Hanley regarded this change in his wife’s attitude toward life with a sort of grim humor; otherwise with indifference. He had never either asked or expected anyone else to practice his own stern code of existence, least of all Marie, who had been spoiled.
The strict censorship which he maintained over his own tongue and actions was not extended to others; he simply ignored them. He loved Marie with an intensity which he kept locked in his own breast; he asked of her only that she be a faithful wife, and annoyed her with no eager demonstrations of his affection or curious inquisition of her conduct.
Marie, who was fast acquiring a philosophy of her own, had no inkling of the fire and passion that was hidden by this outward reserve. Consequently, when she returned one evening from a visit to her mother and whispered in her husband’s ear the sweetest secret a wife may have, she was surprised at the fierce tenderness of his embraces and caresses.
Hanley recovered himself shortly and sat down to discuss the coming event with the seriousness it deserved. Marie answered his businesslike questions as well as possible, and when he was finished crossed over to his chair and put her arms round his neck.
“Dear,” she whispered, “don’t you hope it will be a little girl?”
Her eyes were moist with tears and her voice trembled with an anticipative tenderness.
Hanley rose to his feet.
“Why, certainly not,” he answered; “it must be a boy.”
And he passed out of the room and upstairs to his own chamber.
Marie sat down on the chair he had left and wept for the first time since her wedding. Afterward she was surprised at her own weakness. Why, she thought, should she expect Thomas Hanley to be otherwise than brutal? Since he had no feeling, she should not be surprised that he showed none.
Another man might at least have pretended to sympathize with her desire; but not Thomas Hanley, who had never lied even to himself. She remembered that her mother had warned her not to expect any tenderness from her husband, and she reflected somewhat bitterly that he was probably even now reproaching himself for the transient emotion he had exhibited in the first surprise at her announcement.
The months passed rapidly. Autumn disappeared, its bright reds and sober browns giving way regretfully to bare branches and dreary nakedness; the cold silences of winter came with the melancholy of their long nights and the false brilliance of their days, and in their turn were superseded by the sharp winds and muddy thaws of March; and then the world once more awoke to the glad call of spring.
How sweet the air! How green the grass! With what joyous notes did the birds salute the return of life, and how the little twigs with their fresh opening buds trembled with innocent delight!
Marie heard and saw this ever-recurring call of nature, and found an answering voice within her. In the first few months of her marriage, repelled by Hanley’s coldness and tired of the idle amusements she had previously enjoyed, she had sometimes wondered what she had been born for. Now she knew.
As she sat by an open window, embroidering a tiny little dress that certainly was not intended for herself, she closed her eyes dreamily to hide from the world outside the wave of exquisite emotion that swept over her.
Marie, like the spoiled child that she was, was attempting to dictate to nature. These little garments spread about in delightful confusion were every one trimmed in blue. Blue ribbon was just now at a premium in Burrton; Marie was extravagant. She had even gone so far as to embroider a name on the little under slips that were safely tucked away in the bureau drawer. The name was Dorothy.
Hanley — I had almost said poor Hanley — was experiencing some difficulty in maintaining his stern indifference. He was, indeed, inclined to give up the whole thing as a bad job. When he came home of an evening to find Marie busily engaged on her endless task of love, when he saw the look of inexpressible tenderness with which she regarded every little indication of his cognizance of the expected arrival, he longed to take her in his arms and keep her there forever.
But the habits of a lifetime are not to be lightly shaken off, especially when they are fortified by all the strength of a stubborn will. Hanley forced himself to be satisfied with surrounding his wife with all possible comfort and care; and, indeed, believed he was doing well. He had ever found his own mind thoroughly capable of supporting itself, and could not realize the existence of a soul that required to be fed from without.
He was more or less irritated at Marie’s insistence on what he considered a childish whim.
Though he avoided any further discussion of the subject, he could not understand how she could fail to realize the necessity that there should be a son and heir to perpetuate his name and carry on his business. Many times, on having her own preference intimated before him by some slight incident, he held his tongue with an effort.
The event which they both awaited with anxiety — Marie with a frank and tender eagerness, Hanley with a seeming coldness — came unexpectedly and almost without warning. It was an evening in June. Hanley, after an unusually hard day’s work, had retired early and, as was his custom, had fallen asleep instantly. Awakened by the maid, he heard voices murmuring outside his door.
“What is it?” he asked, still half asleep.
“Mrs. Hanley wants you,” answered the maid.
Hanley sat up. “Is it—” he asked.
“Yes.”
The maid hurried out of the room, and Hanley dressed himself as quickly as possible and followed her. In the hall he found the cook and the laundress, whispering excitedly in a corner. All the rooms were lighted up. The door leading to Marie’s room was open.
“What are you doing up here?” Hanley demanded. “Where’s Simmons?”
They started at the sound of his voice.
“He’s gone after the doctor and Mrs. Barber,” the cook said. “We...we... can stay out here in the hall?”
Marie’s voice sounded from her room, faint and sweet.
“Of course you may stay,” she called. “Come here, Maggie.”
The cook’s homely face broke into a smile, and her eyes filled with tears. Sometimes even Maggies are wonderful.
“Can I?” she appealed to Hanley.
Without answering, Hanley passed through the hall and down the stairs. Hearing a noise in the kitchen, he went out to find the maid standing on a chair searching among the bottles on the top shelf of the cupboard.
“Why didn’t you call me sooner?” Hanley demanded.
The maid continued her search without looking at him.
“Because we were busy,” she answered.
Hanley watched her for a minute or two, then walked through the dining room out into the front hall. Why he did not go to Marie he could not possibly have told. Perhaps because of a fear of the tumultuous emotion he felt struggling within him; perhaps because she had not asked for him. Thomas Hanley found himself in the strange position of jealousy toward the cook.
Turning to go upstairs, his eye lighted on the telephone on its stand in the corner. He took up the receiver and called the number of Dr. Perkins’s residence.
Dr. Perkins, he was told, had already left and could be expected to arrive any minute. Then he called up the Barbers. Mrs. Barber was dressing, and would be over shortly. Hanley hung up the receiver and proceeded upstairs to his own room. As he passed over to a chair by the window and sat down he heard the outer door open below and the doctor’s voice sounded from the hall.
The minutes passed slowly. Through the wall Hanley could hear the voices of the doctor and the maid in Marie’s room. Later, that of Mrs. Barber was joined to them. It seemed that they would never get through talking.
“Why don’t they do something?” Hanley growled.