And she had found that it could be induced in him by suggestion.  She had only to say to him, “Steven, you’re thoroughly worn out,” and he was thoroughly worn out.  She had more pleasure, because she had more confidence, in this lethargic, middle-aged Rowcliffe than in Rowcliffe young and energetic.  His youth had attracted him to Gwenda and his energy had driven him out of doors.  And Mary had set herself, secretly, insidiously, to destroy them.

It had taken her seven years.

For the first five years it had been hard work for Mary.  It had meant, for her body, an ignominious waiting and watching for the moment when its appeal would be irresistible, for her soul a complete subservience to her husband’s moods, and for her mind perpetual attention to his comfort, a thousand cares that had seemed to go unnoticed.  But in the sixth year they had begun to tell.  Once Rowcliffe had made up his mind that Gwenda couldn’t be anything to him he had let go and through sheer exhaustion had fallen more and more into his wife’s hands, and for the last two years her labor had been easy and its end sure.

She had him, bound to her bed and to her fireside.

He said and thought that he was happy.  He meant that he was extremely comfortable.

* * * * *

“Is your head very bad, Steven?”

He shook his head.  It wasn’t very bad, but he was worried.  He was worried about himself.

From time to time his old self rose against this new self that was the slave of comfort.  It made desperate efforts to shake off the strangling lethargy.  When he went about saying that he was getting rusty, that he ought never to have left Leeds, and that it would do him all the good in the world to go back there, he was saying what he knew to be the truth.  The life he was leading was playing the devil with his nerves and brain.  His brain had nothing to do.  Hard work might not be the cure for every kind of nervous trouble, but it was the one cure for the kind that he had got.

He ought to have gone away seven years ago.  It was Gwenda’s fault that he hadn’t gone.  He felt a dull anger against her as against a woman who had wrecked his chance.

He had a chance of going now if he cared to take it.

He had had a letter that morning from Dr. Harker asking if he had meant what he had said a year ago, and if he’d care to exchange his Rathdale practice for his old practice in Leeds.  Harker’s wife was threatened with lung trouble, and they would have to live in the country somewhere, and Harker himself wouldn’t be sorry for the exchange.  His present practice was worth twice what it had been ten years ago and it was growing.  There were all sorts of interesting things to be done in Leeds by a man of Rowcliffe’s keenness and energy.

“Do you know, Steven, you’re getting quite stout?”

“I do know,” he said almost with bitterness.