Her second husband, if he “plays the game” according to -the rules of the world, is not to be envied. Between him and this woman -there are old ghosts. This way of escape is into a haunted house. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -Thousands, and tens of thousands of women who pass through the Eighth -Year, not unscathed, find another way out. They are finding it now -through this new femininist movement which is linked up with the -cause of Women’s Suffrage. The Eighth Year produces many suffragettes, -militant and otherwise. At first, in the first years of their married -life, they scoffed at the idea of Votes for Women. They could not -see the sense of it. They hated the vulgarities of the business, the -shamelessness of it, the ugly squalor of these scuffles with the police, -these fights with the crowds, these raids on the House of Commons. -It was opposed to all their ideals of femininity and to all their -traditions of girlhood. “The hussies ought to be whipped,” is the -verdict of the young wife in the first stage of her romantic affection. -But, later on, when romance has worn very threadbare in the little home, -when reality is beginning to poke its head through the drawing-room -windows, she finds herself taking an interest in this strange -manifestation which seems to be inspired by some kind of madness. She is -silent now when some new phase in the conflict is being discussed in her -presence. She listens and ponders. Presently she goes out of her way -to get introduced to some suffrage woman on the outskirts of her -acquaintance. She is surprised to find her a wonderfully cheerful, and -apparently sane, woman, very keen, very alert, and with a great sense of -humor--utterly unlike her tired, bored and melancholy self. Perhaps she -is quite a young woman, a bachelor girl, earning her own living, down in -Chelsea, or as a typist secretary in the City. But young as she is she -has dived into all sorts of queer studies--the relations between men and -women, the divorce laws, the science of eugenics--and she discusses -them with an amazing frankness, and in a most revolutionary spirit, -startling, and a little appalling, at first to this wife in her Eighth -Year. She has made up her mind conclusively on all the great questions -of life. She pooh-poohs romantic love. “There is too much fuss made -about it,” she says. “It is a mere episode, like influenza. There are -bigger things.” She holds herself perfectly free to choose her mate, -and to remedy any little mistake which she may make in her choice. At -present she prefers her independence and her own job, which she likes, -thank you very much. She is tremendously enthusiastic about the work -which women have got to do in the world, and there is nothing they -cannot do, in her opinion. She claims an absolute equality with men. In -fact, she is inclined to claim a superiority. After all, men are poor -things.... Altogether she is a most remarkable young woman, and she -seems to get tremendous fun out of life--and this wife in her Eighth -Year, without agreeing with her yet envies her! - -Or perhaps the wife meets a suffrage woman of middle-age. She, too, is -a cheerful, keen, alert, bustling woman with cut-and-dried opinions on -subjects about which the wife in the Eighth Year is full of doubt -and perplexity. She has a certain hardness of character. She is -intellectually hard, and without an atom of old-fashioned sentiment. -She calls a spade a spade, in a rather embarrassing way, and prefers -her facts to be naked. She is the mother of two children, whom she is -bringing up on strictly eugenic principles, whatever those may be, and -she is the wife of a husband whom she keeps in the background and treats -as a negligible quantity. “We wives, my dear,” she says, “have been too -long kept prisoners in upholstered cages. It is time we broke our prison -windows. I am breaking other people’s windows as well. It lets in a lot -of fresh air.” - -She talks a great deal about sweated labor, about the white-slave -traffic, about women’s work and wages. She talks still more about the -treachery of the Government, the lies of politicians, the cowardice of -men. “Oh, we are going to make them sit up. We shall stop at nothing. It -is a revolution.” - -She is amazed at the ignorance of the young wife. “Good heavens, your -education _has_ been neglected!” she cries. “You are like all these -stuffy suburban women, who are as ignorant of life as bunny-rabbits. -Haven’t you even read John Stuart Mill’s _Subjection of Women?_ Good -gracious! Well, I will send you round some literature. It will open your -eyes, my dear.” - -She sends round a lot of little pamphlets, full of dangerous ideas, -ideas that sting like bees, ideas that are rather frightening to the -wife in her Eighth Year. They refer to other books, which she gets out -of the lending library. She reads Ibsen, and recognizes herself in many -of those forlorn women in the plays. She reads small booklets on the -Rights of Wives, on the Problems of Motherhood, on the Justice of the -Vote. And suddenly, after a period of intellectual apathy, she is set on -fire by all these burning sparks. She is caught up in a great flame of -enthusiasm. It is like strong drink to her. It is like religious mania. -She wakens out of her lethargy. Her feeling of boredom vanishes, gives -way to a great excitement, a great exhilaration. She startles her -husband, who thinks she has gone mad. She argues with him, laughs at his -old-fashioned opinions, scoffs at him, pities him for his blindness. She -goes out to suffrage meetings, starts to her feet one day and falters -out a few excited words. She sits down with burning cheeks, with the -sound of applause in her ears, like the roar of the sea. She learns to -speak, to express herself coherently. She offers herself to “the cause.” - She sells her trinkets and gives the money to the funds. She is out for -any kind of adventure, however perilous. She is one of the Hot Young -Bloods, or if she has not the pluck for that, or the strength, one of -the intellectual firebrands who are really more dangerous. - -It is a queer business, this suffrage movement, which sets these women -aflame. There are a few women in it who have the cold intellectual -logic of John Stuart Mill himself. They have thought the thing out on -scientific lines, in its economic, political, and social aspects. They -want the vote honestly, as a weapon to give their sex greater power, -greater independence, better conditions of life in the labor market. But -the rank and file have no such intellectual purpose, though they make -use of the same arguments and believe that these are the mainsprings of -their actions. In reality they are Eighth Year women. That is to say, -they seize upon the movement with a feverish desire to find in it some -new motive in life, some tremendous excitement, some ideals greater -and more thrilling than the little ideals of their home life. In this -movement, in this great battle, they see many things which they -keep secret. They go into it with blind impulses, which they do not -understand, except vaguely. It is a movement of revolt against all the -trammels of sex relationship which have come down through savagery to -civilization; laws evolved out of the inherited experience of tribes and -races for the protection of womanhood and the functions of womanhood, -laws of repression, of restraint, for the sake of the children of the -race; duties exacted by the social code again for the sake of the next -generation. Having revolted against the duties of motherhood, all -these laws, these trammels, these fetters, become to them intolerable, -meaningless, exasperating. The scheme of monogamy breaks down. It has -no deep moral purpose behind it, because the family is not complete. The -scheme has been frustrated by the childlessness of the wife. Again, this -movement is a revolt against the whole structure of modern society as -it affects the woman--against the very architecture of the home; against -all those tiny flats, those small suburban houses, in which women are -cramped and confined, and cut off from the large world. It did not -matter so long as there was a large world within the four walls. Their -space was big enough to hold the big ideals of old-fashioned womanhood, -in which the upbringing of children was foremost and all-absorbing. But -for a woman who has lost these ideals and the duties that result from -them, these little places are too narrow for their restless hearts; they -become like prison cells, in which their spirits go pacing up and down, -up and down, to come up against the walls, to heat their hands against -them. They believe that they may find in this suffrage movement the key -to the riddle of the mysteries in their souls, world-old mysteries, -of yearnings for the Unknown Good, of cravings for the Eternal -Satisfaction, for the perfect fulfilment of their beings. Their poor -husband, a dear good fellow, after all, now that they look at him -without hysteria, has not provided this Eternal Satisfaction. He has -only provided pretty frocks, tickets for matinées, foolish little -luxuries. He does not stand for them as the Unknown Good. After the -first year or two of marriage they know him with all his faults and -flaws, and familiarity breeds contempt. But here, in this struggle for -the Vote, in these window-breakings and house-burnings, in imprisonments -and forcible feedings, in this solidarity of women inspired by a fierce -fanaticism--there is, they think, the answer to all their unsolved -questions, the splendor and the glory of their sex, the possibility of -magnificent promises and gifts, in which the soul of woman may at last -find peace, and her body its liberty. She is to have the supreme mastery -over her own spirit and flesh. - -It is a fine promise. But as yet it is unfulfilled. It is not to -be denied that for a time at least some of these women do gain -a cheerfulness, a keenness, a vitality, which seem to be a great -recompense for their struggles and strivings. But they are the younger -women, and especially the young unmarried women, who get a good deal of -fun out of all this excitement, all this adventure, all the dangerous -defiance of law and convention. The older women--many of them--are -already suffering a sad disillusionment. They have not yet found those -splendid things which seemed at last within their grasp. They are -desperate to get them, fierce in their desire for them, but the cup of -wine is withheld from their lips. They find themselves growing old and -still unsatisfied, growing hard, and’ bitter, and revengeful against -those who thwart them. The problems of their sex still remain with them. -They may break all the laws, but get no nearer to liberty. They are -still prisoners of fate, bond-slaves to a nature which they do not -understand. The femininist movement is only a temporary way of escape -for the wife who has reached her crisis in the Eighth Year. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -There is another way, and it has many doors. It is religion. Many of -these women “take to religion” as they take to the suffrage movement, -and find the same emotional excitement and adventure in it. They are -caught up in it as by a burning flame. It satisfies something of their -yearnings and desires. And it is a curious and lamentable thing that -although it has been proved conclusively by all masters of philosophy -and by all great thinkers, that some form of religion, is an essential -need in the heart of women, the whole tendency of the time is to rob -them of this spiritual guidance and comfort. Religion is not a part of -the social scheme of things in “intellectual mansions” and in the small -suburban houses of the professional classes. It is not entirely wiped -off the slate, but it is regarded with indifference and as of no vital -account in the sum of daily life. Occasionally a certain homage is paid -to it, as to a pleasant, old-fashioned ritual which belongs to the code -of “good form.” In their courting days the young man and woman went to -church now and then on a Sunday morning or a Sunday evening and held -the same hymn-book, and enjoyed a little spiritual sentiment. They -were married in church to the music of the Wedding March played by the -organist. Sometimes as the years pass they drop into a service -where there is good singing, a popular preacher, and a fashionable -congregation. They regard themselves as Christians, and condescend to -acknowledge the existence of God, in a vague, tolerant kind of way. But -they do not enter into any intimate relations with God. He is not down -on their visiting list. Many of them do not even go as far as those -people I have described who regard God as part of the social code of -“good form.” They become frankly agnostic and smile at their neighbors -who put on top-hats and silk dresses and stroll to church on a Sunday -morning. It seems to them absurdly “Early Victorian.” For they have read -a great number of little books by the latest writers, who publish their -philosophy in sevenpenny editions, and they have reached an intellectual -position when they have a smattering of knowledge on the subject of -evolution, anthropology, the origins of religion, literature and dogma, -and the higher criticism. They have also read extracts from the works of -Nietzsche, Kant, and the great free-thinkers, or reviews of their works -in the halfpenny newspapers. The ideas of the great thinkers and -great rebels have filtered down to them through the writings of little -thinkers and little rebels. They have been amused by the audacities of -Bernard Shaw and other intellectuals of their own age. They have read -the novels of H. G. Wells, which seem to put God in His right place. -They have imbibed unconsciously the atmosphere of free-thought and -religious indifference which comes through the open windows, through the -keyholes, through every nook and cranny. Occasionally the husband lays -down the law on the subject with dogmatic agnosticism, or dismisses the -whole business of religion with a laugh as a matter of no importance -either way, certainly as a problem not worth bothering about. - -So the wife’s spiritual nature is starved. She is not even conscious of -it, except just now and then when she is aware of a kind of spiritual -hunger, or when she has little thoughts of terror at the idea of death, -or when she is in low spirits. She has no firm and certain faith to -which she can cling in moments of perplexity. She has no belief in any -divine authority from which she can seek guidance for her actions. -There is no supernatural influence about her from which she can draw any -sweetness of consolation, when the drudgery and monotony of life begins -to pall on her. When temptations come she has no anchor holding her fast -to duty and honor. She has no tremendous ideals giving a large meaning -to the little things of life. She has no spiritual vision to explain the -mysteries of her own heart, or any spiritual balm to ease its pain -and restlessness. She must rely always on her common sense, on her own -experience, on her own poor little principles of what is right or wrong, -or expedient, or “the proper thing.” When those fail her, all fails; she -is helpless, like a ship without a rudder, like a straw in the eddy of a -mill race. - -It is just at this time, when all has failed her, and when she seems to -be drifting helplessly, that she is ready for religion, a bundle of dry -straw which will burst into flame at the touch of a spark, a spiritual -appetite hungry for food. In hundreds of cases these women take to the -queerest kinds of spiritual food, some of it very poisonous stuff. Any -impostor with a new creed may get hold of them. Any false prophet may -dupe them into allegiance. They get into the hands of peculiar people. -They are tempted to go to a spiritualistic séance and listen to the -jargon of spiritualism. It frightens them at first, but after their -first fears, and a little shrinking horror, they go forward into these -“mysteries,” and are obsessed by them. It appears they are “psychical.” - Undoubtedly after a little practice they could get into touch with the -spirit-world. With planchette and table-rapping, and with mediumistic -guidance, they may learn the secrets of the ghost-world, and invoke the -aid of spirits in their little household. It becomes a mania with them. -It becomes, in many cases, sheer madness. - -There are other women who seek their spiritual salvation among the -clairvoyants and crystal-gazers and palmists of the West End. - -They become devotees of the Black Art, and dupes of those who prey -upon the Eternal Gullible. There are others who join the Christian -Scientists, and find the key to the riddle of life in the writings -of Mrs. Eddy. They experiment in will-power--upon their unfortunate -husbands. They adopt the simple life, and bring themselves into a low -state of health by fruit diet. They learn a new language full of strange -technical terms, which they but dimly understand, yet find comforting, -like the old woman and her Mesopotamia, which was a blessèd word to -her. But in spite of all its falsity and folly, it does give them a -new interest in life, and lift them right out of the ruck of suburban -dulness. So far at least it is helpful to them. It is some kind of -spiritual satisfaction, though afterwards, perhaps, they may fall into a -spiritual excitement and hysteria worse than their old restlessness, and -become a nuisance to their family and friends, women with _idées fixes_. - -It is better for them if they can grope their way back to the old -Christian faith, with its sweetness and serenity and divine ideals. Here -at last the woman may find authority, not to be argued about, not to be -dodged, but to be obeyed. Here at last she may find tremendous ideals -giving a significance to the little things of life, which seemed so -trivial, so futile, and so purposeless. Here is wholesome food for her -spiritual hunger, giving her new strength and courage, patience and -resignation. Here are great moral lessons from which she may draw wisdom -and guidance for her own poor perplexities. Then when temptations come, -she may cling to an anchor of faith which will not slip in shifting -sands, but is chained to a great rock. The wisdom of the Church, the -accumulated experience stored up in the Church, the sweetness of all -great Christian lives, the splendid serenity of the Christian laws, so -stern and yet so tolerant, so hard and yet so easy, give to this woman’s -soul the peace she has desired, not to be found among the ghosts of -modern spiritualism, nor in the pseudo-scientific jargon of Mrs. Eddy’s -works, nor in the glass-crystals of the clairvoyants. For the Christian -faith has no use for hysteria; it exacts a healthy discipline of mind. -It demands obedience to the laws of life, by which no woman may shirk -the duties of her nature, or pander to her selfishness, or dodge the -responsibilities of her state as a wife, or forget her marriage-vows and -all that they involve. - -There would be no fatal significance about the Eighth Year if the old -religion were still of vital influence in the home. For after all, -in spite of all our cleverness, we have not yet discovered any new -intellectual formula or philosophy which will force men and women to do -those things which are unpleasant but necessary to insure the future of -the race; to deny themselves so that the future generation may gain; to -suffer willingly in this world for the sake of an advantage in a future -life. If people do not believe in a future life, and in such rewards as -are offered by the Christian dogma, they prefer to have their advantages -here and now. But as we know, if we face the facts of life clearly, the -advantages, here and now, are not easy to get. Life, at its best, is -a disappointing business. There is a lot of rough with the smooth, -especially for women, especially for those women of the middle-classes -in small suburban homes, over-intel-lectualized, with highly strung -nerves, in a narrow environment, without many interests, and without -much work. It is just because many of them are entirely without religion -to give some great purpose to their inevitable trivialities that their -moral perspective becomes hopelessly inverted, as though they were -gazing through the wrong end of the telescope. Having no banking account -in the next life, they spend themselves in this life, and live “on -tick,” as it were. Religion is the gospel of unselfishness. Lacking -religion, they are utterly selfish. They do not worry about the future -of the race. Why should they? All they are worrying about is to -save themselves pain, expense, drudgery. Children are a great -nuisance--therefore they will not have children. They want to put in a -good time, to enjoy youth and beauty as long as possible, to get as much -fun as they can here and now. But, as we have seen, the fun begins -to peter out somewhere about the Eighth Year, and “the good time” has -disappeared like a mirage when one gets close to it, and even youth -and beauty are drooping and faded like yesterday’s flowers. What is the -woman to do then? She is the victim of shattered illusions, of broken -hopes. Before her is nothing but a gray vista of years. She has nothing -to reconcile her with the boredom of her days, nothing to compensate -her for domestic drudgery, no cure for the restlessness and feverishness -which consume her, no laws by which she may keep straight. She sees -crookedly, her spirit rushes about hither and thither. She is like a -hunted thing, hunted by her desires, and she can find no sanctuary; no -sanctuary unless she finds religion, and the right religion. There are -not many women nowadays who find this way of escape, for religion has -gone out of fashion, like last year’s hats, and it wants a lot of pluck -to wear a last year’s hat. