CHAPTER XX--NO. 5 CHEYNE ROW

Page 118 of 135 CHAPTER XX--NO. 5 CHEYNE ROW - A Duet

Frank had brought home the Life of Carlyle, and Maude had been dipping into it in the few spare half-hours which the many duties of a young housekeeper left her. At first it struck her as dry, but from the moment that she understood that this was, among other things, an account of the inner life of a husband and a wife, she became keenly interested, and a passionate and unreasonable partisan. For Frederick and Cromwell and the other great issues her feelings were tolerant but lukewarm. But the great sex-questions of 'How did he treat her?' and of 'How did she stand it?' filled her with that eternal and personal interest with which they affect every woman. Her gentle nature seldom disliked any one, but certainly amongst those whom she liked least, the gaunt figure of the Chelsea sage began to bulk largely. One night, as Frank sat reading in front of the fire, he suddenly found his wife on her knees upon the rug, and a pair of beseeching eyes upon his face.

'Frank, dear, I want you to make me a promise.'

'Well, what is it?'

'Will you grant it?'

'How can I tell you when I have not heard it?'

'How horrid you are, Frank! A year ago you would have promised first and asked afterwards.'

'But I am a shrewd old married man now. Well, let me hear it.'

'I want you to promise me that you will never be a Carlyle.'

'No, no, never.'

'Really?'

'Really and truly.'

'You swear it?'

'Yes, I do.'

'O Frank, you can't think what a relief that is to me. That dear, good, helpful, little lady--it really made me cry this morning when I thought how she had been used.'

'How, then?'

'I have been reading that green-covered book of yours, and he seemed so cold and so sarcastic and so unsympathetic. He never seemed to appreciate all that she did for him. He had no thought for her. He lived in his books and never in her--such a harsh, cruel man!'

Frank went upstairs, and returned with a volume in his hand.

'When you have finished the 'Life,' you must read this, dear.'

'What is it?'

'It is her letters. They were arranged for publication after her death, while her husband was still alive. You know that--'

'Please take it for granted, darling, that I know nothing. It is so jolly to have some one before whom it is not necessary to keep up appearances. Now, begin at the beginning and go ahead.' She pillowed her head luxuriously against his knees.

'There's nothing to tell--or very little. As you say, they had their troubles in life. The lady could take particularly good care of herself, I believe. She had a tongue like a lancet when she chose to use it. He, poor chap, was all liver and nerves, porridge-poisoned in his youth. No children to take the angles off them. Half a dozen little buffer states would have kept them at peace. However, to hark back to what I was about to say, he outlived her by fifteen years or so. During that time he collected these letters, and he has annotated them. You can read those notes here, and the man who wrote those notes loved his wife and cherished her memory, if ever a man did upon earth.'

It is more shameful to distrust our friends than to be deceived by them.
Confucio