Irremediable by Ella D'Arcy of Stories of Troubled Marriages

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Section two of Stories of Troubled Marriages. This is a
LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain.
For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org.
Recording by Marina Stories of Troubled Marriages, Section two, Irremediable

(00:22):
by Ella Darcy. A young man strolled along a country
road one August evening after a long, delicious day, a
day of that blessed idleness the man of leisure never knows.
One must be a bank clerk forty nine weeks out
of the fifty two before one can really appreciate the
exquisite enjoyment of doing nothing for twelve hours at a stretch.

(00:43):
Willoughby had spent the morning lounging about a sunny rick yard. Then,
when the heat grew unbearable, he had retreated to an orchard, where,
lying on his back in the long cool grass, he
had traced the pattern of the apple leaves diapered above
him upon the summer sky. Now that the heat of
the day was over, he had come to Rome, with
the sweet fancy led him to lean over gates, view

(01:04):
the prospect and meditate upon the pleasures of a well
spent day. Five such days had already passed over his head.
Fifteen more remained to him. Then farewell to freedom and
clean country. Air back again to London and another year's toil.
He came to a gate on the right of the road.
Behind it, a footpath meandered up over a grassy slope.

(01:27):
The sheep nibbling on its summit, cast long shadows down
the hill almost to his feet. Road and field path
were equally new to him, but the latter offered greener attractions.
He vaulted lightly over the gate and had so little
idea he was taking thus the first step towards ruin,
that he began to whistle white wings from pure joy

(01:47):
of life. The sheep stopped feeding and raised their heads
to stare at him from pale, lashed eyes. First one
and then another broke into a startled run, until there
was a sudden, wooly stamp of the entire flock. When
Willoughby gained the ridge from which they had just scattered,
he came in sight of a woman sitting on a
stile at the further end of the field. As he

(02:10):
advanced towards her, he saw that she was young, and
that she was not what is called a lady, of
which he was glad an earlier episode in his career.
Having indissolubly associated in his mind ideas of feminine refinement
with those of feminine treachery, he thought it probable this
girl would be willing to dispense with the formalities of
an introduction, and that he might venture with her on

(02:33):
some pleasant, foolish chat. As she made no movement to
let him pass, he stood still, and, looking at her,
began to smile. She returned his gaze from unabashed dark eyes,
and then laughed, showing teeth, white sound, and smooth as
split hazel nuts. Do you want to get over? She
remarked familiarly, I'm afraid I can't without disturbing you. Don't

(02:58):
you think you're much better where you are? Said the girl,
on which Willoughby hazarded. You mean to say, looking at you, well,
perhaps I am. The girl at this laughed again, but
nevertheless dropped herself down into the further field. Then, leaning
her arms upon the cross bar, she informed the young man, No,
I don't want a spoiler. Walk you were gone, perhaps

(03:19):
to beacon point. It's very pray that way I was
going nowhere in particular, he replied, just exploring, so to speak,
I'm a stranger in these parts. How funny. I'm a
stranger here too. I only come down last Friday to
stee with a nontermine in Orton. Are you staying in Orton?
Willoughby told her he was not in Orton, but at

(03:40):
Povey Cross Farm out in the other direction. Oh, missus
Paine's ain't it of her aunt speak over? She takes
summer boarders, don't she. I expect you come from London, eh,
And I expect you come from London too, said Willoughby,
recognizing the familiar accent. You're as sharp as a needle,
cried the girl with her undrestrained laugh. So I do.

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I'm here for a all a day cause I was
so done up with the work in the hot weather.
I don't look as though i'd been ill, do I?
But I was, though, for it was just stifling aught
up in our work rooms all last month, and Tailoran's
awful ard work at the best o times, Willoughby felt
a sudden accession of interest in her. Like many intelligent
young men, he had dabbled a little in socialism, and

(04:24):
at one time had wandered among the dispossessed, but since
then had caught up and held loosely the new doctrine.
It is a good and fitting thing that woman also
should earn her bread by the sweat of her brow.
Always in reference to the woman who fifteen months before
had treated him ill, he had said to himself that
even the breaking of stones in the road should be

