But perhaps, because he was essentially simple, he
would have fitted in well enough if he had been less ready to voice
his grievances and ruffle the calm which she so carefully preserved,
which he called coldness and for which he reproached her often.
'I have no peace,' he grumbled.
'You would get it if you would accept things as they are. You have to,
in the end, so why not now?'
She longed to give peace to him, but her tenderness was sane and she
found a strange pleasure in the pain of knowing him to be irritable
and childish. It made of her love a better thing, without the hope of
any reward but the continuance of service.
'It's easier for you,' he said, and she answered, 'Is it?' in the way
that angered him and yet held him, and she thought, without
bitterness, that he had never suffered anything without physical or
mental tears. 'Yes, you have peace at home, but I go back to misery.'
'It's her misery.'
'That doesn't make it any better,' he retorted justly.
'I know.' She touched his sleeve and, feeling his arm stiffen, removed
her hand.
'And I feel a brute because I can't care enough. If it were you now--'
Almost imperceptibly Rose shook her head. She had no illusions, but
she said, 'Then why not pretend it's me. Tell her all you do. Ask her
advice--you needn't take it.'
'And it's all a lie,' he growled.
She said serenely, 'It has to be, but there are good lies.'
She wished, with an intensity she rarely allowed herself, that he
would be quiet and controlled.
Pages:
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81