The dance came to an end, and as it was getting late Zachariah rose.
“Stop,” said Caillaud. “It is agreed that if they persist on this march, one or the other of us goes too. The Major will be sure to go. Which shall it be, you or me?”
“We will draw lots.”
“Good.” And Zachariah departed, Pauline laughingly making him one of her costume curtseys. He was very awkward. He never knew how to conduct himself becomingly, or with even good manners, on commonplace occasions. When he was excited in argument he was completely equal to the best company, and he would have held his own on level terms at a Duke’s dinner-party, provided only the conversation were interesting. But when he was not intellectually excited he was lubberly. He did not know what response to make to Pauline’s graceful adieu, and retreated sheepishly. When he got home he found his wife waiting for him. The supper was cleared away, and, as usual, she was reading, or pretending to be reading, the Bible.
“You have had supper, of course?” There was a peculiar tone in the “of course,” as if she meant to imply not merely that it was late, but that he had preferred to have it with somebody else.
“I do not want any.”
“Then we had better have prayers.”
XII
One Body and One Spirit
Next week Zachariah found it necessary to consult with Caillaud again. The Major was to be there. The intended meeting was announced to Mrs. Coleman by her husband at breakfast on the day before, and he informed her that he should probably be late, and that no supper need be kept for him.
“Why do you never meet here, Zachariah? Why must it always be at Caillaud’s?”
“Did you not say that they should not come to this house again?”
“Yes; but I meant I did not want to see them as friends. On business there is no reason why Caillaud should not come.”
“I cannot draw the line.”
“Zachariah, do you mean to call unconverted infidels your friends?”
They were his friends—he felt they were—and they were dear to him; but he was hardly able as yet to confess it, even to himself.
“It will not do,” he said. “Besides, Caillaud will be sure to bring his daughter.”
“She will not be so bold as to come if she is not asked. Do I go with you anywhere except when I am asked?”
“She has always been used to go out with her father wherever he goes. She knows all his affairs, and is very useful to him.”
“So it seems. She must be very useful. Well, if it must be so, and it is on business, invite her too.”
“I think still it will be better at Caillaud’s; there more room. There would be five of us.”
“How do you make five?”
“There is the Major. And why, by the way, do you object to Caillaud and Pauline more than the Major? He is not converted.”
“There is plenty of room here. I didn’t say I didn’t object to the Major. Besides, there is a difference between French infidels and English people, even if they are not church members. But I see how it is. You want to go there, and you will go. I am of no use to you. You care nothing for me. You can talk to such dreadful creatures as Caillaud and that woman who lives with him, and you never talk to me. Oh, I wish Mr. Bradshaw were here, or I were back again at home! What would Mr. Bradshaw say?”
Mrs. Coleman covered her face in her hands. Zachariah felt no pity. His anger was roused. He was able to say hard things at times, and there was even a touch of brutality in him.
“Whose fault is it that I do not talk to you? When did I ever get any help from you? What do you understand about what concerns me, and when have you ever tried to understand anything? Your home is no home to me. My life is blasted, and it might have been different. The meeting shall not be here, and I will do as I please.”
He went out of the room in a rage, and downstairs into the street, going straight to his work. It is a terrible moment when the first bitter quarrel takes place, and when hatred, even if it be hatred for the moment only first finds expression. That moment can never be recalled! Is it ever really forgotten, or really forgiven? Some of us can call to mind a word, just one word, spoken, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty years ago, which rings in our ears even today as distinctly as when it was uttered, and forces the blood into the head as it did then. When Zachariah returned that night he and his wife spoke to each other as if nothing had happened, but they spoke only about indifferent things. The next day Mrs. Coleman wondered whether, after all, he would repent; but the evening came and she waited and waited in vain. The poor woman for hours and hours had thought one thought and one thought only, until at last she could bear it no longer. At about eight o’clock she rose, put on her cloak, and went out