(04:45):
considered a more feminine employment than the breaking of hearts.
He gave way, therefore to a movement of friendliness for
this working daughter of the people, and joined her on
the other side of the style in token of his approval. She,
twisting to face him, leaned now with her back against
the bar, and the sunset fires leant a fleeting glory
to her face. Perhaps she guessed how becoming the light was,

(05:10):
for she took off her hat and let it touch
to gold the ends and fringes of her rough, abundant hair. Thus,
and at this moment she made an agreeable picture, to
which stood as background all a beautiful wooded sousher view.
You don't really mean to say you are tenerous, said Willoughby,
with a sort of eager compassion. I do, though, and
I've been one ever since I was fourteen. Look at

(05:32):
my fingers if you don't believe me. She put out
her right hand, and he took hold of it as
he was expected to do. The finger ends were frayed
and blackened by needle pricks, but the hand itself was plump, moist,
and not unshapely. She meanwhile examined Willoughby's fingers in closing hers.
It's easy to see you've never done no work, she said,

(05:54):
half admiring, half envious. I s'pose you're tip tops well,
ain't ye? Oh? Yes, I'm a tremendous swell. Indeed, said Willoughby. Ironically,
he thought of his hundred and thirty pounds salary, and
he mentioned his position in the British and Colonial Banking House,
without shedding much illumination on her mind, for she insisted, well, anyhow,

(06:15):
you're a gentleman. I've often wished I was a lady.
It must be so nice to wear fine clothes and
never have to do any work all day long. Willoughby
thought it innocent of the girl to say this. It
reminded him of his own notion as a child that
kings and queens put on their crowns the first thing.
On rising in the morning, his cordiality rose another degree.

(06:37):
If being a gentleman means having nothing to do, said
he smiling, I can certainly lay no claim to the title.
Life isn't all beer and skittles with me any more
than it is with you, which is the better reason
for enjoying the present moment, don't you think? Suppose now,
like a kind little girl, you were to show me
the way to Beacon Point, which you say is so pretty.

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She He required no further persuasion as he walked beside
her through the upland fields, where the dusk was beginning
to fall and the white evening moths to emerge from
their daytime hiding places. She asked him many personal questions,
most of which he thought fit to parry, Taking no
offense thereat. She told him instead much concerning herself and

(07:20):
her family. Thus he learned her name was Esther Stables,
that she and her people lived Whitechapel Way, that her
father was seldom sober and her mother always ill, and
that the aunt with whom she was staying kept the
post office and general shop in Orton Village. He learned, too,
that Esther was discontented with life in general, that though

(07:42):
she hated being at home, she found the country dreadfully dull,
and that consequently she was extremely glad to have made
his acquaintance. But what he chiefly realized when they parted
was that he had spent a couple of pleasant hours
talking nonsense with a girl who was natural, simple minded,
and entirely free from that protective atmosphere with which a

(08:03):
woman of the classes so carefully surrounds herself. He and
Esther had made friends with the ease and rapidity of
children before they have learned the dread meaning of etiquette.
And they said good night, not without some talk of
meeting each other again. Obliged to breakfast at a quarter
to eight in town, Willoughby was always luxuriously late within

(08:24):
the country, where he took his meals, also in leisurely fashion,
often reading from a book propped up on the table
before him. But the morning after his meeting with Esther,
stables found him less disposed to read than usual. Her
image obtruded itself upon the printed page, and at length
grew so importunate he came to the conclusion the only

(08:44):
way to lay it was to confront it with the girl. Herself.
Wanting some tobacco, he saw good reason for going into Orton,
esther had told him he could get tobacco and everything
else at her ants. He found the post office to
be one of the first houses in the widely spaced
village street. In front of the cottage was a small
garden ablaze with old fashioned flowers, and in a large

(09:07):
garden at one side were apple trees, raspberries and currant bushes,
and six thatched beehives on a bench. The bowed windows
of the little shop were partly screened by sun blinds. Nevertheless,
the lower panes still displayed a heterogeneous collection of goods lemons,
hanks of yarn, white linen buttons upon blue cards, sugar cones,

(09:29):
churchwarden pipes, and tobacco jars. A letter box opened its
narrow mouth low down in one wall, and over the
door swung the sign stamps and money order office in
black letters on white enameled iron. The interior of the
shop was cool and dark. A second glass door at
the back permitted Willoughby to see into a small sitting