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -Besides, the husband does not like it. He discourages religion, except -in homoeopathic doses, taken by way of a little tonic, as one goes to -the theatre for a pick-me-up. As he remarks, he does not believe in -women being too spiritual. It is not “healthy.” If his wife goes to -church with any regularity he suspects there is an attractive cleric -round the corner. And sometimes he is right. Anyhow, he does not feel -the need of religion, except when he gets a pretty bad dose of influenza -and has an uneasy thought that he is going to “peg out.” As a rule he -enjoys good health, and has no time to bother about the supernatural. -He does not meet it in the city. It is not a marketable commodity. It is -not, as he says, “in his line of country.” He does not see why it should -be in his wife’s line of country. He is annoyed when his wife takes -up any of these cranky ideas. He rages inwardly when she takes them up -passionately. Why can’t she be normal? - -Why on earth can’t she go on as she began, with her little feminine -interests, keeping herself pretty for his sake, keen on the latest -fashions, neighborly with young wives like herself, and fond of a bit -of frivolity now and then? When she complains that she has idle hands in -her lap, and wants something to do, he reminds her that she found plenty -to do in the first years of her married life. When she cries out that -she is bored, he points out to her that she gets much more amusement -than he does. - -And that is true, because by the time he has reached the Eighth Year -he is pretty busy. Ambition has caught hold of him and he is making a -career. It is not easy. Competition is deadly. He has got his work cut -out to keep abreast with his competitors. It is a constant struggle “to -keep his end up.” He finds it disconcerting when he comes home in the -evenings after the anxiety of his days, dog-tired and needing sympathy, -to find that his wife has an attack of nerves, or a feverish desire to -go out and “see something.” He wants to stay at home and rest, to dawdle -over the evening paper, to listen to a tune or two from his wife. - -He would like her to bring his slippers to him, as she used to do in the -old days, to hover round him a little with endearing words, and then, -with not too much of _that_, to keep quiet, assenting to his opinions -when he expresses them, and being restful. He has his own grievances. -He is not without troubles of soul and body. He has had to face -disappointment, disillusionment, hours of blank pessimism. He has had -to get to grips with reality, after the romanticism of his youth, and to -put a check upon his natural instincts and desires. In many ways it is -harder for the man than for the woman. Civilization and the monogamous -code have not been framed on easy lines for men. To keep the ordinary -rules of his caste he must put a continual restraint upon himself, -make many sacrifices. Women and wives forget that human nature has not -changed because men wear black coats and tall hats instead of the skins -of beasts. Human nature is exactly the same as it ever was, strong and -savage, but it has to be tamed and repressed within the four walls of a -flat in West Kensington, or within a semi-detached house at Wimbledon. - -There are moments when the man hears the call of the wild, and loathes -respectability and conventionality with a deadly loathing. In his -heart, as in the heart of every man, there is a little Bohemia, a little -country of lawlessness and errant fancy and primitive desires. Sometimes -when he has shut himself up in his study, when the servants are in the -kitchen washing up the supper-things, when his wife is lying down with a -bad headache, he unlocks the door of that Bohemia in his heart, and his -imagination goes roving, and he hears the pan-pipes calling, and the -stamp of the cloven hoofs of the old Nature-god. He would like to cut -and run sometimes from this respectable life of his, to go in search of -adventure down forbidden pathways, and to find the joy of life again in -Liberty Hall. This fretful wife of his, this social-ladder climbing, the -whole business of “playing the game” in the same old way, makes him -very tired, and gets on his nerves at times most damnably. He has his -temptations. He hears siren voices calling him. He sees the lure of the -witch-women. To feel his pulse thrill to the wine of life, to get -the fever of joy in his blood again, to plunge into the fiery lake of -passion, are temptations from which he does not escape because he is -Something in the City, or a barrister-at-law, and a married man with -a delicate wife. But, being a man, with a man’s work, and a man’s -ambition, he keeps his sanity, and quite often his self-respect. His -eyes are clear enough to see the notice-boards on the boundary lines of -the forbidden territory, “Trespassers will be prosecuted,” “Please keep -off the grass,” “No thoroughfare.” He locks up the gate to the little -Bohemia in his heart, and puts the key into a secret cupboard of his -brain. He understands quite clearly that if he once “goes off the -rails,” as he calls it, his ambitions will be frustrated and his career -spoiled. Besides, being a conventionalist and somewhat of a snob, he -would hate to be found out in any violation of the social code, and his -blood runs cold at the idea of his making a fool of himself with a -woman, or anything of that kind. The creed of his social code, of the -pot-hatted civilization, of this suburban conventionality of these -little private snob-doms, is stronger in the man than in the woman. When -she once takes the bit between her teeth, as it were, she becomes -utterly lawless. But the man reins himself in more easily. He finds it -on the whole less difficult to be law-abiding. He has also a clearer -vision of the logic of things. He knows that certain results follow -certain causes. He can measure up the consequences of an act, and weigh -them. He is guided by his brain rather than by his emotions. He has -certain fixed principles deeply rooted in him. He has a more delicate -sense of honor than most women. It is summed up in that old -school-phrase of his--“playing the game.” However much his nerves may be -jangled, and goodness knows they are often jangled, especially as the -Eighth Year draws near, he is generally master of himself. At least he -does not, as a rule, have hysterical outbursts, or give rein to -passionate impulses, or suddenly take some wild plunge, upsetting all -the balance of his life. He does not take frightful risks, as a woman -will always take them, recklessly, when she reaches her crisis. - -So it is that he looks coldly upon his wife’s desires for some new -emotional activity, of whatever kind it may be, religious, political, or -ethical. He hates any symptoms of fanaticism. He shivers at any breach -of good form. He would like her always to be sitting in the drawing-room -when he comes home, in a pretty frock, with a novel in her lap, with -a smile in her eyes. He does not and will not understand that this -childless wife of his must have strong interests outside her little home -to save her from eating her heart out. He hides from himself the fact -that her childlessness is a curse which is blighting her. He pooh-poohs -her tragic cry for help. He is just a little brutal with her when she -accuses him of thwarting all the desires of her soul. And he is scared, -thoroughly scared, when at last she takes flight, on wild wings, to some -spiritual country, or to some moral, or immoral, territory, where he -could not follow. He tries to call her back. But sometimes she may not -be called back. She has escaped beyond the reach of his voice. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -Snobbishness is one of the causes which lead to the Eighth Year, -and not the least among them. It is an essentially middle-class -snobbishness, and has grown up, like a fungus growth, with that immense -and increasing class of small, fairly well-to-do households who have -come into being with the advance of material prosperity during the past -twenty-five years, and with the progress of elementary education, and -all that it has brought with it in the form of new desires for pleasure, -amusement and more luxuries. These young husbands and wives who set up -their little homes are not, as I have said, content to start on the same -level as their parents in the first years of their married life. They -must start at least on the level of their parents at the end of their -married life, even a little in advance. The seeds of snobbishness -are sown before marriage. The modern son pooh-poohs the habits of his -old-fashioned father. They are not good enough for him. He has at least -twice the pocket-money at school compared with the allowance of his -father when he was a boy. He goes to a more expensive school and learns -expensive habits. When he begins work he does not hand over most of his -salary as his father used to hand over his salary a generation ago, to -keep the family pot boiling. He keeps all that he earns, though he is -still living at home, and develops a nice taste in clothes. One tie -on week-days and another tie for Sundays are still good enough for the -father, but the son buys ties by the dozen, and then has a passion -for fancy socks, and lets his imagination rove into all departments of -haberdashery. He is only a middle-class young man, but he dresses in the -style of a man of fashion, adopts some of the pleasures of the man about -town, and is rather scornful of the little house in the suburbs to which -he returns after a bachelor’s dinner in a smart restaurant, or after a -tea-party with gaiety girls. He becomes a “Nut,” and his evenings are -devoted to a variety of amusements, which does away with a good deal -of money. He smokes a special brand of cigarettes. He hires a motor-car -occasionally for a spin down to Brighton. His mother and father are -rather scared by this son who lives in a style utterly beyond their -means. - -The girl is a feminine type of the new style. She has adopted the -new notions. At a very early age she is expert in all the arts of the -younger generation, and at seventeen or eighteen has already revolted -from the authority of her parents. She is quite a nice girl, naturally, -but her chief vice is vanity. She is eaten up with it. It is a consuming -passion. From the moment she gets out of bed in the morning for the -first glimpse of her face in the looking-glass to the time she goes to -bed after putting on some lip-salve and face enamel, she is absorbed -with self-consciousness about her “looks.” Her face is always occupying -her attention. Even in railway trains she keeps biting her lips to make -them red. At every window she passes she gives a sidelong glance to see -if her face is getting on all right. Her main ambition in life is to be -in the fashion. She is greedy for “pretty things” and sponges upon her -father and mother for the wherewithal to buy them, and she will not lay -a little finger on any work in the kitchen or even make a bed, lest her -hands should be roughened and because it would not be quite “lady-like.” - -A pretty education for matrimony! A nice couple to set up house together -Poor children of life, they are doomed to have a pack of troubles. -Because as they began they go on, with the same ideas, with the same -habits of mind, until they get a rude shock. Their little household is -a shrine to the great god Snob. They are his worshippers. To make a show -beyond their meansj or up to the very limit of their means, to pretend -to be better off than they are, to hide any sign of poverty, to dress -above their rank in life, to show themselves in places of entertainment, -to shirk domestic drudgery, that is their creed. - -In the old days, before the problem of the Eighth Year had arrived, the -wives of men, the mothers of those very girls, kept themselves busy by -hundreds of small duties. They made the beds, dusted the rooms, helped -the servants in the kitchen, made a good many of their own clothes, -mended them, altered them, cleaned the silver. But nowadays the wife of -the professional man does none of these things if there is any escape -from them. She keeps one servant at a time when her mother did without -a servant. She keeps two servants as soon as her husband can afford an -extra one, three servants if the house is large enough to hold them. -Indeed, a rise in the social scale is immediately the excuse for -an additional servant, and in the social status the exact financial -prosperity of the middle-classes is reckoned by them according to the -number of servants they keep. And whether it be two or three, the little -snob wife sits in her drawing-room with idle hands, trying to kill time, -getting tired of doing nothing, but proud of her laziness. And the snob -husband encourages her in her laziness. He is proud of it, too. He would -hate to think of his wife dusting, or cleaning, or washing up. He does -not guess that this worship of his great god Snob is a devil’s worship, -having devilish results for himself and her. The idea that women want -work never enters his head. His whole ambition in life is to prevent his -wife from working, not only when he is alive, but after he is dead. He -insures himself heavily and at the cost of a great financial strain upon -his resources in order that “if anything happens” his wife, even then, -need not raise her little finger to do any work. But something “happens” - before he is dead. The woman revolts from the evil spell of her -laziness. She finds some work for her idle hands to do--good work or -bad. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -If only those idle women would find some good work to do the Eighth -Year would lose its terrors. And there is so much good work to do if -they would only lay their hands to it! If they cannot get in touch with -God, they can at least get in touch with humanity. At their very doors -there is a welter of suffering, struggling humanity craving for a little -help, needing helping hands, on the very edge of the abyss of misery, -and slipping down unless they get rescued in the nick of time. In the -mean streets of life, in the hospitals, at the prison gates, in the -reformatories, in the dark haunts of poverty, there are social workers -striving and toiling and moiling in the service of all these seething -masses of human beings. But there are too few of them, and the appeals -for volunteers in the ranks of the unpaid helpers are not often -answered. They are hardly ever answered from the class of women who have -least in the world to do, and most need of such kinds of work. Many -of these women have good voices. They sing little drawing-room ballads -quite well, until they get sick of the sound of their own singing in -their lonely little drawing-rooms. But they do not think of singing in -the hospitals, and the workhouse wards, where their voices would give -joy to suffering people, or miserable people who do not often hear the -music of life. These women have no children. They have shirked the -pains of childbirth. But they might help to give a little comfort and -happiness to other mothers’ children, to shepherd a small flock for a -day’s outing in the country, to organize the children’s playtime, to -nurse the sick baby now and then. These idle women remember their own -girlhood and its dreams. They remember their own innocence, the shelter -of their home-life. It would be good for them if they gave a little -loving service to the girls in the working-quarters of the great cities, -and went down into the girl-clubs to play their dance tunes, to keep -them out of the streets, to give them a little innocent fun in -the evenings. These lazy women cry out that they are prisoners in -upholstered cages. But there are many prisoners in stone cells, who at -the prison gates, on their release, stand looking out into the cold gray -world, with blank, despairing eyes, with no prospect but that of crime -and vice, unless some unknown friend comes with a little warmth of human -love, with a quick sympathy and a ready helpfulness. Here is work for -workless women who are well-to-do. They are unhappy in their own -homes, because they are tired of its trivialities, tired of its little -luxuries, bored to death with themselves because they have no purpose -in life. But in the mean streets round the corner they would find women -still clinging with extraordinary courage to homes that have no stick -of furniture in them, amazingly cheerful, although instead of little -luxuries they have not even the barest necessities of life, unwearied, -indefatigable, heroic in endurance, though they toil on sweated wages. -The women of the well-to-do middle-classes drift apart from their -husbands because perhaps they have irritable little habits, because they -do not understand all the yearnings in their wives’ hearts, because they -have fallen below the old ideals of their courting days. But here in the -slums these women with a grievance would find other women loyal to their -husbands who come home drunk at nights, loyal through thick and thin -to husbands who “bash” them when they speak a sharp word, loyal to the -death to husbands who are untamed brutes with only the love of the brute -for its mate. There is no problem of the Eighth Year in Poverty Court, -only the great problems of life and death, of hunger and thirst and -cold, of labor and want of work. Here in the mean streets of the world -is the great lesson that want of work is the greatest disaster, the -greatest moral tragedy, that may happen to men and women. - -If the idle women of the little snobdoms would come forth from their -houses and flats, they would see that lesson staring them in the face, -with a great warning to themselves. And if they would thrust aside their -selfishness and learn the love of humanity, it would light a flame in -their hearts which would kindle the dead ashes of their disillusionment -and burn up their grievances, and make a bonfire of all their petty -little troubles, and make such a light in their lives as would enable -them to see the heroic qualities of ordinary duties bravely done, and of -ordinary lives bravely led. Here they would find another way of escape -from the perils of the Eighth Year, and a new moral health for their -hearts and brains. - -It is only now and then that some woman is lucky enough to find this way -out, for snobbishness enchains them, and it is difficult to break its -fetters. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -When the woman has once taken flight, or is hesitating before taking -her flight, in the Eighth Year, it is an almost hopeless business for -the husband to call her back. Whenever she is called back, it is by -some outside influence, beyond _his_ sphere of influence, by some sudden -accident, by some catastrophe involving both of them, or by some severe -moral shock, shaking the foundations of their little home like an -earthquake. There are cases in which the woman has been called back by -the sudden smash-up of her husband’s business, by financial ruin. In his -social ladder-climbing he is too rash. One of the rungs of the ladder -breaks beneath his feet and he comes toppling down. Owing to this deadly -competition of modern life, he loses his “job.” It is given to a younger -or better man, or to a man with a stronger social pull. He comes home -one day with a white face, trembling, horribly scared, afraid to break -the news to a woman who has not been helpful to him of late, and of -whose sympathy he is no longer sure. He believes that this misfortune -is the last straw which will break their strained relations. He sees -the great tragedy looming ahead, hearing down upon him. But, curiously -enough, this apparent disaster is the salvation of both of them. The -despair of her husband calls to the woman’s loyalty. All her grievances -against this man are suddenly swallowed up in the precipice which has -opened beneath his feet. All her antagonism is broken down and dissolved -into pity. Her self-pride is slain by this man’s abasement. His -weakness, his need of help, his panic-stricken heart cry to her. After -all their drifting apart, their indifference to each other, their -independence, he wants her again. He wants her as a helpmeet. He wants -any courage she can give him, any wisdom. And she is glad to be wanted. -She stretches out her hands to him. They clasp each other, and there -is no longer a gulf beneath their feet; misfortune has built a bridge -across the gulf which divided them. More than that, all the little -meannesses of their life, all the petty selfishness of their days, all -the little futile things over which they have wrangled and jangled are -thrust on one side, and are seen in their right perspective. The things -that matter, the only things that matter, are seen, perhaps, for the -first time, clearly, in a bright light, now that they are face to -face with stem realities. The shock throws them off their pedestals of -conceit, of self-consciousness, of pretence. They stand on solid ground. -The shock has broken the masks behind which they hid themselves. It -has broken the hard crust about their hearts. It has shattered the idol -which they worshipped, the idol of the great god Snob. - -And so they stare into each other’s soul, and take hands again like -little children, abandoned by the Wicked Uncles of life, and they grope -their way back to primitive things, and begin the journey again. They -have found out that this new comradeship is better even than the old -romantic love of their courting days. They have discovered something -of the great secret of life. They are humbled. They make new pledges to -each other, pick up the broken pieces of their hopes and dreams and -fit them together again in a new and sounder scheme. This time, in some -cases, they do not leave the baby out of the business. The wife becomes -a mother, and the child chases away all the ghosts which haunted her in -the Eighth Year. She no longer wants to take flight. She has been called -back. - -It is nearly always some accident like this which calls the wife back, -some sudden, startling change in the situation, caused by outside -influences, or by the hand of Fate. Sometimes it is an illness which -overtakes the husband or wife. Holding hands by the bedside, they -stare into the face of Death, and again the trivialities of life, the -pettiness of their previous desires, the folly of their selfishness, the -stupidity of their little snobdom, are revealed by the whisperings of -Death, and by its warnings. The truth of things stalks into the bedroom -where the husband, or the wife, lies sleeping on the borderland. About -the sick bed the weeping woman makes new vows, tears wash out