XVIII

Do you suppose that Henderson had never spoken impatiently and sharply to his wife before, that Margaret had never resented it and replied with spirit, and been hurt and grieved, and that there had never been reconciliations?  In writing any biography there are some things that are taken for granted with an intelligent public.  Are men always gentle and considerate, and women always even-tempered and consistent, simply by virtue of a few words said to the priest?

But this was a more serious affair.  Margaret waited in a tumult of emotion.  She felt that she would die if she did not see him soon, and she dreaded his coming.  A horrible suspicion had entered her mind that respect for her husband, confidence in him, might be lowered, and a more horrible doubt that she might lose his love.  That she could not bear.  And was Henderson unconscious of all this?  I dare say that in the perplexing excitement of the day he did recall for a moment with a keen thrust of regret the scene of the morning-his wife standing there flushed, wounded, indignant.  “I might have turned back, and taken her in my arms, and told her it was all right,” he thought.  He wished he had done so.  But what nonsense it was to think that she could be seriously troubled!  Besides, he couldn’t have women interfering with him every moment.

How inconsiderate men are!  They drop a word or a phrase—­they do not know how cruel it is—­or give a look—­they do not know how cold it is—­and are gone without a second thought about it; but it sinks into the woman’s heart and rankles there.  For the instant it is like a mortal blow, it hurts so, and in the brooding spirit it is exaggerated into a hopeless disaster.  The wound will heal with a kind word, with kisses.  Yes, but never, never without a little scar.  But woe to the woman’s love when she becomes insensible to these little stabs!

Henderson hurried home, then, more eagerly than usual, with reparation in his heart, but still with no conception of the seriousness of the breach.  Margaret heard the key in the door, heard his hasty step in the hall, heard him call, as he always did on entering, “Margaret! where is Margaret?” and she, sitting there in the deep window looking on the square, longed to run to him, as usual also, and be lifted up in his strong arms; but she could not stir.  Only when he found her did she rise up with a wistful look and a faint smile.  “Have you had a good day, child?” And he kissed her.  But her kiss was on her lips only, for her heart was heavy.

“Dinner will be served as soon as you dress,” she said.  What a greeting was this!  Who says that a woman cannot be as cruel as a man?  The dinner was not very cheerful, though Margaret did her best not to appear constrained, and Henderson rattled on about the events of the day.  It had been a deuce of a day, but it was coming right; he felt sure that the upper court would dissolve the