(09:50):
room and out again through a low and square paned
window to the sunny landscape beyond Silhouetted against the light
were the heads of two women, the rough young of
yesterday's Esther, the lean outline and bugled cap of Ester's aunt.
It was the latter who, at the jingling of the
door bell, rose from her work and came forward to
serve the customer. But the girl, with much mute meaning

(10:13):
in her eyes and a finger laid upon her smiling mouth,
followed behind her. Aunt heard her footfall. What you want here, Esther,
she said, with thin disapproval, Get back to your sewing.
Esther gave the young man a signal seen only by him,
and slipped out into the side yard, where he found her.
When his purchases were made, she leaned over the private

(10:35):
hedge to intercept him as he passed Aunt's an offul
all might, she remarked apologetically. I believe she'd never let
me say a word to any one if she could
help it. So you got home all right last night?
Willoughby inquired, what did your aunt say to you? Oh?
She asked me where i'd been? I told her A
law or lies. Then, with a woman's intuition, perceiving that

(10:56):
this speech jarred, Esther, made haste to add, she's so
dreadful art on me. I durstn't teller i'd been with
a gentleman, or she'd never let me out alone again.
And at present I suppose you'll be found somewhere about
that same style every evening, said Willoughby, foolishly, for he
really did not much care whether he met her again
or not. Now he was actually in her company, he

(11:19):
was surprised at himself for having given her a whole
morning's thought. Yet the eagerness of her answer flattered him too.
To night, I can't come worse luck. It's Thursday, and
the shop's here. Close of a Thursday at five. I'll
have to keep aunt company, But to morrow I can
be there. To morrow you'll come, say esther, cried a
vexed voice, and the precise right minded Aunt emerged through

(11:41):
a row of raspberry bushes. Whatever are you thinking about
delaying the gentleman in this fashion? She was full of
rustic and official civility for the gentleman, but indignant with
her niece. I don't want none of your London manners
down here, Willoughby heard her say. She marched the girl off.
He himself was not sorry, to be real, least from
Esther's two friendly eyes, and he spent an agreeable evening

(12:04):
over a book, and this time managed to forget her completely,
though he remembered her first thing next morning, it was
to smile wisely and determine he would not meet her again. Yet,
by dinner time the day seemed long. Why, after all,
should he not meet her by tea time, prudence triumphed anew, no,
he would not go. Then he drank his tea hastily

(12:27):
and set off for the style. Esther was waiting for him.
Expectation had given an additional color to her cheeks, and
her red brown hair showed here and there a beautiful
glint of gold. He could not help admiring the vigorous
way in which it waved and twisted, for the little
curls which grew at the nape of her neck, tight
and close as those of a young lamb's fleece. Her

(12:49):
neck here was admirable too, in its smooth creaminess. And
when her eyes lighted up with such evident pleasure at
his coming, how avoid the conviction she was a good
and nice girl after all? He proposed they should go
down into the little copse on the right, where they
would be less disturbed by the occasional passer by. Here
seated on a feltree trunk, Willoughby began that bantering, silly,

(13:12):
meaningless form of conversation known among the classes as flirting.
He had but the wish to make himself agreeable and
to while away the time. Esther, however, misunderstood him. Willoughby's
hand lay palm downwards on his knee, and she, noticing
a ring which he wore on his little finger, took
hold of it. What a funny ring, she said, Let's

(13:33):
look to disembarrass himself of her touch. He pulled the
ring off and gave it her to examine. What's that
ugly dark green stone, she asked. It's called a sardonyx.
What's it for, she said, turning it about. It's a
cigret ring. To see a letter's with an there's a sore,
a king's head scratched on it, and some writin too,

(13:54):
Only I can't make it out. It isn't the head
of a king, although it wears a crown, Willoughby explained,
but the head and bust of a saracen against whom
my ancestor of many hundred years ago went to fight
in the holy land, and the words round it are
our motto virtue vonsett, which means virtue prevails. Willoughby may
have displayed some accession of dignity in giving this bit