her -vanity, her self-conceit. Or, kneeling by the side of the woman whose -transparent hand he clasps above the coverlet, the husband listens to -the little voice within his conscience, and understands, with a great -heartache, the pitiful meaning of the domestic strife which seemed -to have killed his love for the woman for whose life now he makes a -passionate cry. In the period of convalescence, after Death has stolen -away, when life smiles again through the open windows, that man and -woman get back to sanity and to wisdom beyond that of common-sense. They -begin again with new ideals. Perhaps in a little while one of the rooms -becomes a nursery. They get back to the joy of youth, once more the -woman has been called back. - -If none of these “accidents” happen, if some great influence like this -does not thrust its way into the lives of this husband and wife during -the crisis of the Eighth Year, if the woman is not caught up by some -great enthusiasm, or if she can find no work for the idle hands to do, -giving her new and absorbing interests to satisfy her heart and brain, -then the Eighth Year is a fatal year, and the President of the Divorce -Court has a new case added to his list, or the family records of the -country chronicle another separation, or another woman goes to prison -for arson or bomb-throwing. Because the laws of psychology are not so -erratic as the world imagines. They work out on definite lines. Certain -psychological forces having been set in motion, they lead inevitably to -certain results. When once a woman has lost her interest in her home and -husband, when she has become bored with herself, when she has a morbid -craving for excitement and adventures, when she has become peevish and -listless and hungry-hearted, she cannot remain in this condition. Those -forces within her are tremendously powerful. They must find some outlet. -They must reach a definite time of crisis when things have got to -happen. These vague yearnings must be satisfied, somehow, anyhow. The -emptiness of her heart must be filled by something or other. She will -search round with wondering, wistful eyes, more desperate day by day, -until she finds the thing, however evil it may be, however dangerous. -She must still that throbbing brain of hers, even if she has to take -drugs to do so. In spite of all the poison laws, she will find some kind -of poison, some subtle and insidious drug to give her temporary cure, a -period of vitality, a thrill of excitement, a glittering dream or two, -a relief from the dulness which is pressing down upon her with leaden -weights. She knows the penalty which follows this drug-taking--the awful -reaction, the deadly lethargy that follows, the nervous crises, the loss -of will-power, but she is prepared to pay the price because for a little -while she gets peace, and artificial life. The family doctors know the -prevalence of those drug-taking habits. They know the cause of them, -they have watched the pitiful drama of these women’s lives. But they -can do nothing to cut out the cause. Not even the surgeon’s knife can do -that; their warnings fall on deaf ears, or are answered by a hysterical -laugh. - -As I have shown, there are other forms of drug-taking not less dangerous -in their moral effects. If the woman does not go to the chemist’s shop, -she goes to the darkened room of the clairvoyant and the crystal-gazer, -or to the spiritualistic séance, or to the man who hides his time until -the crisis of the Eighth Year delivers the woman into his hands. - -Here, then, frankly and in detail, I have set out the meaning of this -dangerous year of married life, and have endeavored, honestly, to -analyze all the social and psychological forces which go to make that -crisis. It is, in some measure, a study of our modern conditions of life -as they prevail among the middle-classes, so that the problem is not -abnormal, but is present, to some extent, in hundreds of thousands -of small households to-day. All the tendencies of the time, all the -revolutionary ideas that are in the very air we breathe, all this -modern spirit of revolt against disagreeable duties, and drudgery, and -discipline, the decay of religious authority, the sapping of spiritual -faith, the striving for social success, the cult of snobbishness, -the new creed of selfishness which ignores the future of the race and -demands a good time here and now, the lack of any ideals larger than -private interests and personal comforts, the ignorance of men and women -who call themselves intellectual, the nervous irritability of husbands -and wives who live up to the last penny of their incomes, above all -the childlessness of these women who live in small flats and suburban -villas, and their utter laziness, all those signs and symptoms of -our social sickness lead up, inevitably, and with fatal logic, to the -tragedy of the Eighth Year. - - - - - -PART II--A DEMONSTRATION - - - - -CHAPTER I - -In the drawing-room of a flat in Intellectual Mansions, S. W., there -was an air of quietude and peace. No one would have imagined for a -moment that the atmosphere was charged with electricity, or that -the scene was set for a drama of emotional interest with tragic -potentialities. It seemed the dwelling-place of middle-class culture and -well-to-do gentility. - -The room was furnished in the “New Art” style, as seen in the showrooms -of the great stores. There were sentimental pictures on the walls framed -in dark oak. The sofa and chairs were covered in a rather flamboyant -chintz. Through the French windows at the back could be seen the balcony -railings, and, beyond, a bird’s-eye view of the park. A piano-organ in -the street below was playing the latest ragtime melody, and there was -the noise of a great number of whistles calling for taxis, which did not -seem to come. - -In a stiff-backed arm-chair by the fireplace sat an elderly lady, of a -somewhat austere appearance, who was examining through her spectacles -the cover of a paper backed novel, depicting a voluptuous young woman; -obviously displeasing to her sense of propriety. Mrs. Heywood’s sense of -propriety was somewhat acutely developed, to the annoyance, at times, of -Mollie, the maid-servant, who was clearing away the tea-things in a -bad temper. That is to say, she was making a great deal of unnecessary -clatter. - -Mrs. Heywood ignored the clatter, and concentrated her attention on the -cover of the paper-backed book. It seemed to distress her, and presently -she gave expression to her distress. - -“Dear me! What an improper young woman!” - -Mollie’s bad temper was revealed by a sudden tightening of the lips and -a flushed face. She bent across an “occasional” table and peered over -the old lady’s shoulder, and spoke rather impudently. - -“Excuse me, ma’am, but that’s _my_ novel, if you don’t mind.” - -“I _do_ mind,” said Mrs. Heywood. “I was shocked to find it on the -kitchen dresser.” - -Molly tossed her head, so that her white cap assumed an acute angle. - -“I was shocked to see that it had gone from the kitchen dresser.” - -Then she lowered her voice and added in a tone of bitter grievance-- - -“Blessed if one can call anything one’s own in this here flat.” - -“It’s not fit literature for _any_ young girl,” said Mrs. Heywood -severely. She looked again at the flaunting lady with an air of extreme -disapproval. - -“Disgusting!” - -Mollie rattled the tea-things violently. - -“It’s good enough for the mistress, anyhow.” - -Mrs. Heywood was surprised. - -“Surely she did not lend it to you?” - -“Well--not exactly,” said Mollie, with just a trace of embarrassment. “I -borrowed it. It’s written by her particular friend, Mr. Bradshaw.” - -“Mr. Bradshaw! Surely not?” - -The old lady wiped her spectacles rather nervously. - -“A very nice-spoken gentleman,” said Mollie, “though he does write -novels.” - -Mrs. Heywood looked at the author’s name for the first time and -expressed her astonishment. - -“Good gracious! So it is.” - -Mollie laughed as she folded up the tea-cloth. She had gained a little -triumph, and scored off the “mother-in-law,” as she called the elderly -lady, in the kitchen. - -“Oh, he knows a thing or two, he does, my word!” - -She winked solemnly at herself in the mirror over the mantelshelf. - -“Hold your tongue, Mollie,” said Mrs. Heywood sharply. - -“Servants are not supposed to have any tongues. Oh, dear no!” - -With this sarcastic retort Mollie proceeded to put the sugar-basin into -the china-cupboard, but seemed to expect a counter-attack. She was not -disappointed. - -“Mollie!” said Mrs. Heywood severely, looking over the rims of her -spectacles. - -“Now what’s wrong?” - -“You have not cleaned the silver lately.” - -“Haven’t I?” said Mollie sweetly. - -“No,” said Mrs. Heywood. “Why not, I should like to know?” - -Mollie’s “sweetness” was suddenly embittered. She spoke with ferocity. - -“If you want to know, it’s because I won’t obey two mistresses at once. -There’s no liberty for a mortal soul in this here flat. So there!” - -“Very well, Mollie,” said Mrs. Heywood mildly. “We will wait until your -mistress comes home. If she has any strength of mind at all she will -give you a month’s notice.” - -Mollie sniffed. The idea seemed to amuse her. - -“The poor dear hasn’t any strength of mind.” - -“I am surprised at you, Mollie.” - -“That’s why she has gone to church again.” - -Mrs. Heywood was startled. She was so startled that she forgot her anger -with the maid. - -“Again? Are you sure?” - -“Well, she had a look of church in her eyes when she went out.” - -“What sort of a look?” asked Mrs. Heywood. - -“A stained-glass-window look.” - -Mrs. Heywood spoke rather to herself than to Mollie. - -“That makes the third time to-day,” she said pensively. - -Mollie spoke mysteriously. She too had forgotten her anger and -impudence. She dropped her voice to a confidential tone. - -“The mistress is in a bad way, to my thinking. I’ve seen it coming on.” - -“Seen what coming on?” asked the elderly lady. - -“She sits brooding too much. Doesn’t even pitch into me when I break -things. That’s a bad sign.” - -“A bad sign?” - -“I’ve noticed they’re all taken like this when they go wrong,” said the -girl, speaking as one who had had a long experience of human nature -in Intellectual Mansions, S. W. But these words aroused the old lady’s -wrath. - -“How dare you!” said Mrs. Heywood. “Leave the room at once.” - -“I must tell the truth if I died for it,” said Mollie. - -The two women were silent for a moment, for just then a voice outside -called, “Clare! Clare!” rather impatiently. - -“Oh, Lord!” said Mollie. “There’s the master.” - -“Clare!” called the voice. “Oh, confound the thing!” - -“I suppose he’s lost his stud again,” said Mollie. “He always does on -club nights. I’d best be off.” - -She took up the tea-tray and left the room hurriedly, just as her -master came in. It was Mr. Herbert Heywood, generally described by -his neighbors as being “Something in the City”--a man of about thirty, -slight, clean-shaven, boyish, good-looking, with nervous movements and -extreme irritability. He was in evening clothes with his tie undone. - -“Plague take this tie!” he growled, making use of one or two -un-Parliamentary expressions. Then he saw his mother and apologized. - -“Oh, I beg your pardon, mother. Where’s Clare?” - -Mrs. Heywood answered her son gloomily. - -“I think she’s gone to church again.” - -“Again?” said Herbert Heywood. “Why, dash it all--I beg your pardon, -mother--she’s always going to church now. What’s the attraction?” - -“I think she must be unwell,” said Mrs. Hey-wood. “I’ve thought so for -some time.” - -“Oh, nonsense! She’s perfectly fit.... See if you can tie this bow, -mother.” - -Mrs. Heywood endeavored to do so, and during the process her son showed -great impatience and made irritable grimaces. But he returned to the -subject of his wife. - -“Perhaps her nerves are a bit wrong. Women are nervy creatures.... Oh, -hang it all, mother, don’t strangle me!... As I tell her, what’s the -good of having a park at your front door--Oh, thanks, that’s better.” - -He looked at himself in the glass, and dabbed his face with a -handkerchief. - -“Of course I cut myself to-night. I always do when I go to the club.” - -“Herbert, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood rather nervously. - -“I--I suppose Clare is not going to bless you with a child?” - -“_In this flat_!” - -Herbert was startled and horrified. It was a great shock to him. He -gazed round the little drawing-room rather wildly. - -“Oh, Lord!” he said presently, when he had calmed down a little. “Don’t -suggest such a thing. Besides, she is not.” - -“Well, I’m nervous about her,” said Mrs. Heywood. - -“Oh, rats, mother! I mean, don’t be so fanciful.” - -“I don’t like this sudden craving for religion, Herbert. It’s -unhealthy.” - -“Devilish unhealthy,” said Herbert. - -He searched about vainly for his patent boots, which were in an obvious -position. It added to his annoyance and irritability. - -“Why can’t she stay at home and look after me? I can’t find a single -damn thing. I beg your pardon, mother.... Women’s place is in the -home.... Now where on earth----” - -He resumed his search for the very obvious patent boots and at last -discovered them. - -“Oh, there they are!” - -He glanced at the clock, and expressed the opinion that he would be late -for the club if he did not “look sharp.” Then a little tragedy happened, -and he gave a grunt of dismay when a bootlace broke. - -“Oh, my hat! Why doesn’t Clare look after my things properly?” - -Mrs. Heywood asked another question, ignoring the broken bootlace. - -“Need you go to the club to-night, Herbert?” - -Herbert was both astonished and annoyed at this remark. - -“Of course I must. It’s Friday night and the one little bit of -Bohemianism I get in the week. Why not?” - -“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Heywood meekly. “Except that I thought -Clare is feeling rather lonely.” - -“Lonely?” said Herbert. “She has you, hasn’t she?” - -“Yes, she has me.” - -Mrs. Heywood spoke as though that might be a doubtful consolation. - -“Besides, what more does she want? She has her afternoon At Homes, -hasn’t she?” - -“Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood, still more doubtfully. - -“And she can always go to a matinée if she wants to, can’t she?” - -“Yes, dear.” - -“Then I have taken out a subscription to Mudie’s for her, haven’t I?” - -Herbert Heywood spoke as though his wife had all the blessings of -life, as though he had provided her with all that a woman’s heart might -desire. But Mrs. Heywood interrupted his catalogue of good things. - -“I think she reads too many novels,” she said. - -“Oh, they broaden her mind,” said Herbert. “Although, I must -confess they bore _me_ to death.... Now what have I done with my -cigarette-case?” - -He felt all over his pockets, but could not find the desired thing. - -“Oh, the curse of pockets!” - -“Some of them are very dangerous, Herbert.” - -“What, pockets?” - -“No, novels,” said Mrs. Heywood. “Look at this.” - -She thrust under his eyes the novel with the picture of the flaming -lady. - -“Gee whizz!” said Herbert, laughing. “Oh, well, she’s a married woman.” - -“Do you see who the author is, Herbert?” Herbert look, and was -astonished. - -“Gerald Bradshaw, by Jove! Does he write this sort of muck?” - -“He has been coming here rather often lately. Especially on club-nights, -Herbert.” Herbert Heywood showed distinct signs of annoyance. - -“Does he, by Jove? I don’t like the fellow. He’s a particularly fine -specimen of a bad hat.” - -“I’m afraid he’s an immoral man,” said Mrs. Heywood. - -Herbert shrugged his shoulders. - -“Well, Clare can take care of herself.” - -“I wonder,” said Mrs. Heywood, as though she were not at all sure. “My -dear, I think you ought to keep an eye on your wife just now.” - -Herbert Heywood took his eye-glass out of a fob pocket and fumbled with -it. - -“Keep an eye on her, mother?” - -“She is very queer,” said Mrs. Heywood. “I can’t do anything to please -her.” - -“Well, there’s nothing strange in that,” said Herbert. Then he added -hastily-- - -“I mean it’s no new symptom.” - -Mrs. Heywood stared at her son in a peculiar, significant way. - -“She looks as if something is going to--happen.” - -Herbert was really startled. - -“Happen? How? When?” - -“I can’t exactly explain. She appears to be waiting for something--or -some one.” - -Herbert was completely mystified. - -“I didn’t keep her waiting this evening, did I?” - -“I don’t mean you, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood. - -“No?--Who, then?” asked Herbert. - -Mrs. Heywood replied somewhat enigmatically. She gave a deep sigh and -said-- - -“We women are queer things!” - -“Queer isn’t the word,” said Herbert. - -He stared at the carpet in a gloomy, thoughtful way, as though the -pattern were perplexing him. - -“Perhaps you’re right about the novels. They’ve been giving her notions, -or something.” - -Mrs. Heywood crossed the room hurriedly and went over to a drawer in a -cabinet, from which she pulled out a number of pamphlets. - -“Herbert,” she said solemnly, “she doesn’t read only novels. Look here. -Look at all these little books. She simply devours them, Herbert, and -then hides them.” - -“Naturally, after she has devoured them,” said Herbert irritably. “But -what the deuce are they?” - -He turned them over one by one, reading out the titles, raising his -eyebrows, and then whistling with surprise, and finally looking quite -panic-stricken. - -“_Women’s Work and Wages_. Oh, Lord! John Stuart Mill on _The Subjection -of Women. The Ethics of Ibsen_. Great Scott! _The Principles of -Eugenics_.... My hat!” - -“Quite so, Herbert,” said Mrs. Heywood, with a kind of grim satisfaction -in his consternation. - -“I don’t mind her reading improper novels,” said Herbert, “but I draw -the line at this sort of stuff.” - -“It’s most dangerous.” - -“It’s rank poison.” - -“That’s what I think,” said Mrs. Heywood. - -“Where did she get hold of them?” asked Herbert. - -Mrs. Heywood looked at her son as though she had another startling -announcement. - -“From that woman, Miss Vernon, the artist girl who lives in the flat -above.” - -“What, that girl who throws orange-peel over the balcony?” - -“Yes, the girl who is always whistling for taxis,” said Mrs. Heywood. - -“What, you mean the one who complained about my singing in the bath?” - -“Yes, I shall never forgive her for that.” - -“Said she didn’t mind if I sang in tune.” - -“Yes, the one who sells a Suffragette paper outside Victoria Station.” - -“It’s the sort of thing she would do,” said Herbert, with great sarcasm. - -“I never liked her, my dear,” said Mrs. Heywood. - -“Confound her impudence! As if a British subject hasn’t an inalienable -right to sing in his bath! She had the cheek to say I was spoiling her -temper for the rest of the day.” - -Mrs. Heywood laughed rather bitterly. “She looks as if she had a -temper!” - -Herbert gave the pamphlets an angry slap with the back of his hand and -let them fall on the floor. - -“Do you mean to say _she_ has been giving Clare these pestilential -things?” - -“I saw her bring them here,” said Mrs. Hey-wood. - -“Well, they shan’t stay here.” - -Herbert went to the fireplace and took up the tongs. Then he picked up -the pamphlets as though they might bite and tossed them into the flames. - -“Beastly things! Burn, won’t you?” - -He gave them a savage poke, deeper into the fire, and watched them -smolder and then break into flame. - -“Pestilential nonsense!... That’s a good deed done, anyhow!” - -Mrs. Heywood was rather scared. - -“I am afraid Clare will be very angry.” - -“Angry! I shall give her a piece of my mind. She had no right to conceal -these things.” He spoke with dignity. “It isn’t honorable.” - -“No,” said Mrs. Heywood, “but all the same, dear, I wish you hadn’t -burned the books.” - -“I should like to burn the authors of ‘em,” said Herbert fiercely. -“However, they’ll roast sooner or later, that’s a comfort.” - -“You had better be careful, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood rather nervously. -“Clare is in a rather dangerous frame of mind just now.” - -“Clare will have to learn obedience to her husband’s wishes,” said -Herbert. “I thought she had learned by this time. She’s been very quiet -lately.” - -“Too quiet, Herbert. It’s when we women are very quiet that we are most -dangerous.” Herbert was beginning to feel alarmed. He did not like all -these hints, all these vague and mysterious suggestions. - -“Good Lord, mother, you give me the creeps. Why don’t you speak -plainly?” - -Mrs. Heywood was listening. She seemed to hear some sounds in the hall. -Suddenly she retreated to her arm-chair and made a pretence of searching -for her knitting. - -“Hush!” she said. “Here she comes.” - -As she spoke the words, the door opened slowly and Clare came in. She -was a tall, elegant woman of about thirty, with a quiet manner and -melancholy eyes in which there was a great wistfulness. She spoke rather -wearily-- - -“Not gone yet, Herbert? You’ll be late for the club.” - -Herbert looked at his wife curiously, as though trying to discover some -of those symptoms to which his mother had alluded. - -“I’m afraid that’s your fault,” he said. - -“My fault?” - -“Surely you ought to stay at home sometimes and help me to get off -decently,” said Herbert in an aggrieved way. “You know perfectly well my -tie always goes wrong.” - -Clare sighed; and then smiled rather miserably. - -“Why can’t men learn to do their own ties? We’re living in the twentieth -century, aren’t we?” - -She took off her hat, and sat down with it in her lap. - -“Oh, how my head aches to-night.” - -“Where have you been?” asked Herbert - -“Yes, dear, where _have_ you been?” asked Mrs. Heywood. - -“I’ve been round to church for a few minutes,” said Clare. - -“What on earth for?” asked Herbert impatiently. - -“What does one go to church for?” - -“God knows!” said Herbert bitterly. - -“Precisely. Have you any objection?” - -“Yes, I have.” - -Herbert spoke with some severity, as though he had many objections. - -“I don’t object to you going to your club,” said Clare. - -“Oh, that’s different.” - -“In what way?” asked Clare. - -“In every way. I am a man, and you’re a woman.” - -Clare Heywood thought this answer out. She seemed to find something in -the argument. - -“Yes,” she said, “it does make a lot of difference.” - -“I