Chapter 6 - Page 2

surely the laugh
of the morning of life must go. I have never known the devil
retain his grip on that.

But Mary was still waiting. She was no longer beautiful; shame
had possession of her face, she was an ugly woman. Then the
entanglement was her husband's, and I cursed him for it. But
without conviction, for, after all, what did I know of women? I
have some distant memories of them, some vain inventions. But of
men--I have known one man indifferent well for over forty years,
have exulted in him (odd to think of it), shuddered at him,
wearied of him, been willing (God forgive me) to jog along with
him tolerantly long after I have found him out; I know something
of men, and, on my soul, boy, I believe I am wronging you.

Then Mary is here for some innocent purpose, to do a good deed
that were better undone, as it so scares her. Turn back, you
foolish, soft heart, and I shall say no more about it. Obstinate
one, you saw the look on your husband's face as he left you. It
is the studio light by which he paints and still sees to hope,
despite all the disappointments of his not ignoble ambitions.
That light is the dower you brought him, and he is a wealthy man
if it does not flicker.

So anxious to be gone, and yet she would not go. Several times
she made little darts, as if at last resolved to escape from that
detestable street, and faltered and returned like a bird to the
weasel. Again she looked at her watch and kissed it.

Oh, Mary, take flight. What madness is this? Woman, be gone.

Suddenly she was gone. With one mighty effort and a last
terrified look round, she popped into a pawnshop.

Long before she emerged I understood it all, I think even as the
door rang and closed on her; why the timid soul had sought a
street where she was unknown, why she crept so many times past
that abhorred shop before desperately venturing in, why she
looked so often at the watch she might never see again. So
desperately cumbered was Mary to keep her little house over her
head, and yet the brave heart was retaining a smiling face for
her husband, who must not even know where her little treasures
were going.

It must seem monstrously cruel of me, but I was now quite light-
hearted again. Even when Mary fled from the shop where she had
left her watch, and I had peace of mind to note how thin and worn
she had become, as if her baby was grown too big for her slight
arms, even then I was light-hearted. Without attempting to
follow her, I sauntered homeward humming a snatch of song with a
great deal of fal-de-lal-de-riddle-o in it, for I can never
remember words. I saw her enter another shop, baby linen shop or
some nonsense of that sort, so it was plain for what she had