(14:17):
of family history, for Esther fell into uncontrolled laughter, at
which he was much displeased, And when the girl made
as though she would put the ring on her own finger,
asking shall I keep it, he colored up with sudden annoyance.
It was only my fun, said Esther hastily, and gave
him the ring back. But his cordiality was gone. He

(14:37):
felt no inclination to renew the idle word pastime. Said
it was time to go, and, swinging his cane vexedly,
struck off the heads of the flowers and the weeds.
As he went. Esther walked by his side in complete silence,
a phenomenon of which he presently became conscious. He felt
rather ashamed of having shown temper. Well, here's your way home,

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said he, with a nefferdet friendliness. Goodbye. We've had a
nice evening anyhow, it was pleasant down there in the woods. Eh.
He was astonished to see her eyes soften with tears,
and to hear the real emotion in her voice. As
she answered, it was just even down there with you
until you turned so funny, like what had I done
to make you cross? Say? You forgive me? Do silly child,

(15:22):
said Willoughby, completely mollified. I am not the least angry.
There goodbye, and like a fool, he kissed her. He
anathematized his folly in the white light of next morning, and,
remembering the kiss he had given her, repented it very sincerely.
He had an uncomfortable suspicion she had not received it
in the same spirit in which it had been bestowed,

(15:44):
but attaching more serious meaning to it would build expectations
thereon which must be left unfulfilled. It was best, indeed,
not to meet her again, for he acknowledged to himself
that though he only half liked and even slightly feared her,
there was a attraction about her. Was it in her dark,
unflinching eyes, or into very red lips which might lead

(16:06):
him into greater folly? Still, Thus it came about that,
for two successive evenings esther waited for him in Vain,
and on the third evening he said to himself, with
a grudging relief, that by this time she had probably
transferred her affections to some one else. It was Saturday,
the second Saturday since he left town. He spent the
day about the farm, contemplated the pigs, inspected the feeding

(16:29):
of the stock, and assisted at the afternoon milking. Then
at evening, with a reveilled pipe, he went for a
long lean over the west gate while he traced fantastic
pictures and wove romances in the glories of the sunset clouds.
He watched the colors glow from gold to scarlet, changed
to crimson, sink at last to sad purple reefs and dials.

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When the sudden consciousness of someone being near him made
him turn round. There stood Esther, and her eyes were
full of eagerness and anger. Why have yer never been
to the style again? She asked him. You promised to
come faithful, and you never came. Why have you not
kept your promise? Why? Why? She persisted stamping her foot
because Willoughby remained silent. What could he say? Tell her

(17:13):
she had no business to follow him like this or
own what was? Unfortunately the truth? He was just a
little glad to see her. Perhaps you don't care for
me any more? She said, Well, why did you kiss me? Then?
Why indeed, thought Willoughby, marveling at his own idiocy. And
yet such is the inconsistency of man, not wholly without
the desire to kiss her again. And while he looked

(17:36):
at her, she suddenly flung herself down on the hedge
bank at his feet and burst into tears. She did
not cover up her face, but simply pressed one cheek
down upon the grass, while the water poured from her
eyes with astonishing abundance. Willoughby saw the dry earth turn
dark and moist as it drank the tears. In this,
his first experience of Estra's powers of weeping distressed him horribly.

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Never in his life before had he seen any one
weep like that. He should not have believed such a
thing possible. He was alarmed, too, lest she should be
noticed from the house. He opened the gate esther, he begged,
don't cry, come out here like a dear girl, and
let us talk. Sensibly, because she stumbled, unable to see
her way through wet eyes, he gave her his hand,

(18:22):
and they found themselves in a field of corn, walking
along the narrow grass path that skirted it in the
shadow of the hedge row. What is there to cry about?
Because you've not seen me for two days, he began.
Why esther, we are only strangers, after all, When we
have been at home a week or two, we shall
scarcely remember each other's names. Esther sobbed at intervals, but

(18:44):
her tears had ceased. It's fine for you to talk
of holm, she said to this, you've got something that
is ome. I s'pose, But me my olms like l
with nothing but quarrel and a cursin, and the father
beats us, whether sober or drunk. Yes, she repeated, shrewdly,
seeing a lively disgust on Willoughby's face. He beat me
all ill as I was just before I come away.