object strongly to this religious craze of yours,” said Herbert, -trying to be calm and reasonable. “It’s unnatural. It’s--it’s devilish -absurd.” - -“It may keep me from--from doing other things,” said Clare. - -She spoke as though the words had some tragic significance. - -“Why can’t you stay at home and read a decent novel?” - -“It is so difficult to find a _decent_ novel. And I am sick of them -all.” - -“Well, play the piano, then,” said Herbert. - -“I am tired of playing the piano, especially when there is no one to -listen.” - -“There’s mother,” said Herbert. - -“Mother has no ear for music.” - -Mrs. Heywood was annoyed at this remark. It seemed to her unjust. - -“How can you say so, Clare? You know I love Mozart.” - -“I haven’t played Mozart for years,” said Clare, laughing a little. “You -are thinking of Mendelssohn.” - -“Well, it’s all the same,” said Mrs. Heywood. - -“Yes, I suppose so,” said Clare very wearily. She drooped her head and -shut her eyes until suddenly she seemed to smell something. - -“Is there anything burning?” - -“Burning?” said Herbert nervously. - -“There is a queer smell in the flat,” said Clare. - -Herbert stood with his back to the fire, and sniffed strenuously. “I -can’t smell anything.” - -“It’s your fancy, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood. - -“It’s the smell of burned paper,” said Clare quite positively. - -“Do you think so?” said her mother-in-law. - -“Burned paper?” said Herbert. - -Clare became suspicious. She leaned forward in her chair and stared into -the fireplace. - -“What are all those ashes in the grate?” she said. - -“Oh, yes,” said Herbert, as though he had suddenly remembered. “Of -course I _have_ been burning some papers.” - -“What papers?” asked Clare. - -“Oh, old things,” said Herbert rather hurriedly. “Well, I had better be -off. Goodnight, mother.” - -He kissed her affectionately and said: - -“Don’t stay up late. I have taken the key, Clare.” - -“I hope it will fit the lock when you come back,” said Clare. - -She spoke the words very quietly, but for some reason they raised her -husband’s ire. - -“For heaven’s sake don’t try to be funny, Clare.” - -“I wasn’t trying,” said Clare very calmly. For a moment Herbert -hesitated. Then he came back to his wife and kissed her. - -“I think we are both a bit irritable to-night, aren’t we?” - -“Are we?” said Clare. - -“Nerves,” said Herbert, “the curse of the age. Well, good-night.” - -Just as he was going out, Mollie, the maidservant, came in and said: - -“It’s Miss Vernon, ma’am.” - -“Oh,” said Clare. She glanced at her husband for a moment and theft -said: - -“Well, bring her in, Mollie.” - -“Yes, ma’am,” said Mollie, going out of the room again. - -“Great Scott!” exclaimed Herbert, in a sudden excitement. “It’s that -woman who flings her beastly orange-peel into my window boxes. -Clare, I strongly object----” - -Clare answered him a little passionately: “Oh, I am tired of your -objections.” - -“She’s not a respectable character,” said Herbert. - -“Hush, Herbert!” said Mrs. Heywood. - -As she spoke the girl who had been called Madge Vernon entered the room. - -She was a bright, cheery girl, dressed plainly in a tailor-made coat and -skirt, with brown boots. - -“I thought I would look in for half-an-hour,” she said very cheerfully -to Clare. “If you are busy, send me packing, my dear.” - -“I am never busy,” said Clare. “I have nothing in the world to do.” - -“Oh, that’s rotten!” said Madge. “Can’t you invent something? How are -you, Mrs. Heywood?” - -She shook hands with the old lady, who answered her greeting with a -rather grim “Good evening.” - -“Herbert is going out to-night,” said Clare. “By the way, you don’t know -my husband.” - -Madge Vernon looked at Herbert Heywood very sweetly. - -“I have heard him singing. How do you do?” - -Herbert was not at all pleased with her sweetness. - -“Excuse me, won’t you?” he said. “I am just off to my club.” - -“Don’t you take your wife with you?” asked Miss Vernon. - -“My wife! It’s a man’s club.” - -“Oh, I see. Men only. Rather selfish, isn’t it?” - -Herbert Heywood was frankly astonished. - -“Selfish? Why selfish? Well, I won’t stop to argue the point. -Good-night, Clare. Doubtless you will enjoy Miss Vernon’s remarkable and -revolutionary ideas.” - -“I am sure I shall,” said Clare. - -Mrs. Heywood followed her son to the door. - -“Be sure you put a muffler round your neck, dear.” - -Herbert answered his mother in a low voice, looking fiercely at Madge -Vernon. - -“I should like to twist it round somebody else’s neck!” - -“I will come and find it for you, dear.” - -The two young women were left alone together, and Clare brought forward -a chair. - -“Sit down, won’t you? Here?” - -A moment later the front door was heard to hang and at the sound of it -Madge laughed a little. - -“Funny things, husbands! I am sure I shouldn’t know what to do with -one.” - -Clare smiled wanly. - -“One can’t do anything with them.” - -“By the by,” said Madge, “I have brought a new pamphlet for you. The -‘Rights of Wives.’” - -Clare took the small book nervously, as though it were a bomb which -might go off at any moment. - -“I have been reading those other pamphlets.” - -“Pretty good, eh?” said Madge, laughing. “Eye-openers! What?” - -“They alarm me a little,” said Clare. “Alarm you?” Madge Vernon was -immensely amused. “Why, they don’t bite!” - -“Yes, they do,” said Clare. “Here.” She put her hand to her head as if -it had been wounded. - -“You mean they give you furiously to think? Well, that’s good.” - -“I’m not sure,” said Clare. “Since I began to think I have been very -miserable.” - -“Oh, that will soon wear off,” said Madge Vernon briskly. “You’ll get -used to it.” - -“It will always hurt,” said Clare. - -Madge Vernon smiled at her. - -“I made a habit of it.” - -“It’s best not to think,” said Clare. “It’s best to go on being stupid -and self-satisfied.” - -Clare’s visitor was shocked. - -“Oh, not self-satisfied! That is intellectual death.” - -“There are other kinds of death,” said Clare. “Moral death.” - -Madge Vernon raised her eyebrows. - -“We must buck up and do things. That’s the law of life.” - -“I have nothing to do,” said Clare, in a pitiful way. - -“How strange! I have such a million things to do. My days aren’t long -enough. I am always pottering about with one thing or another.” - -“What kind of things?” asked Clare wistfully. - -Madge Vernon gave her a cheerful little laugh. - -“For one thing, it’s a great joke having to earn one’s own living. The -excitement of never knowing whether one can afford the next day’s meal! -The joy of painting pictures--which the Royal Academy will inevitably -reject. The horrible delight of burning them when they are rejected.... -Besides, I am a public character, I am.” - -“Are you? How?” asked Clare. - -“A most notorious woman. I’m on the local Board of Guardians and -all sorts of funny old committees for looking after everything and -everybody.” - -“What do you do?” - -Clare asked the question as though some deep mystery lay in the answer. - -“Oh, I poke up the old stick-in-the-muds,” said Madge Vernon, “and stir -up no end of jolly rows. I make them do things, too; and they hate it. -Oh, how they hate it!” - -“What things, Madge?” - -“Why, attending to drains, and starving widows, and dead dogs, and -imbecile children, and people ‘what won’t work,’ and people ‘what will’ -but can’t.” - -Clare laughed at this description and then became sad again. - -“I envy you! I have nothing on earth to do, and my days are growing -longer and longer, so that each one seems a year.” - -“Haven’t you any housework to do?” asked Madge. - -“Not since my husband could afford an extra servant.” - -Miss Vernon made an impatient little gesture. - -“Oh, those extra servants! They have ruined hundreds of happy homes.” - -“Well, we have only got one now,” said Clare. “The other left last -night, because she couldn’t get on with my mother-in-law.” - -“They never can!” said Miss Vernon. - -“Anyhow, Herbert doesn’t think it ladylike for me to do housework.” - -Madge Vernon scoffed at the idea. - -“Ladylike! Oh, this suburban snobbishness! How I hate the damn thing! -Forgive my bad language, won’t you?” - -“I like it,” said Clare. - -Miss Vernon continued her cross-examination. - -“Don’t you even make your own bed? It’s awfully healthy to turn a -mattress and throw the pillows about.” - -“Herbert objects to my making beds,” said Clare. - -“Don’t you make the puddings or help in the washing up?” - -“Herbert objects to my going into the kitchen,” said Clare. - -“Don’t you ever break a few plates?” - -Clare smiled at her queer question. - -“No, why should I?” - -“There’s nothing like breaking things to relieve one’s pent-up -emotions,” said Miss Vernon, with an air of profound knowledge. - -“The only thing I have broken lately is something--here,” said Clare, -putting her hand to her heart. - -Miss Vernon was scornful. - -“Oh, rubbish! The heart is unbreakable, my dear. Now, heads are much -easier to crack.” - -“I think mine is getting cracked, too,” said Clare. - -She put her hands to her head, as though it were grievously cracked. - -Madge Vernon stared at her frankly and thoughtfully. - -“Look here,” she said, after a little silence, “I tell you what _you_ -want. It’s a baby. Why don’t you have one?” - -“Herbert can’t afford it,” said Clare. Madge Vernon raised her hands. - -“Stuff and nonsense!” she said. - -“Besides,” said Clare in a matter-of-fact way, “they don’t make flats -big enough for babies in Intellectual Mansions.” - -Madge Vernon looked round the room, and frowned angrily. - -“No, that’s true. There’s no place to keep a perambulator. Oh, these -jerry builders! Immoral devils!” - -There was a silence between the two women. Both of them seemed deep in -thought. - -Then presently Clare said: “I feel as if something were going to happen; -as if something must happen or break.” - -“About time, my dear,” said Madge. “How long have you been married?” - -“Eight years,” said Clare, in a casual way. Madge Vernon whistled with a -long-drawn note of ominous meaning. - -“The Eighth Year, eh?” - -“Yes, it’s our eighth year of marriage.” - -“That’s bad,” said Madge. “The Eighth Year! You will have to be very -careful, Clare.” - -Clare was startled. “What do you mean?” she asked. - -“Haven’t you heard?” said Miss Vernon. - -“Heard what?” - -“I thought everybody knew.” - -“Knew what?” asked Clare anxiously. - -Madge Vernon looked at her in a pitying way. - -“It’s in the evidence on the Royal Commission on Divorce.” - -“What is?” - -“About the Eighth Year.” - -“What about it?” asked Clare. She was beginning to feel annoyed. What -was Madge hiding from her? - -“Why,” said Madge, “about it being the fatal year in marriage.” - -“The fatal year?” - -The girl leaned forward in her chair and said in a solemn way: - -“There are more divorces begun in the Eighth Year than in any other -period.” - -Clare Heywood was scared. - -“Good gracious!” she said, in a kind of whisper. - -“It’s a psychological fact,” said Madge. “I work it out in this way. -In the first and second years a wife is absorbed in the experiment of -marriage and in the sentimental phase of love. In the third and fourth -years she begins to study her husband and to find him out. In the fifth -and sixth years, having found him out completely, she makes a working -compromise with life and tries to make the best of it. In the seventh -and eighth years she begins to find out herself, and then----” - -“And then?” asked Clare, very anxiously. - -Clare Heywood was profoundly disturbed. - -“Well, then,” said Madge, “there is the devil to pay!” - -“Dear God!” she cried. - -“You see, it’s like this. If a woman has no child she gets bored... . -She can’t help getting bored, poor soul. Her husband is so devoted to -her that he provides her with every opportunity for getting bored--extra -servants, extra little luxuries, and what he calls a beautiful little -home. Ugh!” She stared round the room and made a face. - -“He is so intent on this that he nearly works himself to death. Comes -home with business thoughts in his head. Doesn’t notice his wife’s -wistful eyes, and probably dozes off to sleep after supper. Isn’t that -so?” - -“Yes,” said Clare. “Horribly so.” - -“Well, then, having got bored, she gets emotional. Of course the husband -doesn’t notice that either. _He’s_ not emotional. He is only wondering -how to make both ends meet. But when his wife begins to get emotional, -when she feels that something has broken here” (she put her hand to her -heart), “when she feels like crying at unexpected moments and laughing -at the wrong time, why then----” - -“What?” asked Clare. - -“Why, then, it’s about time the husband began to notice things, or -things will begin to happen to his wife which he won’t jolly well like. -That’s all!” - -Clare Heywood searched her friend’s face with hungry eyes. - -“Why, what will his wife do?” - -“Well, there are various alternatives. She either takes to religion----” - -“Ah!” said Clare, flushing a little. - -“Or to drink----” - -“Oh, no!” said Clare, shuddering a little. - -“Or to some other kind of man,” said Madge very calmly. - -Clare Hey wood was agitated and alarmed. - -“How do you know these things?” she asked. - -“Oh, I’ve studied ‘em,” said Madge Vernon cheerfully. “Of course there’s -always another alternative.” - -“What’s that?” asked Clare eagerly. - -“Work,” said Madge Vernon solemnly. - -“What kind of work?” - -“Oh, any kind, so long as it’s absorbing and satisfying. Personally -I like breaking things. One must always begin by breaking before one -begins building. But it’s very exciting.” - -“It must be terribly exciting.” - -“For instance,” said Madge, laughing quietly, “it’s good to hear a pane -of glass go crack.” - -“How does it make you feel?” asked Clare Heywood. - -“Oh,” said Madge, “it gives one a jolly feeling down the spine. You -should try it.” - -“I daren’t,” said Clare. - -“It would do you a lot of good. It would get rid of your megrims. -Besides, it’s in a good cause.” - -“I am not so sure of that,” said Clare. - -“It’s in the cause of woman’s liberty. It’s in the cause of all these -suburban wives imprisoned in these stuffy little homes. It lets in God’s -fresh air.” - -Clare rose and moved about the room. “It’s very stuffy in here,” she -said. “It’s stifling.” At this moment Mollie came in the room again, and -smiled across at her mistress, saying: “Mr. Bradshaw to see you, ma’am.” - -Clare was obviously agitated. She showed signs of embarrassment, and her -voice trembled when she said: - -“Tell him--tell him I’m engaged.” - -“He says he must see you--on business,” said Mollie, lingering at the -door. - -“On business?” - -“That’s what my young man says when he whistles up the tube,” said -Mollie. - -Madge Vernon looked at her friend and said rather “meaningly”: “Don’t -you _want_ to see him? If so I shouldn’t if I were you.” - -“Oh, yes,” said Clare, trying to appear quite cool. “If it’s on -business.” - -“Very well, ma’am,” said Mollie. As she left the room she said under her -breath: “I thought you would.” - -“Do you have business relations with Mr. Bradshaw?” asked Madge Vernon. - -“Yes,” said Clare; “no.... In a sort of way.” - -“I thought he was a novelist,” said Madge. - -“So he is.” - -“Dangerous fellows, novelists.” - -“Hush!” said Clare. “He might hear you.” - -“If it’s on business I must go, I suppose,” said Madge Vernon, rising -from her chair. - -“No, don’t go; stay!” said Clare, speaking with strange excitement. - -As soon as she had uttered the words the visitor, Gerald Bradshaw, came -in. - -He was a handsome, “artistic” looking man, with longish brown hair and -a vandyke beard. He was dressed in a brown suit, with a big brown silk -tie. He came forward in a graceful way, perfectly at ease, and with a -charming manner. - -“How do you do, Mrs. Heywood?” - -“I _must_ be going,” said Madge. “Good-by, dear.” - -“Oh, _do_ stay,” whispered Clare. - -“Impossible. I have to speak to-night.” - -Although Madge Vernon had ignored the artist, he smiled at her and said: - -“Don’t you speak by day as a rule?” - -“Not until I am spoken to.... Good-night, Clare.” - -“Well, if you must be going--” said Clare uneasily. - -Madge Vernon stood for a moment at the door and smiled back at her -friend. “You will remember, won’t you?” - -“What?” - -“The Eighth Year,” said Madge. With that parting shot she whisked out of -the room. - -Gerald Bradshaw breathed a sigh of relief. Then he went across to Clare -and kissed her hands. - -“I can’t stand that creature. A she-devil!” - -“She is my friend,” said Clare. - -“I am sorry to hear it,” said Gerald Bradshaw. - -Clare Heywood drooped her eyelashes before his bold, smiling gaze. - -“Why did you come again?” she asked. “I told you not to come.” - -“That is why I came. May I smoke?” - -He lit a cigarette before he had received he permission, and after a -whiff or two said: - -“Is the good man at the club?” - -“You know he is at the club,” said Clare. “True. That is another reason -why I came. Clare Heywood’s face flushed and her voice trembled a -little. - -“Gerald, if you had any respect for me---- - -“Respect is a foolish word,” said Gerald Bradshaw. “Hopelessly -old-fashioned. Now adays men and women like or dislike, hate or love.” - -“I think I hate you,” said Clare in a low voice. - -Gerald smiled at her. - -“No, you don’t. You are a little frightened of me. That is all.” - -The woman laughed nervously, but there was a look of fear in her eyes. - -“Why should I be frightened of you?” - -“Because I tell you the truth. I don’t keep up the foolish old pretences -by which men and women hide themselves from each other. You cannot hide -from me, Clare.” - -“You seem to strip my soul bare,” said Clare and when the man laughed at -her she said: “Yes, I am frightened of you.” - -“It is because you are like all suburban women,” said Gerald, “brought -up in this environment of hypocritical virtue and false sentiment. You -are frightened at the verities of life.” - -Clare Heywood gave a deep, quivering sigh. “Life is a tragic thing, -Gerald,” she said. “Life is a jolly thing if one makes the best of it, -if one fulfils one’s own nature.” - -“One’s own nature is generally bad.” - -“Never mind,” said Gerald cheerfully. “It is one’s own. Bad or good, it -must find expression instead of being smothered or strangled. Life is -tragic only to those who are afraid of it. Don’t be afraid, Clare. Do -the things you want to do.” - -“There is nothing I want to do,” said Clare wearily. “Nothing except to -find peace.” - -“Exactly. Peace. How can you find peace, my poor Clare, in this stuffy -life of yours--in this daily denial of your own nature? There are heaps -of things you want.” - -Clare laughed again, in a mirthless way. “How do you know?” she asked. - -“Of course I know. Shall I tell you?” - -“I think I would rather you didn’t,” said Clare. - -“I will tell you,” said the man. “Liberty is one of them.” - -“Liberty is a vague word.” - -“Liberty for your soul,” said Gerald. - -“Herbert objects to my having a soul.” - -“Liberty for that beating heart of yours, Clare.” - -The woman put both hands to her heart. - -“Yes, it beats, and beats.” - -“You want to escape, Clare.” - -“Escape?” - -She seemed frightened at that word. She whispered it. - -“Escape from the deadening influence of domestic dulness.” - -“I can’t deny the dulness,” said Clare. - -“You want adventure. Your heart is seeking adventure. You know it. You -know that I am telling you the truth.” - -As the man spoke he came closer to her, and with his hands in his -pockets stood in front of her, staring into her eyes. - -“You make me afraid,” said Clare. All the color had faded out of her -face and she was dead white. - -“You need not be afraid, Clare. The love of a man for a woman is not a -terrifying thing. It is a good thing. Good as life.” - -He took her by the wrists and held them tight. - -“Gerald!” said Clare. “For God’s sake.... I have a husband.” - -“He bores you,” said the man. “He is your husband but not your mate. No -woman finds peace until she finds her mate. It is the same with a man.” - -“I will not listen to you. You make me feel a bad woman!” - -She wrenched her hands free and moved toward the bell. - -Gerald Bradshaw laughed quietly. He seemed amused at this woman’s fear. -He seemed masterful, sure of his power over her. - -“You know that you must be my mate. If not to-day, to-morrow. If not -to-morrow, the next day. I will wait for you, Clare.” - -Clare had shrunk back to the wall now, and touched the electric bell. - -“You have no pity for me,” she said. “You play on my weakness.” - -“Fear makes you strong to resist,” said the man. “But love is stronger -than fear.” - -He followed her across the room to where she stood crouching against the -wall like a hunted thing. - -“Don’t come so close to me,” she said. - -“What on earth have you rung the bell for?” asked the man. - -“Because I ought not to be alone with you.” - -They stood looking into each other’s eyes. Then Clare moved quickly -toward the sofa as Mollie came in. - -“Oh, Mollie,” said Clare, trying to steady her voice, “ask Mrs. Heywood -to come in, will you? Tell her Mr. Bradshaw is here.” - -“Yes, ma’am,” said Mollie. “But she knows that already.” - -“Take my message, please,” said her mistress. - -“I was going to, ma’am,” said Mollie, and she added in an undertone, as -she left the room, “Strange as it may appear.” - -Gerald laughed quite light-heartedly. - -“Yes, you have won the trick this time. But I hold the trump cards, -Clare; and I am very lucky, as a rule. I have a gambler’s luck. Of -course if the old lady comes in I shan’t stay. She hates me like poison, -and I can’t be polite to her. Insincerity is not one of my vices. -Good-night, dear heart. I will come to you in your dreams.” - -As he spoke this word, which brought a flush again to Clare Heywood’s -face, Mrs. Hey-wood, her mother-in-law, came in. She glanced from one to -the other suspiciously. - -Gerald Bradshaw was not in the least abashed by her stern face. - -“How do you do, Mrs. Heywood? I was just going. I hope I have not -disturbed you?” - -Mrs. Heywood answered him in a “distant” manner: - -“Not in the least.” - -“I am glad,” he said. “I will let myself out. Don’t trouble.” - -At that moment there was a noise in the hall, and Clare raised her head -and listened. - -“I think I hear another visitor,” she said. - -“In that ease