And yet perhaps, although Mr. Marble did not appreciate it, this new complication was for the time at least a blessing in disguise. It took Mr. Marble’s mind off the main point of his troubles, and that was more than anything else had done during the last year. The situation reacted upon him in such a way that for twenty-four hours Mr. Marble hardly drank any whisky at all.
But it was one thing to decide to make oneself agreeable to one’s wife, and quite another to carry it out. Mr. Marble felt positively embarrassed as he eyed his wife and tried to brace himself for action. He had lived with her in the closest proximity and yet in the harshest isolation for a year now; it would be a difficult matter to break the ice and start afresh. Besides, there lay between them the shadow of a terrible secret. That might serve to bind them closer together later on, but at present it was an obstacle almost insurmountable. Not all that day, not that night, not the next day did Mr. Marble make much progress.
He made no progress in his own estimation, that is to say. Thirty-six hours after deciding upon this course of action Mr. Marble still felt almost shy and almost embarrassed in his wife’s presence. But Mrs. Marble had noticed something. First and foremost, of course, she noticed that he was not drunk. That was obvious. This temperance was partly deliberate and partly reflex, dependent on Mr. Marble’s knowledge that it would be as well to keep his head clear, and to appear as attractive in his wife’s eyes as possible. But partly it was due to the fact that, with this new problem to think about, Mr. Marble had no thought to spare for his other troubles, and, consequently, no need to dull his mind to them.
But Mrs. Marble noticed more than his soberness. She caught him repeatedly looking at her with an anxious air—the same manner as a courting lover might display. And he made one or two tentative attempts at conversation with her too. Seeing that he had said nothing to her for months save the one or two words that had to be said this was an enormous difference. He looked at her, he spoke to her, with a shyness that set her fluttering, and more than once he opened his mouth as though to say something to her and then held back at the last minute, obviously embarrassed. Mrs. Marble felt strangely pleased. After all, dear Will was her whole life, especially now that John was no longer with her, and, secret or no secret, this new wooing in this strange shy fashion was grateful to her and gave her a warm, comforted, feeling.
It was the evening after Madame Collins’ visit that it really began over again. They were sitting together in the back room, trying to talk, when Collins himself called. Mrs. Marble brought him in. He was a frail, pale, fair man, and he looked white and fagged. He sat down on the chair offered him with a sigh.
“I’ve come to see if you know anything about my wife,” he said wearily.
“What, Marguerite? Why, yes, she was here yesterday. She said she was just off for a holiday. Where was it she said she was going to, Will?”
“Normandy, of course,” said Marble. He wanted to appear to know as little as possible about the business.
“I thought as much,” sighed Collins.
Neither of the Marbles spoke, and after a moment Collins went on:
“She’s gone. I suppose she’s gone for good. I—I don’t know whether she’s gone alone though.”
“But didn’t she say where she was going?” Mrs. Marble was quite irrepressible this evening, as a result of her husband’s flattering attentions.
“No. I didn’t know that she was going. She took good care of that. She has taken everything with her.”
“Everything?” Mrs. Marble did not understand.
“Everything. All our savings she’s taken. All her own things, too. There’s even a bill of sale on the furniture, I found this morning.” Collins was resting his forehead on his hands. “She went yesterday,” he added inconsequently.
The Marbles felt the uselessness of trying to console him. No word was said for a space. Then Collins stood up and reached for his hat. He hesitated for a second.
“I’m sorry to have troubled you,” he said, weakly. “But I—I just wanted to know.” Then, in a little spurt of feeling, he added, “It’s hateful to have to ask other people about my own wife. But—I didn’t want her to go. I didn’t want her to go.”
He almost broke down, but turned away and began to stumble to the door. Marble followed him. Halfheartedly, but in a man-of-the-world tone, he offered his help.
“If there’s anything I can do, Collins—”
“I don’t think there is,” said Collins, feebly.
“Money?”
“No, I won’t want money. It was she who wanted money.”
Collins was feeling his way blindly, weakly, down the passage. His shoulders drooped. Clearly he was quite broken down by the desertion of his wife—much more than Marble had expected. It became obvious that Marguerite’s tales of their unhappiness together had been one-sided.
“Well, if there is anything I can do—” said Marble again.
It was the inevitable feeble proffer of help, and Collins declined it once more. Then he went out into the night, with dragging feet, hardly able to walk. There were tears in Mrs. Marble’s eyes when Marble came back to her in the sitting-room.
“Poor man,” said she.
Marble nodded.
“And what a hateful woman she must be!” she went on. “I thought the first time I saw her that she was—well, you know, like that.”
Mrs. Marble had not thought anything of the kind; but she thought she did, after the event.
“Poor old Collins seems broken up about