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I could show you the bruises on my arms still,
and now to go back there after no one knew
it'll be worse than ever. I can't endure it, and
I won't. I'll put an end to it on myself somehow,
I swear. But my poor esther, how can I help it?
What can I do? Said Willoughby. He was greatly moved,
full of wrath with her father. With all the world

(19:26):
which makes women suffer, he had suffered himself in the
hands of a woman, and severely but this, instead of
hardening his heart, had only rendered it the more supple.
And yet he had a vivid perception of the peril
in which he stood. An interior voice urged him to
break away, to seek safety in flight, even at the
cost of appearing cruel or ridiculous. So, coming to a

(19:49):
point in the field where an elm hole jutted out
across the path, he saw with relief he could now
withdraw his hand from the girl's, since he must walk
singly to skirt round it. Esther took a step in advance, stopped,
and suddenly turned to face him. She held out her
two hands, and her face was very near his own.
Don't you care for me in one little bet? She

(20:10):
asked wistfully, And surely sudden madness fell upon him, for
he kissed her again. He kissed her many times. He
took her in his arms, and pushed all thoughts of
the consequences far from him. But when an hour later
he and Esther stood by the last gate on the
road to Orton, some of these consequences were already calling
loudly to him. You know I have only a hundred

(20:32):
and thirty pounds a year, he told her, it's no
very brilliant prospect for you to marry me on that,
For he had actually offered her marriage. Although to the
mediocre man such a proceeding must appear incredible uncalled for,
but to Willoughby, overwhelmed with sadness and remorse, it seemed
the only atonement possible. Sudden exultation leapt at Esther's heart.

(20:56):
Oh I'm used to managing, she told him confidently, and
mentally resolved to buy herself so soon as she was
married a black feather boa, such as she had coveted
last winter. Willoughby spent the remaining days of his holiday
in thinking out and planning with Esther the details of
his return to London and her own, the secrecy to
be observed, the necessary legal steps to be taken, and

(21:19):
the quiet suburb in which they would set up housekeeping.
And so successfully did he carry out his arrangements that
within five weeks from the day on which he had
first met Esther's stables, he and she came out one
morning from a church in Highbury, husband and wife. It
was a mellow September day, The streets were filled with sunshine,
and Willoughby in reckless high spirits imagined, he saw a

(21:42):
reflection of his own gaiety on the indifferent faces of
the passers by. There being no one else to perform
the office, he congratulated himself very warmly, and esther's frequent
laughter filled in the pauses of the day. Three months later,
Willoughby was dining with a friend, and the hour hand
of the clock nearing ten. The host no longer resisted,

(22:02):
the guests, growing anxiety to be gone, He arose and
exchanged with him good wishes and good byes. Marriage is
evidently a most successful institution, said he, half jesting, half sincere,
you almost make me inclined to go and get married myself.
Confess now your thoughts have been at home the whole evening. Willoughby,

(22:22):
thus addressed, turned red to the roots of his hair,
but did not deny it. The other laughed, and very
commendable as should be, he continued, since you are scarcely
so to speak out of your honeymoon. With a social
smile on his lips, Willoughby calculated a moment before replying,
I have been married exactly three months and three days. Then,

(22:43):
after a few words respecting their next meeting, the two
shook hands and parted, the young host to finish the
evening with books and pipe, the young husband to set
out on a twenty minute's walk to his home. It
was a cold, clear December night, following a day of rain.
A touch of frost in the air had dried the pavements,
and Willoughby's footfall ringing upon the stones, re echoed down

(23:05):
the empty suburban street. Above his head was a dark,
remote sky, thickly powdered with stars, and as he turned westward,
Alfaret hung for a moment over the slender spire of
Saint John's Come La Point Siurini. But he was insensible
to the worlds about him. He was absorbed in his
own thoughts, and these, as his friend had surmised, were

(23:27):
entirely with his wife. For Esther's face was always before
his eyes, her voice was always in his ears. She
filled the universe for him, Yet only four months ago
he had never seen her, had never heard her name.
This was the curious part of it. Here, in December
he found himself the husband of a girl who was
completely dependent upon him, not only for food, clothes and lodging,

(23:49):
but for her present happiness, her whole future life, and
last July. He had been scarcely more than a boy himself,
with no greater care on his mind than the pleasant
difficulty of DearS deciding where he should spend his annual
three weeks holiday. But it is events, not months or years,
which age Willoughby, who was only twenty six, remembered his