I had better wait a moment,” said Gerald. “The halls -of these flats are not cut out for two people at a time. I will light -another cigarette if I may.” - -“I thought I heard a latchkey,” said Mrs. Heywood. “Surely it can’t he -Herbert back so early?” - -“No, it can’t be,” said Clare. - -Gerald spoke more to himself than to the ladies: - -“I hope not.” - -They were all silent when Herbert Heywood came in quietly. - -“I didn’t go to the club after all,” he said. Then he saw Gerald -Bradshaw, and his mouth hardened a little as he said, “Oh!... How do?” - -“How are you?” asked Gerald, in his cool way. - -“Been here long?” asked Herbert. - -“Long enough for a pleasant talk with your wife.” - -“Going now?” - -“Yes. We have finished our chat. Goodnight. I can find my way out -blindfolded. All these flats are the same. Rather convenient, don’t you -think?” - -He turned to Clare and smiled. - -“_Au revoir_, Mrs. Heywood.” - -She did not answer him, and he went out jauntily. A few moments later -they heard the front door shut. - -“What the devil does he come here for?” growled Herbert rather sulkily. - -Clare ignored the question. - -“Why are you home so early?” - -“Yes, dear, why didn’t you go to the club?” asked Mrs. Heywood. - -Herbert looked rather embarrassed. - -“Oh, I don’t know. I felt a bit off. Besides----” - -“What, dear?” asked his mother. - -“I thought Clare was feeling a bit lonely to-night. Perhaps I was -mistaken.” - -“I am often lonely,” said Clare. “Even when you are at home.” - -“Aren’t you _glad_ I have come back?” asked Herbert. - -“Why do you ask me?” - -“I should be glad if you were glad.” Clare’s husband became slightly -sentimental as he looked at her. - -“I have been thinking it _is_ rather rotten to go _off_ to the club and -leave you here alone,” he said. - -Mrs. Heywood was delighted with these words. - -“Oh, you dear boy! How unselfish of you!” - -“I try to be,” said Herbert. - -“I am sure you are the very soul of unselfishness, Herbert, dear,” said -the fond mother. - -“Thanks, mother.” - -He looked rather anxiously at Clare, and said-- - -“Don’t you think we might have a pleasant evening for once?” - -“Oh, that would be delightful!” said Mrs. Heywood. - -“Eh, Clare?” - -“How do you mean?” said Clare. - -“Like we used to in the old days? Some music, and that sort of thing.” - -“I am sure that will be _very_ nice,” said Mrs. Heywood. - -“Eh, Clare?” said Herbert. - -“If you like,” said Clare. - -“Wait till I have got my boots off.” He spoke in a rather honeyed voice -to his wife. - -“Do you happen to know where my slippers are, darling?” - -“I haven’t the least idea,” said Clare. - -Herbert seemed nettled at this answer. - -“In the old days you used to warm them for me,” he said. - -“Did I?” said Clare. “I have forgotten. It was a long time ago.” - -“Eight years.” - -At these words Clare looked over to her husband in a peculiar way. - -“Yes,” she said. “It is our eighth year.” - -“Here are your slippers, dear,” said Mrs. Hey wood. - -“Oh, thanks, mother. _You_ don’t forget.” - -There was silence while he took off his boots. Clare sat with her hands -in her lap, staring at the carpet. Once or twice her mother-in-law -glanced at her anxiously. - -“Won’t you play something, Clare?” said the old lady, after a little -while. - -“If you like,” said Clare. - -Herbert resumed his cheerful note. - -“Yes, let’s have a jolly evening. Perhaps I will sing a song presently.” - -“Oh, do, dear!” said Mrs. Heywood. - -“Gad, it’s a long time since I sang ‘John Peel’!” - -Clare looked rather anxious and perturbed. - -“The walls of this flat are rather thin,” she said. “The neighbors might -not like it.” - -“Oh, confound the neighbors!” said Herbert. - -“I will do some knitting while you two dears play and sing,” said the -old lady. - -She fetched her knitting from a black silk bag on one of the little -tables, and took a chair near the fireplace. Clare Heywood went to the -music-stool and turned over some music listlessly. She did not seem to -find anything which appealed to her. - -Her husband settled himself down in an arm-chair and loaded his pipe. - -“Play something bright, Clare,” he said. - -“All my music sounds melancholy when I play it,” said Clare. - -“What, rag-time?” - -“Even rag-time. Rag-time worst of all.” - -Yet she began to play softly one of Chopin’s preludes, in a dreamy way. - -“Tell me when you want me to sing,” said Herbert. - -“I will,” said Clare. - -There was silence for a little while, except for Clare’s dream-music. -Mrs. Heywood dozed over her knitting, and her head nodded on her chest. -Presently Herbert rose from his chair and touched the electric bell. A -moment later Mollie came in. - -“Yes?” asked Mollie. - -Herbert spoke quietly so that he should not interrupt his wife’s music. - -“Bring me _The Financial Times_, Mollie. It’s in my study.” - -“Yes, sir,” said Mollie. - -She brought the paper and left the room again. There was another -silence, except for the soft notes of the music. Herbert turned over the -pages of _The Financial Times_, and yawned a little, and then let the -paper drop. His head nodded and then lolled sideways. In a little while -he was as fast asleep as his mother, and snored, quietly at first, then -quite loudly. - -Clare stopped playing, and looked over the music-rest with a strange, -tragic smile at her husband and her mother-in-law. She rose from the -piano-stool, and put her hands to her head, and then at her throat, -breathing quickly and jerkily, as though she were being stifled. - -“A jolly evening!” she exclaimed in a whisper. “Oh, God!” - -She stared round the room, with rather wild eyes. - -“It is stuffy here. It is stifling.” - -She moved toward the piano again, with her hands pressed against her -bosom. - -“I feel that something _must_ happen. Something _must_ break.” - -She took up a large china vase from the piano, moved slowly toward the -window, hesitated for a moment, looked round at her sleeping husband, -and then hurled the vase straight through the window. It made an -appalling noise of breaking glass. - -Herbert Heywood jumped up from his seat as though he had been shot. - -“Good God!” he said. “What the devil!----” - -Mrs. Heywood was equally startled. She sat up in her chair as though an -earthquake had shaken the house. - -“Good gracious! Whatever in the world-----” - -At the same moment Mollie opened the door. - -“Good ‘eavins, ma’am!” she cried. “Whatever ‘as ‘appened?” - -Clare Heywood answered very quietly: - -“I think something must have broken,” she said. - -Then she gave a queer, strident laugh. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -MRS. Heywood was arranging the drawingroom for an evening At Home, -dusting the mantelshelf and some of the ornaments with a little hand -broom. There were refreshments on a side table. Mollie was trying to -make the fire burn up. Every now and then a gust of smoke blew down the -chimney. Clare was sitting listlessly in a low chair near the French -window, with a book on her lap, but she was not reading. - -“Drat the fire,” said Mollie, with her head in the fireplace. - -“For goodness’ sake, Mollie, stop it smoking like that!” said Mrs. -Heywood. “It’s no use my dusting the room.” - -“The devil is in the chimney, it strikes me,” said Mollie. - -Mrs. Heywood expressed her sense of exasperation. - -“It’s a funny thing that every time your mistress gives an At Home you -are always behindhand with your work.” - -Mollie expressed her feelings in the firegrate. - -“It’s a funny thing people can’t mind their own business.” - -“What did you say, Mollie?” asked Mrs. Heywood sharply. - -“I said that the fire hasn’t gone right since the window was broke. Them -Suffragettes have a lot to answer for.” - -“I cannot understand how it _did_ get broken,” said Mrs. Heywood. “I -almost suspect that woman, Miss Vernon.” - -Clare looked up and spoke irritably. - -“Nonsense, mother!” - -“It’s no use saying nonsense, Clare,” said Mrs. Heywood, even more -irritably. “You know perfectly well that Miss Vernon is a most dangerous -woman.” - -“Well, she didn’t break our window, anyhow,” said Clare, rather -doggedly. - -“How do you know that? It is still a perfect mystery.” - -“Don’t be absurd, mother. How did the vase get through the window?” - -Mrs. Heywood was baffled for an answer. - -“Ah, that is most perplexing.” - -“Well, leave it at that,” said Clare. - -Mollie was still wrestling with the mysteries of light and heat. - -“If it doesn’t burn now,” she said, “I won’t lay another finger on -it--At Home or no At Home.” - -She seized the dustpan and broom and, with a hot face, marched out of -the room. - -Clare pressed her forehead with the tips of her fingers. - -“I wish to Heaven there were no such things as At Homes,” she said -wearily. “Oh, how they bore me!” - -“You used to like them well enough,” said Mrs. Heywood. - -“I have grown out of them. I have grown out of so many things. It is as -if my life had shrunk in the wash.” - -“Nothing seems to please you now,” said the old lady. “Don’t you care -for your friends any longer?” - -“Friends? Those tittle-tattling women, with their empty-headed -husbands?” - -Mrs. Heywood was silent for a moment. Then she spoke bitterly. - -“Do you think Herbert is empty-headed?” - -“Oh, we won’t get personal, mother,” said Clare. “And we won’t quarrel, -if you don’t mind.” - -Mrs. Heywood’s lips tightened. - -“I am afraid we shall if you go on like this.” - -“Like what?” asked Clare. - -“Hush!” said the old lady. “Here comes Herbert.” - -Herbert came in quickly, and raised his eyebrows after a glance at his -wife. - -“Good Lord, Clare! Aren’t you dressed yet?” - -“There’s plenty of time, isn’t there?” said Clare. - -“No, there isn’t,” said Herbert. “You know some of the guests will -arrive before eight o’clock.” - -Clare looked up at the clock. - -“It’s only six now.” - -“Besides,” said Herbert, “I want you to look your best to-night. Edward -Hargreaves is coming, with his wife.” - -“What has that got to do with it?” - -“Everything,” said Herbert. “He is second cousin to one of my directors. -It is essential that you should make a good impression.” - -“You told me once that he was a complete ass,” said Clare. - -“So he is.” - -“Well, then,” said Clare, quietly but firmly, “I decline to make a good -impression on him.” - -“I must ask you to obey my wishes,” said Herbert. - -Clare had rebellion in her eyes. - -“I have obeyed you for seven years. It is now the Eighth Year.” - -Herbert did not hear his wife’s remark. He was looking round the room -with an air of extreme annoyance. - -“Well, I’m blowed!” he exclaimed. - -“What’s the matter, dear?” asked Mrs. Hey-wood anxiously. - -“You haven’t even taken the trouble to buy some flowers,” said Herbert. - -“I left that to Clare,” said the old lady. - -“Haven’t you done so, Clare?” - -“No,” said Clare. “I can’t bear flowers in this room. They droop so -quickly.” - -Herbert was quite angry. - -“I insist upon having some flowers. The place looks like a barn without -them. What will our visitors say?” - -“Stupid things, as usual,” said Clare quietly. - -“I must go out and get some myself, I suppose,” said Herbert, with the -air of a martyr. - -“Can’t you send Mollie, dear?” asked Mrs. Heywood. - -“Mollie is cutting sandwiches. The girl is overwhelmed with work. -And--Oh, my stars!” - -His mother was alarmed by this sudden cry of dismay. - -“Now what is the matter, dear?” - -“There’s no whisky in the decanter.” - -“No whisky?” - -“Clare,” said Herbert, appealing to his wife, “there’s not a drop of -whisky left.” - -“Well, _I_ didn’t drink it,” said Clare. “You finished it the other -night with one of your club friends.” - -“So we did. Dash it!” - -“Don’t be irritable, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood. - -“Irritable! Isn’t it enough to make a saint irritable? These things -always happen on our At Home nights. Nobody seems to have any -forethought. Every blessed thing seems to go wrong.” - -“That is why I wish one could abolish the institution,” said Clare. - -“What institution?” - -“At Homes.” - -“Don’t talk rubbish, Clare,” said Herbert angrily; “you know I have them -for _your_ sake.” - -Clare laughed bitterly, as though she had heard a rather painful joke. - -“For my sake! Oh, that is good!” - -Herbert was distracted by a new cause of grievance as a tremendous puff -of smoke came out of the fire-grate. - -“What in the name of a thousand devils----” - -“It’s that awful fire again!” cried Mrs. Hey-wood. “These flats seem to -have no chimneys.” - -“It’s nothing to do with the flat,” said Herbert. “It’s that fool -Mollie. The girl doesn’t know how to light a decent fire!” - -He rang the bell furiously, keeping his finger on the electric knob. - -“The creature has absolutely nothing to do, and what she does she -spoils.” - -Mollie came in with a look of mutiny on her face. - -“Look at that fire,” said Herbert fiercely. - -“I am looking at it,” said Mollie. - -“Why don’t you do your work properly? See to the beastly thing, can’t -you?” - -Mollie folded her arms and spoke firmly. - -“If you please, sir, wild horses won’t make me touch it again.” - -“It’s not a question of horse-power,” said Herbert. “Go and get an old -newspaper and hold it in front of the bars.” - -“I am just in the middle of the sandwiches,” said Mollie. - -“Well, get out of them, then,” said Herbert. - -Mollie delivered her usual ultimatum. - -“If you please, sir, I beg to give a month’s notice.” - -“Bosh!” said Herbert. - -“Bosh indeed!” cried Mollie. “We’ll see if it’s bosh! If you want any -sandwiches for your precious visitors you can cut ‘em yourself.” - -With this challenge she went out of the room and slammed the door behind -her. - -Herbert breathed deeply, and after a moment’s struggle in his soul spoke -mildly. - -“Mother, go and pacify the fool, will you?” - -“She is very obstinate,” said Mrs. Heywood. - -“All women are obstinate.” - -Suddenly the man’s self-restraint broke down and he became excited. - -“Bribe her, promise her a rise in wages, but for God’s sake see that -she cuts the sandwiches. We don’t want to be made fools of before our -guests.” - -“Very well, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood. She hesitated for a moment at -the door, and before going out said: “But Mollie can be very violent at -times.” - -For a little while there was silence between the husband and wife. Then -Herbert spoke rather sternly. - -“Clare, are you or are you not going to get dressed?” - -“I shall get dressed in good time,” said Clare quietly, “when I think -fit. Surely you don’t want to dictate to me about _that?_” - -“Surely,” said Herbert, “you can see how awkward it will be if any of -our people arrive and find you unprepared for them?” - -Clare gave a long, weary sigh. - -“Oh, I _am_ prepared for them. I have been trying to prepare myself all -day for the ordeal of, them.” - -“The ordeal? What the dickens do you mean?” - -“I am prepared for Mrs. Atkinson Brown, who, when she takes off her -hat in the bedroom, will ask me whether I am suited and whether I am -expecting.” - -“For goodness’ sake don’t be coarse, Clare,” said Herbert. - -“It’s Mrs. Atkinson Brown who is coarse,” said Clare. “And I am prepared -for Mr. Atkinson Brown, who will say that it is horrible weather for -this time of year, and that business has been the very devil since there -has been a Radical Government, and that these outrageous women who are -breaking windows ought to be whipped. Oh, I could tell you everything -that everybody is going to say. I have heard it over and over again.” - -“It does not seem to make much effect on you,” said Herbert. “Especially -that part about breaking windows.” - -Clare smiled. - -“So you have guessed, have you?” - -“I knew at once by the look on your face.” - -“I thought you agreed with your mother that some Suffragette must have -flung a stone from the outside.” - -“I hid the truth from mother,” said Herbert. “She would think you were -mad. What on earth made you do it? _Were_ you mad or what?” - -Clare brushed her hair back from her forehead. - -“Sometimes I used to think I was going a little mad. But now I know what -is the matter with me.” - -Herbert spoke more tenderly. - -“What _is_ the matter, Clare? If it is a question of a doctor----” - -“It’s the Eighth Year,” said Clare. - -“The Eighth Year?” - -“Yes, that’s what is the matter with me.” - -“What on earth do you mean?” asked Herbert. - -“Why, don’t you know? It was Madge Vernon who told me.” - -“Told you what?” - -“She seemed to think that everybody knew.” - -“Knew what?” asked Herbert, exasperated beyond all patience. - -“About the Eighth Year.” - -“What about it?” - -“It’s well known, she says, that the Eighth Year is the most dangerous -one in marriage. It is then that the pull comes, when the wife has found -out her husband.” - -“Found out her husband?” - -“And found out herself.” - -Herbert spoke roughly. He was not in a mood for such mysteries. - -“Look here,” he said. “I can’t listen to all this nonsense. Go and dress -yourself.” - -“I want to talk to you, Herbert,” said Clare very earnestly. “I must -talk to you before it’s too late.” - -“It’s too late now,” said Herbert. “Halfpast six. I must fetch that -whisky and buy a few flowers. I shall have to put on my boots again and -splash about in the mud in these trousers. Confound it!” - -“Before you go you must listen, Herbert,” said Clare, with a sign of -emotion. “Perhaps you won’t have another chance.” - -“Thank Heaven for that.” - -“When I broke that window something else broke.” - -“One of my best vases,” said Herbert with sarcasm. - -“I think something in my own nature broke too. My spirit has broken -out of this narrow, deadening little life of ours, out of the smug -snobbishness and stupidity which for so long kept me prisoner, out of -the belief that the latest sentimental novel, the latest romantic play, -the latest bit of tittle-tattle from my neighbors might satisfy my heart -and brain. When I broke that window I let a little fresh air into the -stifling atmosphere of this flat, where I have been mewed up without -work, without any kind of honest interest, without any kind of food for -my brain or soul.” - -Herbert stared at his wife, and made an impatient gesture. - -“If you want work, why don’t you attend to your domestic duties?” - -“I have no domestic duties,” said Clare. “That is the trouble.” - -Herbert laughed in an unpleasant way. - -“Why, you haven’t even bought any flowers to decorate your home! Isn’t -that a domestic duty?” - -Clare answered him quickly, excitedly. - -“It’s just a part of the same old hypocrisy of keeping up appearances. -You know you don’t care for flowers in themselves, except as they help -to make a show. You want to impress our guests. You want to keep up the -old illusion of the woman’s hand in the home. The woman’s touch. Isn’t -that it?” - -“Yes, I do want to keep up that illusion,” said Herbert; “and by God, -I find it very hard! You say you want an object in life. Isn’t your -husband an object?” - -Clare looked at him with a queer, pitiful smile. - -“Yes, he is,” she said slowly. - -“Well, what more do you want?” - -“Lots more. A woman’s life is not centered for ever in one man.” - -“It ought to be,” said Herbert. “If you had any religious -principles----” - -“Oh,” said Clare sharply, “but you object to my religion!” - -“Well, of course I mean in moderation.” - -“You have starved me, Herbert, and oh, I am so hungry!” - -Herbert answered her airily. - -“Well, there will be light refreshments later.” - -“Yes, that is worthy of you,” cried Clare. “That is your sense of -humor! You have starved my soul and starved my heart and you offer -me--sandwiches. I am hungry for life and you offer me--the latest -novel.” - -Herbert paced up and down the room. He was losing control of his temper. - -“That is the reward for all my devotion!” he said. “Don’t I drudge in -the city every day to keep you in comfort?” - -“I don’t want comfort!” said Clare. - -“Don’t I toil so that you may have pretty frocks?” - -“I don’t want pretty frocks.” - -“Don’t I scrape and scheme to buy you little luxuries?” - -“I don’t want little luxuries,” said Clare. - -“Is there anything within my means that you haven’t got?” - -Clare looked at him in a peculiar way, and answered quietly-- - -“I haven’t a child,” she said. - -“Oh, Lord,” said Herbert uneasily. “Whose fault is that? Besides, modern -life in small flats is not cut out for children.” - -“And modern life in small flats,” said Clare, “is not cut out for -wives.” - -“It isn’t my fault,” said Herbert. “I am not the architect--either of -fate or flats.” - -“No, it isn’t your fault, Herbert. You can’t help your character. It -isn’t your fault that when you come home from the city you fall asleep -after dinner. It isn’t your fault that when you go to the club I sit at -home with my hands in my lap, thinking and brooding. It isn’t your fault -that your mother and I get on each other’s nerves. It isn’t your fault -that you and I have grown out of each other, that we bore each other and -have nothing to say to each other--except when we quarrel.” - -“Well, then,” said Herbert, “whose fault is it?” - -“I don’t know,” said Clare. “I suppose it’s a fault of the system, which -is spoiling thousands of marriages just like ours. It’s the fault which -is found out--in the Eighth Year.” - -“Oh, curse the Eighth Year,” said Herbert violently. “What is that bee -you have got in your bonnet?” - -“It’s a bee which keeps buzzing in my brain. It’s a little bee which -whispers queer words to me--tempting words. It says you must break away -from the system or the system will break you. You must find a way of -escape or die. You must do it quickly, now, to-night, or it will be too -late. Herbert, a hungry woman will do desperate things to satisfy her -appetite, and I am hungry for some stronger emotion than I can find -within these four walls. I am hungry for love, hungry for work, hungry -for life. If you can’t give it to me, I must find it elsewhere.” - -“Clare,” said Herbert, with deliberate self-restraint, “I must again -remind you that time is getting on and you are not yet dressed. In a -little while our guests will be here. I hope you don’t mean to hold me -up to the contempt of my friends. I at least have some sense of duty.... -I am going to fetch the whisky.” As he strode toward the door he started -back at the noise of breaking china. - -“What’s