Part 14 (1/2)

”Of course you may,” said her father, and Eva ran out quickly, just as her mother looked up to say, ”What is it?”

”I have sent Eva to talk to those unhappy creatures,” said Mr. Whitaker.

”We must try and cheer them a little. It is nothing less than a duty.

Poor souls!” he repeated, ”I have never seen anything so dismal.”

”I think we fulfil our duty in providing them with shelter and food,”

said Mrs. Whitaker.

”You think nothing of the kind, Theresa,” said Mr. Whitaker.

”I do,” a.s.serted his wife. ”And as for Eva, she is already inclined to be exaggeratedly sentimental in regard to these people. She is constantly running after them with flowers and cups of tea.”

”Nice child,” said her father, with a little tightening in his throat.

”She is not a child, Anselm. She is nineteen. And I do not wish her to have anything to do with those women.”

”Theresa?” said her husband, in a high questioning voice. ”Theresa. Come here.”

Mrs. Whitaker did not move. ”Come here,” he repeated in the threatening and terrible tone that he sometimes used to the children and to his old retriever Raven--a tone which frightened neither child nor beast. ”Come here.”

Mrs. Whitaker approached. ”Sit down,” he said, indicating a footstool in front of him; and Mrs. Whitaker obeyed. ”Now, wife,” he said, ”are you growing hard and sour in your old age? Are you?”

”Yes,” said Mrs. Whitaker. ”I am.”

”Ah,” said Mr. Whitaker, ”that's right. I knew you weren't.” And he laughed, and patted her cheek.

This was not the answer Mrs. Whitaker was prepared for and she had nothing ready to say. So the wily Mr. Whitaker went on, ”I have noticed lately in you certain a.s.sumed asperities, a certain simulated acrimony.... Now, Theresa, tell me; what does this make-believe bad temper mean?”

Mrs. Whitaker felt that she could weep with rage. What is the good of having a bad temper when it is not believed in? Of what use is it to be sore and sour, to feel bitter and hard, in the face of smiling incredulity?

”With other people, my dear,” continued Mr. Whitaker, ”you may pretend that you are disagreeable and irascible, but not with me. I know better.”

This simple strategy had proved perfectly successful for twenty years and it answered today, as it always did.

”I _am_ disagreeable, I _am_ irascible, I _am_ bitter, and hard, and cross,” said Mrs. Whitaker, whereupon Mr. Whitaker closed his eyes, smiled and shook his head.

”Don't keep on shaking your head like a Chinese toy,” she added.

”Anselm, you really are the stupidest man I have ever seen.” And then she laughed. ”It is dreadful,” she added, putting aside the hand he had laid on her shoulder, ”not to be believed when one is cross, not to be feared when one is angry. It makes one feel so helpless.”

”You may be helpless,” he said; ”womanly women mostly are. But you are never cross and you are never angry. So don't pretend to be.”

Now Mrs. Whitaker was tall and large and square; she was strong-minded and strong-featured; she was what you would call a ”capable woman”--and none but her own inmost soul knew the melting joy that overcame her at being told that she was helpless. She raised her hand to the hand that lay on her shoulder again, and patted it. She bent her head sideways and laid her cheek upon it.

”Now, what's the trouble?” said her husband.

”The trouble ... I can hardly express it,” she spoke hesitantly, ”either to myself or to you. Anselm!” she turned her eyes to him suddenly, the eyes full of blueness and temper and courage he had fallen in love with in Dublin long ago. ”I hate those three miserable women,” she said. ”I hate them.”