(24:10):
youth as a sometime companion, irrevocably lost to him. Its vague,
delightful hopes were now crystallized into definite ties, and its
happy irresponsibilities displaced by a sense of care, inseparable perhaps
from the most fortunate of marriages. As he reached the
street in which he lodged, his pace involuntarily slackened. While

(24:32):
still some distance off, his eyes sought out and distinguished
the windows of the room in which Esther awaited him.
Through the broken slats of the Venetian blinds, he could
see the yellow gas light within the parlor beneath was
in darkness. His landlady had evidently gone to bed, there
being no light over the hall door either. In some apprehension,

(24:53):
he consulted his watch under the last street lamp he
passed to find comfort in assuring himself it was only
ten minutes after ten. He let himself in with his
latch key, hung up his hat and overcoat by the
sense of touch, and groping his way upstairs, opened the
door of the first floor sitting room. At the table
in the center of the room sat his wife, leaning

(25:14):
upon her elbows, her two hands thrust up into her
ruffled hair. Spread out before her was a crumpled yesterday's newspaper,
and so interested was she to all appearance in its contents,
that she neither spoke nor looked up as Willoughby entered
around her with the still uncleared tokens of her last
meal tea slops, bread crumbs, and an egg shell crushed

(25:36):
to fragments upon a plate, which was one of those
trifles that set Willoughby's teeth on edge. Whenever his wife
ate an egg, she persisted in turning the egg cup
upside down upon the tablecloth and pounding the shell to
pieces in her plate with her spoon. The room was
repulsive in its disorder. The one lighted burner of the
gasolier turned too high hissed up into a long tongue

(25:59):
of flame. The fire smoked feebly under a newly administered
shovelful of slack and the heap of ashes and cinders
littered the grate. A pair of walking boots caked in
dry mud, lay on the hearth rug, just where they
had been thrown off on the mantel piece. Amidst a
dozen other articles which had no business, There was a
bedroom candlestick, and every single article of furniture stood crookedly

(26:23):
out of its place. Willoughby took in the whole intolerable picture,
and yet spoke with kindliness. Well esther, I'm not so late,
after all. I hope you did not find the time
dull by yourself. Then he explained the reason of his absence.
He had met a friend he had not seen for
a couple of years, who had insisted on taking him

(26:43):
home to dine. His wife gave no sign of having
heard him. She kept her eyes riveted on the page
before her. You received my wire, of course, Willoughby went
on and did not wait. Now she crushed the newspaper
up with a passionate movement and threw it from her.
She raised her head, showing cheeks blazing with anger and dark, sullen,

(27:04):
unflinching eyes. I did white, then, she cried, I white
it till ne'er eight before I got your old telegraph.
I suppose that's what you call a manners of a gentleman,
to keep your wife mute up here while you go
gallivant and off with your fine friends. Whenever Esther was angry,
which was often, she taunted Willoughby with being a gentleman,
although this was the precise point about him, which at

(27:27):
other times found most favor in her eyes. But to
night she was envenomed by the idea he had been
enjoying himself without her, stung by fear lest he should
have been in company with some other woman. Willoughby, hearing
the taunt, resigned himself to the inevitable. Nothing that he
could do might now avert the breaking storm. All his

(27:47):
words would only be twisted into fresh griefs. But sad
experience had taught him that to take refuge in silence
was more fatal. Still, when Esther was in such a
mood as this, it was best to supply the fire
with fuel, that through the very violence of the conflagration,
it might the sooner burn itself out. So he said
what soothing things he could, and Esther caught them up,

(28:10):
disfigured them, and flung them back at him with scorn.
She reproached him with no longer caring for her. She
vituperated the conduct of his family in never taking the
smallest notice of her marriage. And she detailed the insolence
of the landlady who had told her that morning she
pitied poor mister Willoughby and had refused to go out
and buy herrings for Esther's early dinner. Every affront, our, grievance,

(28:33):
real or imaginary, since the day she and Willoughby had
first met. She poured forth with af fluency due to
frequent repetition, for with the exception of to day's added injuries,
Willoughby had heard the whole litany many times before. While
she raged, and he looked at her, he remembered he
at once thought her pretty. He had seen beauty in