that?” asked Clare. - -“God knows,” said Herbert. “I expect mother has broken a window.” - -The words were hardly out of his mouth before Mrs. Heywood came in in a -state of great agitation. - -“Herbert, I must really ask you to come into the kitchen.” - -“What’s the matter now?” asked Herbert, prepared for the worst. - -“Mollie has deliberately broken our best coffee-pot.” - -Herbert stared at his wife. - -“Didn’t I tell you so!” he said. - -“Why has she broken the coffee-pot?” asked Clare. - -“She was most insolent,” said Mrs. Heywood, “and said my interference -got on her nerves.” - -“Well, even a servant _has_ nerves,” said Clare. - -“But it was the _best_ coffee-pot, Clare. Surely you are not going to -take it so calmly?” - -“Like mistress like maid!” said Herbert. “Oh, my hat! Why on earth did I -marry?” - -“Don’t you think you had better fetch the whisky?” said Clare gently. - -Herbert became excited again. - -“I have been trying to fetch the whisky for the last half hour. There is -a conspiracy against it. Confound it, I _will_ fetch the whisky.” - -He strode to the door, as though he would get the whisky or die in the -attempt. - -“I think you ought to speak to Mollie first,” said Mrs. Heywood. - -Herbert raised his hands above his head. - -“Damn Mollie!” he shouted wildly. Then he strode out of the room. “Damn -everything!” - -“Poor dear,” said Mrs. Heywood. “I wish he didn’t get so worried.” - -“Clare, won’t you come and speak to Mollie?” - -“Haven’t you spoken to her?” asked Clare wearily. - -“I am always speaking to her.” - -“_Poor_ Mollie!” said Clare. - -Mrs. Heywood was hurt at the tone of pity. She flushed a little and then -turned to her daughter-in-law with reproachful eyes. - -“I am an old woman, Clare, and the mother of your husband. Because my -position forces me to live in this flat, I do not think you ought to -insult me.” - -“I’m sorry,” said Clare with sincerity. - -“Mollie is right. We all get on each other’s nerves. It can’t be helped, -I suppose. It’s part of the system.” - -“I can’t help being your mother-in-law, Clare.” - -“No, it can’t he helped,” said Clare. - -Mrs. Heywood came close to her and touched her hand. - -“You think I do not understand. You think you are the only one who has -any grievance.” - -“Oh, no!” said Clare. “I am not so egotistical.” - -Mrs. Heywood smoothed down her dress with trembling hands. - -“You think I haven’t been watching you all these years. I have watched -you so that I know your thoughts behind those brooding eyes, Clare. I -know all that you have been thinking and suffering, so that sometimes -you hate me, so that my very presence here in the room with you makes -you wish to cry out, to shriek, because I am your mother-in-law, and the -mother of your husband. The husband always loves his mother best, -and the wife always knows it. That is the eternal tragedy of the -mother-in-law. Because she is hated by the wife of her son, and is -an intruder in her home. I know that because I too suffered from a -mother-in-law. Do you think I would stay here an hour unless I was -forced to stay, for a shelter above my old head, for some home in which -I wait to die? But while I wait I watch... and I know that you have -reached a dangerous stage in a woman’s life, when she may do any rash -thing. Clare, I pray every night that you may pass that stage in life -without doing anything--rash. This time always comes in marriage, it -comes----” - -“In the Eighth Year?” asked Clare eagerly. “Somewhere about then.” - -“Ah! I thought so.” - -“It came to me, my dear.” - -“And did _you_ do anything rash?” - -Mrs. Heywood hesitated a moment before replying. - -“I gave birth to Herbert,” she said. - -“Good Heavens!” said Clare. - -“It saved me from breaking----” - -“Windows, mother?” - -“No, my own and my husband’s heart,” said Mrs. Heywood. “Well, I will -go and speak to Mollie again. Goodness knows how we shall get coffee -to-night.” - -She went out of the room with her head shaking a little after this scene -of emotion. - -Clare spoke to herself aloud. She had her hands up to her throat. - -“I don’t want coffee to-night. I want stronger drink. I want to get -drunk with liberty of life.” - -Suddenly there was a noise at the window and the woman looked up, -startled, and cried, “Who is there?” - -Gerald Bradshaw appeared at the open French window leading on to the -balcony, and he spoke through the window. - -“It is I, Clare? Are you alone?” - -Clare had risen from her chair at the sound of his voice, and her face -became very pale. - -“Gerald... How did you come there?” - -Gerald Bradshaw laughed in his lighthearted way. - -“I stepped over the bar that divides our balconies. It was quite easy. -It was as easy as it will be to cross the bar that divides you and me, -Clare.” - -Clare spoke in a frightened voice. - -“Why do you come here, at this hour?” - -“Why do I ever come?” asked Gerald Bradshaw. - -“I don’t know.” - -“It’s because I want you. I want you badly to-night, Clare. I can’t wait -for you any longer.” - -Clare spoke pleadingly. - -“Gerald... go away... it’s so dangerous... I daren’t listen to you.” - -“I want you to listen,” said Gerald Bradshaw. - -“Go away... I implore you to go away.” - -He laughed at her. He seemed very much amused. - -“Not before I have said what I want to say.” - -“Say it quickly,” said Clare. “Quickly!” - -“There’s time enough,” said Bradshaw. “This is what I want to say. You -are a lonely woman and I am a lonely man, and only an iron bar divides -us. It’s the iron bar of convention, of insincerity, of superstition. It -seems so difficult to cross. But you see one step is enough. I want you -to take that step--to-night.” - -Clare answered him in a whisper. - -“Go away!” - -“I am hungry for you,” said Bradshaw, with a thrill in his voice. “I am -hungry for your love. And you are hungry for me. I have seen it in your -eyes. You have the look of a famished woman. Famished for love. Famished -for comradeship.” - -Clare raised her hands despairingly. - -“If you have any pity, go away.” - -“I have no pity. Because pity is weakness, and I hate weakness.” - -“You are brutal,” said Clare. - -He laughed at her. He seemed to like those words. - -“Yes, I have the brutality of manhood. Man is a brute, and woman likes -the brute in him because that is his nature, and woman wants the natural -man. That is why you want me, Clare. You can’t deny it.” - -Clare protested feebly. - -“I do deny it. I _must_ deny it.” - -“It’s a funny thing,” said Gerald Bradshaw. “Between you and me there -is a queer spell, Clare. I was conscious of it when I first met you. -Something in you calls to me. Something in me calls to you. It is the -call of the wild.” - -Clare was scared now. These words seemed to make her heart beat to a -strange tune. - -“What do you mean?” she said. - -“It is the call of the untamed creature. Both you and I are untamed. -We both have the spirit of the woods. I am Pan. You are a wood nymph, -imprisoned in a cage, upholstered by maple, on the hire system.” - -“What do you want with me?” asked Clare. It was clear that he was -tempting her. - -“I want to play with you, like Pan played. You and I will hear the pipes -of Pan to-night--the wild nature music.” - -“To-night?” - -“To-night. I have waited too long for you, and now I’m impatient. I -am alone in my flat waiting for you. I ask you to keep me company, not -to-night only, but until we tire of each other, until perhaps we hate -each other. Who knows?” - -“Oh, God!” said Clare. She moaned out the words in a pitiful way. - -“You have only to slip down one flight of stairs and steal up another, -and you will find me at the door with a welcome. It will need just a -little care to escape from your prison. You must slip on your hat and -cloak as though you were going round to church, and then come to me, to -me, Clare! Only a wall will divide you from this flat, but you will be a -world away. For you will have escaped from this upholstered cage into -a little world of liberty. Into a little world of love, Clare. Say you -will come!” - -“Oh, God!” moaned Clare. - -“You will come?” - -“Are you the Devil that you tempt me?” said Clare. - -Gerald gave a triumphant little laugh. - -“You will come! Clare, my sweetheart, I know you will come, for your -spirit is ready for me.” - -As he spoke these words there was the sound of a bell ringing through -the flat, and the noise of it struck terror into Clare Heywood. - -“Go away,” she whispered. “For God’s sake go! Some one is ringing.” - -“I will cross the bar again,” said Bradshaw. “But I shall be waiting at -the door. You will not be very long, little one?” - -Clare sank down with her face in her hands. And Gerald stole away from -the window just as Mollie showed in Madge Vernon. - -“It’s our At Home night,” said Mollie, as she came in, “and they’ll be -here presently.” - -“All right, Mollie,” said Miss Vernon, smiling. “I shan’t stay more than -a minute. I know I have come at an awkward time.” - -“She _would_ come in, ma’am,” said Mollie, as though she were not strong -enough to thwart such a determined visitor. - -As soon as the girl had gone Madge Vernon came across to Clare, very -cheerfully and rather excitedly. - -“Clare, are you coming?” - -“Coming where?” asked Clare, trying to hide her agitation. - -“To the demonstration,” said Madge Vernon. “You know I told you all -about it! It begins at eight. It will be immense fun, and after your -window-smashing exploit you are one of us. Good Heavens, I think you -have beaten us all. None of us have ever thought of breaking our own -windows.” - -“It’s my At Home night,” said Clare. - -“Oh, bother the At Home. Can’t your husband look after his friends for -once? I wanted you to join in this adventure. It would be your enrolment -in the ranks, and it will do you a lot of good, in your present state of -health.” - -“In any case----” said Clare. - -“What?” - -Clare smiled in a tragic way. - -“I have received a previous invitation.” - -“Oh, drat the invitation.” - -“Of course I should have liked to come,” said Clare, “but----” - -Madge Vernon was impatient with her. “But what? I hate that word -‘but.’” - -“The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak,” said Clare, speaking with -a deeper significance than appeared in the words. - -“There is no weakness about you. You have the courage of your -convictions. Have you had the window mended yet?” - -She laughed gaily and then listened with her head a little on one side -to the sound of a bell ringing in the hall. - -“That must be Herbert,” said Clare. “I think you had better go.” - -“Yes, I think I had better,” said Madge, laughing again. “If looks could -kill----” - -She went toward the door and opened it, but I stood on the threshold -looking back. - -“Won’t you come? Eight o’clock, you know.” - -Clare smiled weakly. - -“I am in great demand to-night.” - -The two women listened to Herbert’s voice in the hall saying-- - -“Of course all the shops were shut.” - -“Oh, Lord!” said Madge, “I must skedaddle.” She went out of the room -hurriedly, leaving Clare alone. - -And after a moment or two Clare spoke aloud, with her hands clasped upon -her breast. - -“I wonder if the Devil is tempting me tonight?” she said. - -Then Herbert entered with two whisky bottles. - -“I had to hunt all over the place,” he said. - -Then he saw that his wife was still in her afternoon frock, and his face -flushed with anger. - -“What, aren’t you dressed _yet?_... I think you might show some respect -for my wishes, Clare.” - -“I am going to dress now,” said Clare, and she rose and went into the -bedroom. - -“Women are the very devil,” said Herbert, unwrapping the whisky bottles. - -While he was busy with this his mother came in, having changed her -dress. - -“Oh, I am glad you managed to get the whisky,” she said. - -“Of course nearly every blessed shop was shut,” said Herbert. “They -always are when I run out of everything. It’s this Radical Government, -with its beastly Acts.” - -Mrs. Heywood hesitated and then came across to her son and touched him -on the arm. - -“I think you had better come into the kitchen a moment, dear, and look -after Mollie.” - -“She hasn’t broken anything else, has she?” said Herbert anxiously. - -“No, dear. But she has just cut her finger rather badly. She got in a -temper with the sandwiches.” - -Herbert raised his hands to heaven. - -“Why do these things always happen when Clare gives an At Home? I shall -abolish these evenings altogether. They will drive me mad.” - -“Oh, they’re very pleasant when they once begin,” said Mrs. Heywood. - -“I’m glad you think so, mother. I am damned if I do. I was only saying -to Clare to-night----” - -He stalked out of the room furiously. - -Mrs. Heywood stood for a few moments staring at the carpet. Her lips -moved and her worn old hands plucked at her skirt. - -“Every time there is an At Home at this flat,” she said, “I get another -white hair.” - -She moved toward the door and went out of the room, so that it was left -empty. - -Outside in the street a piano-organ was playing a rag-time tune with a -rattle of notes, and motor-cars were sounding their horns. - -In this little drawing-room in Intellectual Mansions, Battersea Park, -there was silence, except for those vague sounds from without. There was -no sign here of Fate’s presence, summoning a woman to her destiny. No -angel stood with a flaming sword to bar the way to a woman with a wild -heart. The little ormolu clock ticking on the mantel-shelf did not seem -to be counting the moments of a tragic drama. It was a very commonplace -little room, and the flamboyant chintz on the sofa and chairs gave it -an air of cheerfulness, as though this were one of the happy homes of -England. - -Presently the bedroom door opened slowly, and Clare Heywood stood there -looking into the drawing-room and listening. She was very pale, and -was dressed in her outdoor things, as Gerald Bradshaw had asked her -to dress, in her hat and cloak, so that she might slip out of the flat -which he had called her prison. - -She came further into the room, timidly, like a hare frightened by the -distant baying of the hounds. - -She raised her hands to her bosom, and spoke in a whisper: - -“God forgive me!” - -Then she crossed the floor, listened for a moment intently at the door, -and slipped out. A moment or two later one’s ears, if they had been -listening, would have heard the front door shut. - -Clare Heywood had escaped. - -A little while later Mrs. Heywood, her mother-in-law, came into the room -again and went over to the piano to open it and arrange the music. - -“I do hope Clare is getting dressed,” she said, speaking to herself. - -Then Herbert came in, carrying a tray with decanter and glasses. - -“Isn’t Clare ready yet?” he asked. - -“No, dear. She won’t be long.” - -“I can’t find the corkscrew,” said Herbert, searching round for it, but -failing to discover its whereabouts. - -“Isn’t it in the kitchen, dear?” asked Mrs. Heywood. - -“Not unless Mollie has swallowed it. It’s just the sort of thing she -would do--out of sheer spite.” - -“Didn’t you use it the other day to open a tin of sardines?” asked the -old lady, cudgelling her brains. - -“Did I?” said Herbert. “Oh, Lord, yes! I left it in the bathroom.” - -He went out of the room to find it. - -Mrs. Heywood crossed over to the fire and swept up the grate. - -“Clare is a very long time to-night,” she said. - -Then Mollie came in carrying a tray with some plates of sandwiches. One -of her fingers was tied up with a rag. - -“It’s a good job the guests is late to-night,” she remarked. - -“Yes, we are all very behind-hand,” said Mrs. Heywood. - -Mollie dumped down the tray and gave vent to a little of her impertinent -philosophy: - -“I’ll never give an At Home when I’m married. Blest if I do. Social -‘ipocrisy, I call them.” - -Mrs. Heywood rebuked her sharply: - -“We don’t want your opinion, Mollie, thank you.” - -“I suppose I can _have_ a few opinions, although I _am_ in service,” - said Mollie. “There’s plenty of time for thought even in the kitchen -of a flat like this. I wonder domestic servants don’t write novels. My -word, what a revelation it would be! I’ve a good mind to write one of -them serials in the _Daily Mail_.” - -“If I have any more of your impudence, Mollie----” - -“It’s not impudence,” said Mollie. “It’s aspirations.” - -The girl was silent when her master came into the room with the -corkscrew. - -“It wasn’t in the bathroom,” he explained. “I remember now, I used it -for cleaning out my pipe.” - -“I could have told you that a long time ago, sir,” said Mollie. - -“Well, why the dickens didn’t you?” asked Herbert. - -“You never asked me, sir.” - -Mollie retired with the air of having scored a point. - -“Well, as long as you’ve found it, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood. - -“Unfortunately, I broke the point. However, I daresay I can make it do.” - -He pulled one of the corks out of the whisky bottle and filled the -decanter. - -“Hasn’t Clare finished dressing yet?” he said presently. “What on earth -is she doing?” - -“I expect she wants her blouse done up at the back,” said Mrs. Heywood. - -Herbert jerked up his head. - -“And then she complains because I can’t tie my own tie I Just like -women.” - -He drew out another cork rather violently and said: - -“Well, go and see after her, mother.” - -Mrs. Heywood went toward the bedroom door and called out in her silvery -voice: - -“Are you ready, dear?” - -She listened for a moment, and called out again: - -“Clare!” - -Herbert poured some more whisky into the decanter. - -“I expect she’s reading one of those beastly pamphlets,” he said. - -Mrs. Heywood tapped at the bedroom door. - -“Clare!” - -“Go in, mother,” said Herbert irritably. - -“It’s very strange!” said Mrs. Heywood in an anxious voice. - -She went into the bedroom, and Herbert, who had been watching her, -spilled some of the whisky, so that he muttered to himself: - -“What with women and what with whisky----” - -He did not finish his sentence, but stared in the direction of the -bedroom as though suspecting something was wrong. - -Mrs. Heywood came trembling out. She had a scared look. - -“Oh, Herbert!” - -Herbert was alarmed by the look on her face. - -“Is Clare ill--or something?” - -“She isn’t there,” said Mrs. Heywood. - -The old lady was rather breathless. - -“Not there!” said Herbert in a dazed way. - -“She went in to dress a few minutes ago,” said his mother. - -Herbert stared at her. He was really very much afraid, but he spoke -irritably: - -“Well, she can’t have gone up the chimney, can she? At least, I suppose -not, though you never can tell nowadays.” - -He strode toward the bedroom door and called out: - -“Clare!” - -Then he went inside. - -Mrs. Heywood stood watching the open door. She raised her hands up and -then let them fall, and spoke in a hoarse kind of whisper: - -“I think it has happened at last.” - -Herbert came out of the bedroom again. He looked pale, and had gloomy -eyes. - -“It’s devilish queer!” he said. - -Mother and son stood looking at each other, as though in the presence of -tragedy. - -“She must have gone out,” said Mrs. Hey-wood. - -“Gone out! What makes you think so?” - -“She has taken her hat and cloak.” - -“How do you know?” asked Herbert. - -“I looked in the wardrobe.” - -“Good Heavens! Where’s she gone to?” - -Mrs. Heywood’s thin old hands clutched at the white lace upon her bosom. - -“Herbert, I--I am afraid.” - -The man went deadly white. He stammered as he spoke: - -“You don’t mean that she is going to do something--foolish?” - -“Something rash,” said Mrs. Hey wood mournfully. - -Herbert had a sudden idea. It took away from his fear a little and made -him angry. - -“Perhaps she has gone round to church. If so, I will give her a piece of -my mind when she comes back. It’s outrageous! It’s shameful.” - -There was the sound of a bell ringing through the hall, and the mother -and son listened intently. - -“Perhaps she _has_ come back,” said Herbert. “Perhaps she went to fetch -some flowers.” This idea seemed to soften him. His voice broke a little -when he said: “Poor girl! I didn’t mean to make such a fuss about them.” - “It isn’t Clare,” said Mrs. Heywood, shaking her head. “It’s a visitor. -I hear Mr. Atkinson Brown’s voice.” - -Mr. Atkinson Brown’s voice could be heard quite plainly in the hall: - -“Well, Mollie, is your mistress quite well?” Herbert grasped his -mother’s arm and whispered to her excitedly: - -“Mother, we must hide it from them.” - -“Yes,” said Mrs. Heywood. “If the Atkinson Browns suspect anything it -will be all over the neighborhood.” - -Herbert had a look of anguish in his eyes. “Good Heavens, yes. My -reputation will be ruined.” - -Once again they heard Mr. Atkinson Brown’s voice in the hall. - -“I see we are the first to arrive,” he said in a loud, cheery tone. - -“Mother,” whispered Herbert, “we must keep up appearances, at all -costs.” - -“I’ll try to, darling,” said Mrs. Heywood, clasping his arm for a -moment. - -Herbert made a desperate effort to be hopeful. - -“Clare is sure to be back in a few minutes. We’re frightening ourselves -for nothing.... I shall have something to say to her to-night when the -guests are gone.” - -Mrs. Heywood’s eyes filled with tears, and she looked at her son as -though she knew that Clare would never come back. - -“My poor boy!” she said. - -“Play the game, mother,” said Herbert. “For Heaven’s sake play the -game.” - -He had no sooner whispered these words than Mr. and Mrs. Atkinson Brown -entered the room, having taken off their outdoor things. Mr. Brown was -a tall, stout, heavily built man with a bald head and a great expanse -of white waistcoat. His wife was a little bird-like woman in pink silk. -They were both elaborately cheerful. - -“Hulloh, Heywood, my boy!” said the elderly man. - -“So delighted to come!” said Mrs. Atkinson Brown to Herbert’s mother. - -Herbert grasped the man’s hand and wrung it warmly. - -“Good of you to come. Devilish good.” - -“Glad to come,” said Mr. Atkinson Brown. “Glad to come, my lad. How’s -the wife?” - -“Yes,” said Mrs. Atkinson Brown, glancing round the room. “Where’s dear -Clare?... Well, I hope.” - -Herbert tried to hide his extreme nervousness. - -“Oh, tremendously fit, thanks. She’ll be here in a minute or two.” - -Mrs. Heywood appeared less nervous than her son. Yet her voice trembled -a little when she said: - -“Do sit down, Mrs. Atkinson Brown.” - -She pulled a chair up, but the lady protested laughingly: - -“Oh, not so near the fire. I can’t afford to neglect my complexion at my -time of life!” - -Her husband was rubbing his hands in front of the fire. He had no -complexion to spoil. - -“Horrible weather for this time o’ year,” he said. - -“Damnable,” said Herbert, agreeing with him almost too cordially. - -“Is dear Clare suited at present?” asked the lady. - -“Well,” said Mrs. Heywood, “we still have Mollie, but she is a great -trouble--a very great trouble.” - -“Oh, the eternal servant problem!” said Mrs. Atkinson Brown. “I thought -I had a perfect jewel, but I found her inebriated in the kitchen only -yesterday.” - -Herbert was racking his brains for conversational subjects. He fell back -on an old one. “Business going strong?” - -“Business!” said Mr. Atkinson Brown. “My dear boy, business has been the -very devil since this Radical Government has been in power.” - -“I am sure there has been a great deal of trouble in the world lately,” - said Mrs. Heywood. - -“I’m sure I can’t bear to read even the dear _Daily Mail_,” said Mrs. -Atkinson Brown. - -“What with murders and revolutions and eloping vicars and -suffragettes----” - -“Those outrageous women ought to be whipped,” said her husband. “Spoiled -my game of golf last Saturday. Found ‘Votes for Women’ on the first -green. Made me positively ill.” - -“I am glad dear Clare is so sensible,” said Mrs. Atkinson Brown. - -“Yes. Oh, quite so,” said Mrs. Heywood, flushing a little. - -“Oh, rather!” said Herbert. - -“We domestic women are in the minority now,” said Mrs. Atkinson Brown. - -“The spirit of revolt is abroad, Herbert,” said her husband. “Back to -the Home is the only watchword which will save the country from these -shameless hussies. Flog ‘em back, I would. Thank God _our_ wives have -more sense.” - -“Yes, there’s something in that,” said Herbert. - -Mrs. Atkinson Brown was gazing round the room curiously. She seemed to -suspect something. - -“You are sure dear Clare is quite well?” she asked. “No little trouble?” - -“She is having a slight trouble with her back hair,” said Herbert. -“Won’t lie down, you know.” - -He laughed loudly, as though he had made a good joke. - -Mrs. Atkinson Brown half rose from her chair. - -“Oh, let me go to the rescue of the dear thing!” - -Herbert was terror-stricken. - -“No--no! It was only my joke,” he said eagerly. “She will be here in a -minute. Do sit down.” - -Mrs. Heywood remembered her promise to “play the game.” - -“Won’t you sing something, dear?” she said to her visitor. - -“Oh, not so early in the evening,” said the lady. “Besides, I have a -most awful cold.” - -“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Herbert. “I am beastly sorry.” - -As he spoke the bell rang again, and Herbert went over to his mother and -whispered to her: - -“Do you think that is Clare? My God, this is awful!” - -“Clare was not looking very well the other day when I saw her,” - said Mrs. Atkinson Brown. “I thought perhaps she was sickening for -something.” - -“Oh, I assure you she was never better in her life,” said Herbert. - -“But you men are so unobservant. I am dying to see dear Clare, to ask -her how she feels. Are you sure I can’t be of any use to her?” - -She rose again from her chair, and Herbert gave a beseeching look to his -mother. - -“Oh, quite sure, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood. “_Do_ sit down.” - -“Besides, you have such a frightful cold,” said Herbert, with extreme -anxiety. “_Do_ keep closer to the fire.” - -Mrs. Atkinson Brown laughed a little curiously: - -“You seem very anxious to keep me from dear Clare!” - -This persistence annoyed her husband and he rebuked her sternly. - -“Sit still, Beatrice, can’t you? Don’t you see that we have arrived a -little early and that we have taken Clare unawares? Let the poor girl go -on with her dressing.” - -“Don’t bully me in other people’s flats, Charles,” said Mrs. Atkinson -Brown. “I have enough of it at home.” - -Her husband was not to be quelled. - -“Herbert and I can hardly hear ourselves speak,” he growled, “you keep -up such a clatter.” - -Mrs. Atkinson Brown flared up. - -“I come out to get the chance of speaking a little. For eight years now -I have been listening to your interminable monologues, and can’t get a -word in edgeways.” - -“Stuff and nonsense!” said her husband. - -“Have you been married eight years already, my dear?” asked Mrs. Heywood -in a tone of amiable surprise. - -“Well, we are in our Eighth Year,” said Mrs. Atkinson Brown. - -Mrs. Heywood seemed startled. - -“Oh, I see,” she said thoughtfully. - -“I assure you it seems longer,” said the lady. “I suppose it’s because -Charles makes me so very tired sometimes.” - -Two other visitors now arrived. They were Mr. Hargreaves and his -wife: the former a young man in immaculate evening clothes, with -lofty manners; the latter a tall, thin, elegant, bored-looking woman, -supercilious and snobbish. - -Herbert went forward hurriedly to his new guests. - -“How splendid of you to come! How are you, sir?” - -“Oh, pretty troll-loll, thanks,” said Mr. Hargreaves. - -Herbert shook hands with Mrs. Hargreaves. - -“How do you do?” - -“We’re rather late,” said the lady, “but this is in an out-of-the-way -neighborhood, is it not?” - -“Oh, do you think so?” said Herbert. “I always considered Battersea Park -very central.” - -Mrs. Hargreaves raised her eyebrows. - -“It’s having to get across the river that makes the journey so very -tedious. I should die if I had to live across the river.” - -“There’s something in what you say,” said Herbert, anxious to agree with -everybody. “I must apologize for dragging you all this way. Of course, -you people in Mayfair----Won’t you sit down?” - -Mr. Hargreaves became a victim of mistaken identity, shaking hands with -Mrs. Atkinson Brown. - -“Mrs. Heywood, I presume. I must introduce myself.” - -Mrs. Hargreaves also greeted the other lady, under the same impression. - -“Oh, how do you do? So delighted to make your acquaintance.” - -Mrs. Atkinson Brown was much amused, and laughed gaily. - -“But I am _not_ Mrs. Heywood. I cannot boast of such a handsome -husband!” - -“Oh, can’t you, by Jove!” said Mr. Atkinson Brown, rather nettled by his -wife’s candor. - -“Oh, I beg pardon,” said Mr. Hargreaves. “Where _is_ Mrs. Heywood?” - -“Yes, where is Mrs. Heywood?” said his wife. - -Herbert looked wildly at his mother. - -“Where is she, mother? Do tell her to hurry up. - -“Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood meekly. She moved uncertainly toward the -bedroom door, and then hesitated: “Perhaps she will not be very long -now.” - -“The fact is,” said Herbert desperately, “she is not very well.” - -Mrs. Atkinson Brown was astounded. - -“But you said she was perfectly well!” - -“Did I?” said Herbert. “Oh, well, er--one has to say these things, you -know. Polite fictions, eh?” - -He laughed nervously. - -“The fact is, she has a little headache. Hasn’t she, mother?” - -“Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood. “You know best.” - -Mrs. Atkinson Brown rose from her chair again. - -“Oh, I will go and see how the poor dear feels. So bad of you to hide it -from us.” - -“Oh, please sit down,” said Herbert in a voice of anguish. “I assure you -it is nothing very much. She will be in directly. Make yourself at home, -Mrs. Hargreaves. This chair? Mother, show Mrs. Atkinson Brown Clare’s -latest photograph.” - -“Oh, yes!” said Mrs. Heywood. “It is an excellent likeness.” - -“But I want to see Clare herself!” said Mrs. Atkinson Brown plaintively. - -“Sit down, Beatrice!” said her husband. - -“Bully!” said Mrs. Atkinson Brown, sitting down with a flop. - -Herbert addressed himself to Mr. Hargreaves. - -“Draw up your chair, sir. You will have a cigar, I am sure.” - -He offered him one from a newly opened box. Mr. Hargreaves took one, -smelled it, and then put it back. - -“No, thanks,” he said. “I will have one of my own, if I may. Sure the -ladies don’t mind?” - -“Oh, they like it,” said Herbert. - -“We have to pretend to,” said Mrs. Hargreaves. - -“Well, if you don’t, you ought to,” said her husband. “It’s a man’s -privilege.” - -Mrs. Hargreaves smiled icily. - -“One of his many privileges.” - -“Will you have a cigarette, Mrs. Hargreaves?” said Herbert. - -But Mr. Hargreaves interposed: - -“Oh, I don’t allow my wife to smoke. It’s a beastly habit.” - -Mr. Atkinson Brown, who had accepted one of Herbert’s cigars, but after -some inquiry had also decided to smoke one of his own, applauded this -sentiment with enthusiasm. - -“Hear, hear! Hear, hear! Disgusting habit for women.” - -“Of course I agree with you,” said Herbert. “Clare never smokes. But I -don’t lay down the law for other people’s wives.” - -Mr. Hargreaves laughed. - -“A very sound notion, Heywood. It takes all one’s time to manage one’s -own, eh?” - -“And then it is not always effective,” said his wife. “Even the worm -will turn.” - -Mr. Hargreaves answered his wife with a heavy retort: - -“If it does I knock it on the head with a spade.” - -Mr. Atkinson Brown laughed loudly again. He seemed to like this man -Hargreaves. - -“Good epigram! By Jove, I must remember that!” - -Herbert was on tenter-hooks when the conversation languished a little. - -“Won’t you sing a song, Mrs. Atkinson Brown? I am sure my friend, Mr. -Hargreaves, will appreciate your voice.” - -“Oh, rather!” said Hargreaves. “Though I don’t pretend to understand a -note of music.” Mrs. Atkinson Brown shook her head: - -“I couldn’t think of singing before our hostess appears.” - -The lady’s husband seemed at last to have caught the spirit of her -suspicion. He spoke in a hoarse whisper to his wife: - -“Where the devil _is_ the woman?” - -Herbert Heywood realized that he was on the edge of a precipice. Not -much longer could he hold on to this intolerable situation. He tried to -speak cheerfully, but there was anguish in his voice when he said: - -“Well, let’s have a game of nap.” - -“Oh, Lord, no,” said Hargreaves. “I only play nap on the way to a race. -You don’t sport a billiard table, do you?” - -Herbert Heywood was embarrassed. - -“Er--a billiard table?” He looked round the room as though he might -discover a billiard table. “I’m afraid not.” - -“Don’t be absurd, Edward,” said Mrs. Hargreaves. “People don’t play -billiards on the wrong side of the river.” - -Conversation languished again, and Herbert was becoming desperate. He -seized upon the sandwiches and handed them round. - -“Won’t anybody have a sandwich to pass the time away? Mrs. Hargreaves?” - -Mrs. Hargreaves laughed in her supercilious way. - -“It’s rather early, isn’t it?” - -“Good Lord, no!” said Herbert. “I am sure you must be hungry. Let me beg -of you--Mother, haven’t you got any cake anywhere?” - -“Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood. She, too, was suffering mental tortures. - -“Atkinson Brown. You will have a sandwich,” said Herbert. - -He bent over to his visitor and spoke in a gloomy voice: - -“Take one, for God’s sake.” - -Atkinson Brown was startled. - -“Yes! Yes! By all means,” he said hastily. Herbert handed the sandwiches -about rather wildly. “Mother, you will have one, won’t you? Mrs. -Atkinson Brown?... And one for me, eh?” - -Mrs. Hargreaves eyed her host curiously. - -“I hope your wife is not seriously unwell, Mr. Heywood.” - -Herbert was losing his nerve. - -“Can’t we talk of something else?” he said despairingly. “What is your -handicap at golf?” - -“My husband objects to my playing golf,” said the lady. - -“It takes women out of the home so much,” said Hargreaves. “Play with -the babies is my motto for women.” - -Mrs. Atkinson Brown shook her finger at him, and laughed in a shrill -voice: - -“But supposing they haven’t got any babies?” - -“They ought to have ‘em,” said Hargreaves. - -It was Atkinson Brown who interrupted this interesting discussion, which -promised to bring up the great problem of eugenics, so favored now as a -drawing-room topic. He had been turning his sandwich this way and that, -and he leaned forward to his host: - -“Excuse me, Herbert, old man. There’s something the matter with this -sandwich.” - -“Something the matter with it?” asked Herbert anxiously. - -“It’s covered with red spots,” said Atkinson Brown. - -“Spots--what kind of spots?” - -“Looks like blood,” said Atkinson Brown, giving an uneasy guffaw. -“Suppose there hasn’t been a murder in this flat?” - -All the guests leaned forward and gazed at the sandwich. - -Herbert spoke in a tragic whisper to his mother: - -“Mollie’s finger!” - -Then he explained the matter airily to the general company. - -“Oh, it’s a special kind of sandwich with the gravy outside. A new fad, -you know.” - -“Oh, I see,” said Atkinson Brown, much relieved. “Hadn’t heard of it. -Still, I think I’ll have an ordinary one, if you don’t mind.” - -Herbert was muttering little prayers remembered from his childhood. - -“Mrs. Hargreaves,” he said cajolingly, “I am sure you play. Won’t you -give us a little tune?” - -“Well, if it won’t disturb your wife,” said the lady. - -“Oh, I am sure it won’t. She’ll love to hear you.” - -He felt immensely grateful to this good-natured woman. - -“Edward, get my music-roll,” said Mrs. Hargreaves. - -But Herbert had a horrible disappointment when Hargreaves said: - -“By Jove! I believe I left it in the taxi. Yes, I am sure I did!” - -Herbert put his hand up to his aching head and whispered his anguish: - -“Oh, my God! Now how shall I mark time?” - -“But I reminded you about it!” said Mrs. Hargreaves. - -“Yes, I know. But you are always reminding me about something.” - -“Well, play something by heart,” said Herbert in a pleading way. “Any -old thing. The five-finger exercises.” - -“I am very out of practice,” said Mrs. Hargreaves. “But still I will -try.” - -Herbert breathed a prayer of thankfulness, and hurried to conduct the -lady to the music-stool. - -As he did so there was a noise outside the window. Newspaper men were -shouting their sing-song: “Raid on the ‘Ouse. Suffragette Outrage. Raid -on the ‘Ouse of Commins.” - -“What are the devils saying?” asked Hargreaves, trying to catch the -words. - -“Something about the Suffragettes,” growled Atkinson Brown. - -“I’m afraid it will give poor Clare a worse headache,” said Mrs. -Atkinson Brown. - -Mrs. Heywood tried to be reassuring: - -“Oh, I don’t think so.” - -At that moment there was a loud ring at the bell. The sound was so -prolonged that it startled the company. - -Herbert listened intently and then whispered to his mother: - -“That must be Clare!” - -“Oh, if it is only Clare!” said Mrs. Heywood. When Mrs. Hargreaves had -struck a few soft chords on the piano there was the sound of voices -speaking loudly in the hall. Everybody listened, surprised at the -interruption. Mollie’s voice could be heard quite clearly. - -“I told you it was our At Home night, Miss Vernon.” - -“I can’t help that.” - -The drawing-room door opened, _sans ceremonie_, and Madge Vernon came -in. Her face was flushed, and she had sparkling eyes. She stood in the -doorway looking at the company with a smile, as though immensely amused -by some joke of her own. - -“I’m sorry to interrupt you good people,” she said very cheerfully, “but -I have come on urgent business, which brooks no delay, as they say in -melodrama.” - -Mrs. Heywood gazed at her with frightened eyes. - -“My dear!... What has happened?” - -“What’s the matter?” said Herbert, turning very pale. - -“Oh, it’s nothing to be alarmed at,” said Madge Vernon. “It’s about your -wife.” - -“My wife?” - -“About Clare?” exclaimed Mrs. Atkinson Brown. - -Mrs. Hargreaves craned her head forward, like a bird reaching for its -seed. - -“I wonder--” she said. - -Madge Vernon grinned at them all. - -“It’ll be in the papers to-morrow, so you are all bound to know. -Besides, why keep it a secret? It’s a thing to be proud of!” - -“Proud of what?” asked Herbert in a frenzied tone of voice. - -Madge Vernon enjoyed the drama of her announcement. - -“Clare has been arrested in a demonstration outside the House to-night.” - -“Arrested!” - -The awful word was spoken almost simultaneously by all the company in -that drawingroom of Intellectual Mansions, S. W. - -“She’s quite safe,” said Madge Vernon calmly. “I’ve come to ask you to -bail her out.” - -Herbert’s guests rose and looked at him in profound astonishment and -indignation. - -“But you told us--” cried Mrs. Atkinson Brown. - -Herbert Heywood gave a queer groan of anger and horror. - -“Bail her out!... Oh, my God!” - -He sank down into his chair and held his head in his hands. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -Herbert Heywood was in the depths of an arm-chair reading the paper. -Mrs. Heywood was on the other side of the fireplace with a book on her -lap. But she was dozing over it, and her head nodded on to her chest. -Herbert turned over the leaves of the paper and then studied the -advertisements. He had a look of extreme boredom. Every now and then he -yawned quietly and lengthily. At last he let the paper fall on to the -floor, and uttered his thoughts aloud, so that his mother was awakened. - -“Did you say anything, Herbert?” said the old lady. - -“Nothing, mother, except that I am bored stiff.” - -He went over to the piano and played “God Save the King” with one -finger, in a doleful way. - -Mrs. Heywood glanced over her spectacles at him. - -“Would you like a game of cribbage, dear?” - -“No, thanks, mother,” said Herbert hastily. “Not in the afternoon.” - -Mrs. Heywood listened to his fumbling notes for a moment and then spoke -again. - -“Won’t you go out for a walk? It would do you good, Herbert.” - -“Think so?” said Herbert bitterly; without accepting the suggestion, -he played “Three Blind Mice,” also with one finger. It sounded more -melancholy than “God Save the King.” - -“I don’t like to see you moping indoors on a bright day like this,” said -Mrs. Heywood. “Take a brisk walk round the Park. It would cheer you up.” - -Herbert resented the idea fiercely. - -“A long walk in Battersea Park would make a pessimist of a laughing -hyena.” - -Mrs. Heywood was silent for some time, but then she made a last effort. - -“Well, go and see a friend, dear. The Atkinson Browns, for instance.” - -“They do nothing but nag at each other,” said Herbert. “And Atkinson -Brown hasn’t as much brains as a Teddy Bear. Besides, he’s become -friendly with that fellow Hargreaves, and I’m not going to take the risk -of meeting a man who turned me out of my job.” - -Mrs. Heywood became agitated. - -“Are you sure of that, Herbert? I can’t think he could have been so -malicious, after coming here and eating your salt, as it were. What was -his reason?” - -“He made no disguise of it,” said Herbert bitterly. “I saw his letter -to my chief. Said that it was quite impossible to employ a man who was -mixed up with the militant Suffragettes. Damned liar!” - -“Good Heavens!” said Mrs. Heywood. - -“Of course it was all due to that ghastly evening when Clare got -arrested. She knows that well enough.” - -“Well, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood, “she has tried to make amends. The -shock of your losing your place has made her much more gentle and -loving. It has brought back all her loyalty to you, Herbert.” - -“Loyalty!” said Herbert. “Where is she now, I should like to know?” - -“She is gone to some committee meeting.” - - -“She’s always got a committee meeting,” said Herbert angrily, kicking -the hassock. - -“She joins a new committee for some kind of social reform nonsense every -blessed day.” - -“Well, it keeps her busy, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood gently. “Besides, -it is not all committee work. Since she has been visiting the poor and -helping in the slums she has been ever so much better in health and -spirits.” - -“Yes, but where the devil do I come in?” asked Herbert. - -“Don’t you think you might go out, dear? Just for a little while?” - -“I don’t _want_ to go out, mother,” said Herbert with suppressed heat. - -“Very well, dear.” - -Herbert stood in front of the fireplace and rattled the keys in his -pocket moodily. - -“What’s the good of toiling to keep a home together if one’s wife -abandons her husband’s society on every possible pretext? A home! This -place is just a receiving office for begging letters and notices for -committees and subcommittees.” - -Mrs. Heywood sighed. - -“It might have been worse, Herbert.” - -“As far as I’m concerned, it couldn’t be worse. I’m the most miserable -wretch in London. Without a job and without a wife.” - -“You’ll get a place all right, dear. You have the promise of one -already. And you know Clare’s health was in a very queer state before -Miss Vernon made her take an interest in helping other people. I was -seriously alarmed about her.” - -“What about me?” asked Herbert. “No one troubles to get alarmed about -me.” - -“Are you unwell, dear?” said Mrs. Hey-wood anxiously. - -“Of course I’m unwell.” - -“Darling!” said Mrs. Heywood, still more anxiously. - -“Oh, there’s nothing the matter with me from a physical point of view. -But mentally and morally I’m a demnition wreck.” - -“Aren’t you taking your iron pills regularly?” said his mother. - -“Pills! As if pills could cure melancholia!” Mrs. Heywood was aghast at -that dreadful word. - -“Good Heavens, dear!” - -“I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown,” said Herbert. - -“Oh, Herbert,” cried his mother, “I hope not!” - -“I’m working up to a horrible crisis,” said Herbert. - -“What are your symptoms? How do you feel?” asked his mother. - -“I feel like smashing things,” said Herbert savagely. - -He sat down at the piano again and played “We Won’t Go Home Till -Morning,” but missed his note, and banged on to the wrong one in a -temper. - -“There goes a note, anyhow. Thank goodness for that!” - -At that moment Mollie came in holding a silver tray with a pile of -letters. - -“The post, sir.” - -“Well, something to break the infernal monotony,” said Herbert with a -sigh of relief. - -He took up the letters and examined them. - -“Life is a bit flat, sir,” said Mollie, “since we gave up having At -Homes.” - -“Hold your tongue,” said Herbert. - -Mollie tossed her head and muttered an impertinent sentence as she left -the room. - -“Can’t even open my mouth without somebody jumping down my throat. I -will break that girl’s neck one of these days,” said Herbert. - -He went through the letters and read out the names on