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her rough brown hair, her strong coloring, her full red mouth.
He fell into musing Homan may lack beauty, he told himself,
and yet beloved Meanwhile, Esther reached white heats of passion,
and the strain could no longer be sustained. She broke
into sobs and began to shed tears with a facility
peculiar to her. In a moment her face was all

(29:16):
wet with the big drops, which rolled on her cheeks
faster and faster, and fell with audible splashes on to
the table under her lap, on to the floor. To
this tearful abundance, formerly a surprising spectacle, Willoughby was now acclimatized,
but the remnant of chivalrous feeling not yet extinguished in
his bosom forbade him to sit stolidly by while a

(29:38):
woman wept, without seeking to console her. As on previous occasions,
his peace overtures were eventually accepted. Esther's tears gradually ceased
to flow, she began to exhibit a sort of compunction
she wished to be forgiven, and with a kiss of reconciliation,
passed into a face of demonstrative affection, perhaps more trying

(29:59):
to Willoughby's pa patience than all that had preceded it.
You don't love me, she questioned. I'm sure you don't
love me, she reiterated, and he asseverated that he loved
her until he despised himself, then at last only half satisfied,
but wearied out with vexation, possibly too with a movement

(30:19):
of pity at the sight of his haggard face, she
consented to leave him. Only what was he going to do,
she asked, suspiciously, write those rubbishing stories of his Well,
he must promise not to stay up more than half
an hour at the latest, only until he had smoked
one pipe. Willoughby promised, as he would have promised anything

(30:39):
on earth, to secure to himself a half hour's piece
in solitude. Esther groped for her slippers, which were kicked
off under the table, scratched four or five matches along
the box, and threw them away before she succeeded in
lighting her candle, set it down again to contemplate her
tear swollen reflection in the chimney glass, and burst out laughing,

(31:00):
Well a fright, I do look to be sure, she
remarked complacently, and again thrust her two hands up through
her disordered curls, then holding the candle at such an
angle that the grease ran over onto the carpet. She
gave Willoughby another vehement kiss and trailed out of the
room with an ineffectual attempt to close the door behind her.
Willoughby got up to shut it himself and wondered why

(31:22):
it was that Esther never did any one mortal thing
efficiently or well. Good God, how irritable he felt it
was impossible to write. He must find an outlook for
his impatience, rend or mend something. He began to straighten
the room, but a wave of disgust came over him
before the task was fairly commenced. What was the use tomorrow?

(31:43):
All would be bad as before? What was the use
of doing anything? He sat down by the table and
leaned his head upon his hands. The past came back
to him in pictures. His boyhoods passed. First of all,
he saw again the old home, every inch of which
was formidilure to him as his own name. He reconstructed
in his thought all the old, well known furniture, and

(32:06):
replaced it precisely as it had stood long ago. He
passed again a childish finger over the rough surface of
the faded Eutrek velvet chairs, and smelt again the strong
fragrance of the white lilac tree blowing in through the
open parlor window. He savored anew, the pleasant mental atmosphere
produced by the dainty neatness of cultured women, the companionship

(32:27):
of a few good pictures of a few good books.
Yet this home had been broken up years ago. The
dear familiar things had been scattered far and wide, never
to find themselves under the same roof again. And from
those near relatives who still remained to him, he lived
now hopelessly estranged. Then came the past of his first
love dream, when he worshiped at the feet of Norah Beresford,

(32:51):
and with the whole heartedness of the true fanatic clothed
his idol with every imaginable attribute of virtue and tenderness.
So this day there remained a secret shrine in his heart,
wherein the lady of his young ideal was still enthroned.
Although it was long since he had come to perceive
she had nothing whatever in common with the Nora of reality.

(33:12):
For the real Nora he had no longer any sentiment.
She had passed altogether out of his life and thoughts.
And yet so permanent is all influence, whether good or evil,
that the effect she wrought upon his character remained. He
recognized to night that her treatment of him in the
past did not count for nothing among the various factors
which had determined his fate. Now the past of only

(33:34):
last year returned and Strangely enough, this seemed farther removed
from him than all the rest. He had been particularly strong,
well and happy this time last year, Nora was dismissed
from his mind, and he had thrown all his energies
into his work. His tastes were sane and simple, and
his dingy furnished rooms had become, through habit, very pleasant

(33:56):
to him. In being his own, they were invested with
a greater charm than another man's castle. Here he had
smoked and studied. Here he had made many a glorious
voyage into the land of books. Many a home coming, too,
rose up before him out of the dark, ungenial streets,
to a clear, blazing fire, a neatly laid cloth, an

(34:17):
evening of ideal enjoyment. Many a summer twilight when he
mused at the open window, plunging his gaze deep into
the recesses of his neighbor's lime tree, where the unseen
sparrows chattered with such unflagging gayety. He had always been
given to much day dreaming, and it was in the
silence of his rooms of an evening that he turned
his phantasmal adventures into stories for the magazines. Here had

(34:40):
come to him many an editorial refusal. But here too
he had received the news of his first unexpected success.
All his happiest memories were embalmed in those shabby, badly
furnished rooms. Now all was changed. Now might there be
no longer any soft indulgence of the hour's mood. His
rooms and everything he owned belonged now to Esther too.

(35:03):
She had objected to most of his photographs and had
removed them. She hated books, and were he ever so
ill advised as to open one in her presence, she
immediately began to talk. No matter how silent or how
sullen her previous mood had been. If he read aloud
to her, she either yawned despairingly or was tickled into
laughter where there was no reasonable cause. At first, Willoughby

(35:26):
had tried to educate her, and had gone hopefully to
the task. It is so natural to think you may
make what you will of the woman who loves you.
But Esther had no wish to improve. She evinced all
the self satisfaction of an illiterate mind. To her husband's
gentle admonitions, she replied with brevity that she thought her
way quite as good as his. Or if he didn't

(35:47):
approve of her pronunciation, he might do the other thing.
She was too old to go to school again, he
gave up the attempt, and, with humiliation at his previous fatuity,
perceived that it was folly to expect that a few
weeks of his companionship could alter or pull up the
impressions of years, or rather of generations. Yet here he
paused to admit a curious thing. It was not only

(36:10):
Esther's bad habits which vexed him, but habits quite unblameworthy
in themselves, which he never would have noticed in another,
irritated him in her. He disliked her manner of standing,
of walking, of sitting in a chair, of folding her
hands like a lover. He was conscious of her proximity
without seeing her like a lover too. His eyes followed

(36:31):
her every movement, his ear noted every change in her voice.
But then, instead of being charmed by everything, as the
lover is, everything jarred upon him. What was the meaning
of this? To night, the anomaly pressed upon him, he
reviewed his position. Here was he quite a young man,
just twenty six years of age, married to Esther, and

(36:53):
bound to live with her so long as life should
last twenty forty, perhaps fifty years more, every day of
those years to be spent in her society. He and
she face to face, soul to soul, They two alone,
amid all the whirling, busy, indifferent world, so near together
in semblance, in truth, so far apart as regards all

(37:15):
that makes life. Dear Willoughby groaned from the woman he
did not love, whom he had never loved. He might
not again go free, so much he recognized the feeling
he had once entertained for Esther strange compound of mistaken
chivalry and flattered vanity was long since extinct. But what

(37:35):
then was the sentiment with which she inspired him? For
he was not indifferent to her. No, Never for one
instant could he persuade himself he was indifferent. Never for
one instant could he banish her from his thoughts. His
mind's eye followed her during his hours of absence, as
pertinaciously as his bodily eye dwelt upon her actual presence.

(37:56):
She was the principal object of the universe to him,
the center around which his wheel of life revolved with
an appalling fidelity. What did it mean? What could it mean?
He asked? Himself with anguish, and the sweat broke out
upon his forehead, and his hands grew cold, For on
a sudden the truth lay there, like a written word
upon the tablecloth before him. This woman, whom he had

(38:19):
taken to himself for better for worse, inspired him with
a passion intense, indeed all masterful soul, subduing as love itself.
But when he understood the terror of his hatred, he
laid his head upon his arms and wept, not facile
tears like Ester's, but tears wrung out from his agonizing,

(38:39):
unavailing regret. End of section two. Recording by Marina