them. - -“Mrs. Herbert Heywood, _Mrs._ Herbert Heywood, Mrs. Herbert Heywood, -Mrs. Herbert--Why, every jack one is for Mrs. Herbert Heywood! Nobody -writes to me, of course. No one cares a damn about _me_.” - -“Your mother cares, Herbert,” said the old lady. - -“I shall take to drink--or the devil,” said Herbert, and he added -thoughtfully, “I wonder which is the most fun?” - -“Herbert, dear!” cried his mother, “don’t say such awful things.” - -“The worst of it is,” said Herbert bitterly, “they’re both so beastly -expensive.” - -There was the noise of a latchkey in the hall, and Mrs. Heywood gave a -little cry. - -“There’s Clare!” - -“Think so?” said Herbert, listening. - -From the hall came the sound of Clare’s voice singing a merry tune. - -“She’s in a cheerful mood, anyhow,” said Mrs. Heywood, smiling. - -Herbert answered her gloomily. - -“Horribly cheerful.” - -The mother and son looked toward the door as Clare came in. There was a -noticeable change in her appearance since the evening At Home. There was -more color in her cheeks and the wistfulness had gone out of her eyes. -She was brisk, keen and bright. - -“Well, mother,” she said, “been having a nap?” - -“Oh, no, dear,” said the old lady, who never admitted that she made a -habit of naps. - -“Hulloh, Herbert,” said Clare. “Have you got that new post yet?” - -“No,” said Herbert. “And I don’t expect I shall get it.” - -“Oh, yes, you will, dear old boy. Don’t you worry! Have you been home -long?” - -“Seems like a lifetime.” - -Clare laughed. - -“Not so long as that, surely?” - -She came forward to him and put her arm about his neck, and offered him -her cheek. He looked at it doubtfully for a moment and then kissed her -in a “distant” manner. - -“I’m frightfully busy, old boy,” said Clare. “I just have a few minutes -and then I shall have to dash off again.” - -“Dash off where?” asked Herbert, with signs of extreme irritation. “Dash -it all, surely you aren’t going out again?” - -“Only round the corner,” said Clare quietly. “I have got to look into -the case of a poor creature who is making match-boxes. Goodness knows -how many for a farthing! And yet she’s so cheerful and plucky that it -does one good to see her. Oh, it kills one’s own selfishness, Herbert.” - -“Well, why worry about her, then, if she’s so pleased with herself?” - -“She’s plucky,” said Clare, “but she’s starving. It’s a bad case of -sweated labor.” - -“Sweated humbug,” said Herbert. “What am I going to do all the evening, -I should like to know? Sit here alone?” - -“I don’t suppose I shall be long,” said Clare. “Besides, there’s -mother.” - -“Yes, there’s mother,” said Herbert. “But when a man’s married he wants -his wife.” - -Clare was now busy looking over her letters. - -“Can’t you go to the club?” she asked. - -“I’m dead sick of the club. That boiled-shirt Bohemianism is the biggest -rot in the world.” - -“Take mother to the theatre,” said Clare cheerfully. - -“The theatre bores me stiff. These modern plays set one’s nerves on -edge.” - -“Well, haven’t you got a decent novel or anything?” said Clare, reading -one of her letters. - -“A decent novel! There’s no such thing nowadays, and they give me the -hump.” - -Clare was reading another letter with absorbed interest, but she -listened with half an ear, as it were, to her husband. - -“Play mother a game of cribbage, then,” she said. - -“Look here, Clare,” said Herbert furiously, “I shall begin to throw -things about in a minute.” - -“Don’t get hysterical, Herbert,” said Clare calmly. “Especially as I -have got some good news for you.” - -As she spoke these words she looked across a Demonstration to him with a -curious smile and added: “A big surprise, Herbert!” - -“A surprise?” said Herbert with sarcasm. “Have you discovered another -widow in distress?” - -“Well, I have,” said Clare, “but it’s not that.” - -Mrs. Heywood glanced from her son to her daughter-in-law, and seemed to -imagine that she might be disturbing an intimate conversation. - -“I will be back in a minute. I won’t disturb you two dears,” she said, -as she left the room quietly. - -“You won’t disturb us, mother,” said Clare. - -But the old lady smiled and said, “I won’t be long.” - -“Are you going to get arrested again?” asked Herbert. “Do you want me to -bail you out? Because by the Lord, I won’t!” - -“Oh, that was quite an accident,” said Clare, laughing. “Besides, I gave -you my word to abstain from the militant movement, and you can’t say I -have broken the pledge.” - -“You have broken a good many other things.” - -“What kind of things?” asked Clare. “You aren’t alluding to that window -again, are you?” - -“You have broken my illusions on married life,” said Herbert, with -tragic emphasis. - -“Ah,” said Clare, “that is ‘the Great Illusion,’ by the Angel in the -House.” - -“You have broken my ideals of womanhood.” - -“They were false ideals, Herbert,” said Clare very quietly. “It was only -a plaster ideal which broke. The real woman is of flesh and blood. The -real woman is so much better than the sham. Don’t you think so?” - -“It depends on what you call sham,” said Herbert. - -“I was a sham until that plaster image of me broke. I indulged in sham -sentiment, sham emotion, sham thoughts. Look at me now, since I went -outside these four walls and faced the facts of life, and saw other -people’s misery besides my own, and the happiness of people with so much -more to bear than I had. Look into my eyes, Herbert.” - -She smiled at him tenderly, alluringly. “What’s the good?” said Herbert. - -“Do you see a weary soul looking out?” - -Herbert looked into his wife’s eyes for a moment and then stared down at -the carpet. - -“I used to see love looking out,” he said. - -“It’s looking out now,” said Clare. “Love of life instead of discontent. -Love of this great throbbing human nature, with so much to be put right. -Love of poor people, and little children, and brave hearts. Madge Vernon -taught me that, for she has a soul bigger than the suffrage, and ideals -that go beyond the vote. I have blown the cobwebs out of my eyes, -Herbert. I see straight.” - -“How about _me?_” asked Herbert. “That’s what I want to know. Where do I -come in?” - -“Oh, you come in all right!” said Clare. “You are a part of life and -have a big share of my love.” - -“I don’t want to be shared up, thanks,” said Herbert. - -She stroked his hand. - -“I love you much better now that I see you with this new straight vision -of mine. At any rate I love what is real in you and not what is sham. -And I have learned the duties of love, Herbert. I believe I am a better -wife to you. I think I have learned the meaning of marriage, and of -married love.” - -She spoke with a touch of emotion, and there was a thrill in her voice. - -“You are in love with your social work and your whining beggars, not -with me. You are getting farther and farther away from me. You leave me -alone; I come back to a neglected home.” - -“Why, Mollie and mother look after it beautifully,” said Clare very -cheerfully. - -Herbert gave expression to his grievances. - -“I come home and ask, ‘Where is Clare?’ and get the eternal answer, -‘Clare is out.’ I am an abandoned husband, and by Heaven I won’t stand -it. I will----” - -“What, Herbert?” said Clare, smiling up at him. “Don’t do anything rash, -old boy.” - -“I--have a good mind to make love to somebody else’s wife. But they’re -all so beastly ugly!” - -“Perhaps somebody else’s wife won’t respond,” said Clare. “Some women -are very cold.” - -“I’ll take to drink. I have already given mother full warning.” - -“I am sure it will disagree with you, dear,” said Clare. - -“You scoff at me,” said Herbert passionately. “I think we had better -live apart.” - -“You would get even more bored than before. Dear old boy. _Do_ be -reasonable. _Do_ cultivate a sense of humor.” - -“This is not a farce,” said Herbert. “It’s a horrible tragedy.” - -“Take up a hobby or something,” said Clare. “Golf--or fretwork.” - -Herbert was furious. - -“Fretwork! Is that a joke or an insult?” - -“It was only a suggestion!” said Clare. Herbert jumped up from his -chair. - -“I had better go and drown myself straight away...”? - -He turned at the door, and gave a tragic look at his wife. “Good-by.” - -Clare smiled at him. - -“Won’t you kiss me before you go?” - -“I will take my pipe,” said Herbert, coming back to the mantelshelf. -“It’s my only friend.” - -“It will go out in the water,” said Clare. “Besides, Herbert, don’t you -want to hear my good news? My big surprise?” - -“No,” said Herbert. “Nothing you could say or do could surprise me now. -If mother wants me I shall be in the study for the rest of the evening.” - -“But I thought you were going to the river?”, said Clare teasingly. - -Herbert was not to be amused. - -“I suppose you think you’re funny? I don’t,” he said. - -Then he went out and slammed the door. Clare was left alone, and there -was a smile about her lips. - -“Poor old Herbert,” she said. “I think he will have the surprise of his -life.” - -She laughed quietly to herself, and then looked up and listened as she -heard a slight noise. She stood up with a sudden look of anger as she -saw Gerald Bradshaw gazing at her through the open French windows. - -The man spoke to her in his soft, silky voice. - -“Clare, why are you so cruel to me? I have been ill because of your -heartlessness.” - -Clare answered him sternly. - -“I thought I had got rid of you. Have you come back to plague me?” - -“I tried to forget you,” said Gerald Bradshaw. “I went as far as Italy -to forget you. I made love to many women to forget you. But I have come -back. And I shall always come back, because you are my mate and I cannot -live without you.” - -Clare’s voice rang out in the room. - -“God ought not to let you live. Every word you speak is a lie. You are -a thief of women’s honor. Get away from my window, because your very -breath is poison.” - -The man was astonished, a little scared. “You did not speak like that -once, Clare. You let me hold your hand. You trembled when I leaned -toward you.” - -“I was ill and weak,” said Clare, “and you tried to tempt my weakness. I -was blind and did not see the evil in you. But now I am well and strong, -and my eyes are opened to the truth of things. If you don’t go I will -call my husband and he will throw you over that balcony at one word from -me.” - -Gerald Bradshaw laughed scoffingly. - -“Your husband! I could kill him between my thumb and forefinger.” - -“He is strong because he is good,” said Clare. “I will call him now.” - -She went quickly toward the bell. - -“You needn’t call him,” said Gerald Bradshaw. “I would dislike to hurt -the little man.” - -“You are going?” asked Clare. - -“Yes, I am going,” said the man, “because something has changed in you.” - -Clare gave a cheerful little laugh. - -“You are right.” - -“I see that now. I have lost my spell over you. Something has broken.” - -“Are you going,” said Clare sternly, “or shall I call my man?” - -“I am going, Clare,” said the man at the window. “I am going to find -another mate. She and I will talk evil of you, and hate you, as I -hate you now. Farewell, foolish one!” He withdrew from the window, and -instantly Clare rushed to it, shut it and bolted it. Then she pulled -down the blind, and stood, panting, with her back to it and her arms -outstretched. - -“God be praised!” she said. “He has gone out of my life. I am a clean -woman again.” At that moment Mrs. Heywood entered. “Must you go out -again, Clare?” said the old lady. - -“Only for a little while, mother,” said Clare, a little breathless after -her emotion. - -“Is anything the matter, dear?” said Mrs. Heywood. “You look rather -flustered.” - -“Oh, nothing is the matter!” said Clare. “Only I am very happy.” - -Mrs. Heywood smiled at her. - -“It makes me happy to see you so well and bright,” she said. - -“I don’t get on your nerves so much, eh, mother?” - -She laughed quietly. - -“Well, I must go and tidy my hair.” - -She moved toward the bedroom, but stopped to pack up her letters. - -“I am so sorry you have to go out,” said the old lady. - -“I shan’t be more than a few minutes,” said Clare. “But I must go. -Besides, after this I am going to _give_ up some of my visiting work.” - -“Give it up, dear?” - -“Yes. One must be moderate even in district visiting.” - -She went into the bedroom, but left the door open so that she could hear -her mother. - -“Clare!” said the old lady. - -“Yes, mother.” - -“What is that surprise you were going to give us?” - -“Surprise, mother?” - -“Yes,” said Mrs. Heywood. “The good news?” - -“Oh, yes, I forgot,” said Clare. “Come in and I will tell you.” - -Mrs. Heywood went into the bedroom. Outside, in the street, a man with -a fiddle was playing the “Intermezzo.” Presently both women came out. -Clare was smiling, with her arm round Mrs. Heywood’s neck. Mrs. Heywood -was wiping her eyes as though crying a little. - -“Cheer up,” said Clare. “It’s nothing to cry about.” - -“I am crying because I am so glad,” said Mrs. Heywood. - -“Well, that’s a funny thing to do,” said Clare, laughing gaily. “Now I -must run away. You won’t let Herbert drown himself, will you?” - -“No, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood, wiping her eyes. - -“Who would have thought it!” said Mrs. - -Heywood, speaking to herself as her daughter-in-law left the room. - -She went over to the mantelpiece and took up her son’s photograph and -kissed it. Then she went to the door and stood out in the hall and -called in a sweet old woman’s voice: - -“Herbert! Herbert, dear!” - -“Are you calling, mother?” answered Herbert from another room. - -“Yes,” said Mrs. Heywood. “I want you.” - -“I don’t feel a bit like cribbage, mother,”’ said Herbert. - -“I don’t want you to play cribbage to-night,” said the old lady. “I have -something to say to you.” - -“Has Clare gone?” asked Herbert, still calling from the other room. - -“Yes,” said Mrs. Heywood. “But she won’t be long.” - -“Oh, all right. I’ll be along in a moment.” - -Mrs. Heywood went back into the room and waited for her son eagerly. -Presently he came in with a pipe in his hand and book under his arm. He -had changed into a shabby old jacket, and was in carpet slippers. - -“What’s the matter, mother?” he asked. - -“There’s nothing the matter,” said the old lady; then she became very -excited, and raised her hands and cried out: - -“At least, everything is the matter. It’s the only thing that matters! -... Oh, Herbert!” - -She laughed and cried at the same time so that her son was alarmed and -stared at her in amazement. - -“You aren’t ill, are you?” he said. “Shall I send for a doctor?” - -Mrs. Heywood shook her trembling old head. - -“I’m quite well. I never felt so well.” - -“You had better sit down, mother,” said Herbert. - -He took her hand and led her to a chair. - -“What’s up, eh, old lady? Mollie hasn’t run away, has she?” - -The old lady took his hand and fondled it. - -“Herbert, my son, I’ve wonderful news for you.” - -“News?” said Herbert. “Did you find it in the evening paper?” - -“It’s going to make a lot of difference to us all,” said Mrs. Heywood. -“No more cribbage, Herbert!” - -“Thank heaven for that!” said Herbert. - -“And not so much social work for Clare.” - -“Well, let’s be thankful for small mercies,” said Herbert. - -“Bend your head down and let me whisper to you,” said Mrs. Heywood. - -She put her hands up to his head, and drew it down, and whispered -something into his ears. - -It was something which astounded him. - -He started back and said “No!” as though he had heard something quite -incredible. Then he spoke in a whisper: - -“By Jove!... Is that a fact?” - -“It’s the best fact that ever was, Herbert,” said the old lady. - -“Yes... it will make a bit of a difference,” said Herbert thoughtfully. - -Mrs. Heywood clasped her son’s arm. There was a tremulous light in her -eyes and a great emotion in her voice. - -“Herbert, I am an old woman and your mother. Sit down and let me talk to -you as I did in the old days when you were my small boy before a nursery -fire.” - -Herbert smiled at her; all the gloom had left his face. - -“All right, mother.... By Jove, and I never guessed. And yet I ought to -have guessed. Things have been--different--lately.” - -He sat down on a hassock near the old lady with his knees tucked up. She -sat down, too, and stretched out a trembling hand to touch his hair. - -“Once upon a time, Herbert, there was a young man and a young woman who -loved each other very dearly.” - -Herbert looked up and smiled at her. - -“Are you sure, mother?” - -“Perfectly sure. Then they married.” - -“And lived happily ever after? I bet they didn’t!” - -“No, not quite happily, because this is different from the fairy tales. -... After a time the husband began to think too much about his work, -while the wife stayed at home and thought too much about herself.” - -“It’s a stale old yarn,” said Herbert. “What happened then?” - -“By degrees the wife began to think she hated her husband, because -although he gave her little luxuries and pretty clothes, and all the -things that pleased _him_, he never gave her the thing _she_ wanted.” - -“What was that?” asked Herbert. - -“It was a magic charm to make her forget herself.” - -“Well, magic charms aren’t easy to find,” said Herbert. - -“No.... But at last she went out to find it herself. And while she was -away the husband came home and missed her.” - -“Poor devil!” said Herbert. “Of course he did.” - -“Being a man,” said Mrs. Heywood, giving a queer little laugh, “he -stayed at home more than he used to do, and then complained that he was -left too much alone. Just like his wife had complained.” - -“Well, hang it all,” said Herbert, “she ought to have stayed with him.” - -“But then she wouldn’t have found the magic charm,” said Mrs. Heywood. -“Don’t you see?... And she would have withered and withered away until -there was nothing left of her, and the husband would have been quite -alone--forever.” - -“Think so?” said Herbert very thoughtfully. “D’you think it would have -been as bad as that?” - -“Yes,” said Mrs. Heywood. “I’m sure of it.” - -“Well, what did happen?” asked Herbert. “Did she find the magic charm? -It wasn’t a widow in distress, was it? Or Social Reform humbug?” - -“No,” said Mrs. Heywood; “that gave her a new interest in life because -it helped her to forget herself, some of her own little worries, some of -her brooding thoughts. But a good fairy who was looking after her worked -another kind of magic.... Herbert I It’s the best magic for unhappy -women and unhappy homes, and it has been worked for you. Oh, my dear, -you ought to be very thankful.” - -“Yes,” said Herbert, scratching his head. “Yes, I suppose so. But what’s -the moral of the tale, mother? I’m hanged if I see.” - -Mrs. Heywood put her hand on her son’s shoulder, as he sat on the -hassock by her chair. - -“It’s a moral told by an old woman who watched these two from the very -beginning. A husband mustn’t expect his wife to stay at home for ever. -The home isn’t big enough, Herbert. There’s the great world outside -calling to her, calling, calling. The walls of a little fiat like this -are too narrow for the spirit and heart. If he keeps her there she -either pines and dies, or else----” - -“What?” asked Herbert. - -“Escapes, my dear,” said the old lady very solemnly. - -Herbert drew a deep, quivering breath. - -“Then,” said Mrs. Heywood, “nothing in the world can call her -back--except----” - -“Except what?” - -“A little child.” - -Herbert got up from the hassock and clasped the mantelshelf, and spoke -in a low, humble, grateful voice. - -“Thank God, Clare has been called back!” he said. - -Mrs. Heywood rose from her chair also, and caught hold of her son’s -sleeve. - -“Yes,” she said, “yes. But even now she will want to spread her wings -a little. She must take short flights, Herbert, even now. She must wing -her way out to the big world at times. You will remember that, won’t -you?” - -“I’ll try to remember,” said Herbert. He bent his head over his hands on -the mantelshelf. “I’ve been selfish,” he said. “Blinded with selfishness -and self-conceit. God forgive me.” - -“Perhaps we have all been a little selfish,” said Mrs. Heywood quietly. -“But we shall have some one else to think about now. A new life, -Herbert. A new life is coming to us all!” - -“Hush!” said Herbert. “Here’s Clare.” - -The mother and son stood listening to the voice of Clare singing in the -hall. She was singing the old nursery rhyme of-- - - “Sing a song of sixpence, - - A pocket-full of rye, - - Four and twenty blackbirds - - Baked in a pie, - - When the pie was opened-----” - -Mrs. Heywood smiled into her son’s eyes. - -“I think I’ve left my spectacles in the other room,” she said. She went -out into the hall, leaving her son alone. - -And Herbert stood with his head raised, looking toward the door, -eagerly, like a lover waiting for his bride. - -Then Clare came in. There was a smile about her lips, and she spoke -cheerfully. - -“Well, you see I wasn’t long.” - -Herbert strode toward her and took her hands and raised them to his -lips. - -“Clare, sweetheart! Is it true? Have you been called back to me?” - -Clare put her forehead down against his chest. - -“I never went very far away,” she said. - -Presently Herbert spoke again with great cheerfulness. - -“I say, Clare. It’s a funny thing!” - -“What’s a funny thing?” asked Clare, smiling at him. - -“Why, I was reading the advertisements in the paper to-night---” - -“Were _they_ funny?” asked Clare. - -“No,” said Herbert, “but I saw something that would just suit us.” - -He went over to a side-table and picked up the newspaper. Sitting on the -edge of the table, he read out an advertisement. - -“Here it is.... ‘Chelsea--Semi-detached house, dining-room, -drawing-room, three bedrooms, and a large nursery. Shed for bicycle or -perambulator.’” - -Clare laughed happily. - -“Well, we might have both!” she said. - -Herbert dropped the paper, came over to his wife, and kissed her hands -again. - -THE END - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Eighth Year, by Philip Gibbs - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE EIGHTH YEAR *** - -***** This file should be named 51926-0.txt or 51926-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/9/2/51926/ - -Produced by David Widger, from page images generously -provided by Google Books - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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