Chapter IX: A Conflict of Wills

'What things wilt thou leave me,
Now this thing is done?'

Wednesday loosened itself from the other pearls and dropped off the string of days into the strange awful place where have fallen all the days that have ever been. Thursday slid along the thread, trembled and fell. Friday moved on to fill its place. Such a little time, and it too, and the things of it would be gone beyond recall for ever.

Larrie had grown visibly thinner in the short space. He was staking all the happiness of his life on the issue of this. To him the thing was almost terrible in its plain simplicity. He had looked at it from every point of view, had reasoned it out and thought of nothing else, all through the two waking nights and the long day between. And he could only see two paths for Dot to walk in, one that was right and would lead to happiness once more, and one that was so utterly wrong that she would step into it not carelessly and unknowingly, but wilfully and with wide open eyes.

It could only be love that would make her do another man's bidding rather than his.

From that second path he told himself there could be no return.

Dot went about with a feverish look in her eyes, and lips almost as set as Larrie's own. She was going to make this strike for her rights, and in future have the independence due to the nineteenth century married woman.

Larrie spoke of the irrevocableness of the step. To him it was as grave as life and death. But deep in Dot's heart was the knowledge of her power over him. She called to mind all the quarrels of their wedded life--had he not always forgiven her? Even the times when he had not been the first to make up, her tears and grief had made his arms open for her immediately. She only whispered this to herself, it made her a little ashamed to think of trading on it.

Then out loud she told her conscience several things.

First, that this was only one of Larrie's aggravating fits of opposition, and when he got over it and knew what a name she had made for herself, he would be glad she had not taken him at his word.

Second, that since her gift was so great, it would be wrong not to give the world the benefit of it, she remembered the scriptural napkin-wrapped talent.

Third, that it would be sheer ingratitude after all Mr Wooster's trouble, to spoil his concert at the last minute.

And fourth, that no one literally interpreted that word 'obey' in the marriage service, now that the equality of the sexes was recognised.

It was merely a relic of darker ages when woman had been little more than a chattel; the progress of the century had made it elastic, before long it would be removed altogether.

On Friday they had eggs for tea. At least, Peggie had put a stand on the table, with bread and butter, and other eatables, but they were both too agitated to do more than crack the tops, and take salt and pepper on the edge of their plates. This was to be the last chance. Peggie removed baby, and looked anxiously at the quiet young couple as she did so. She was afraid there was something really serious this time, so pale was her master's face, so brilliant Dot's eyes.

'Well?' Larrie said heavily.

'I'm going,' answered Dot. 'I've got my dress ready, and made all arrangements, it's too late to stop now.'

Larrie swallowed some tea and went even whiter. This was the final wrecking of their lives. 'Dot, I _beg_ of you to think of it again,' he said.

She slipped from her chair and went to his end of the table. 'Darling, let me go!' she said, 'see, I beg of you--you could give in and let me, and then it wouldn't be disobedience.' She put her arms round his neck, her flushed cheek against his, 'Dear old Larrie, do! I have set my heart on it so! do let me go happy, dearest, dearest!'

If only at that minute she had said she would give it up, he could almost have let her go, greatly as he disliked the publicity for her, and the connection with Wooster. But he could not help mentally finishing her last sentence--'Or I shall have to go unhappy.'

'I can't,--you must see I can't,--how can I, Dot? it is impossible,' he said. But she clung tighter.

'Once you loved me too well to refuse me such a thing, my husband, don't let me think I am so little to you now.' He tried to put her away, but her arms held him.

'Darling, let me,' she begged, 'let me, let me,'--the tears were running down her cheeks. 'I will be so good afterwards, oh this is everything to me, Larrie,--Larrie, don't be cruel to me, I must, must go--oh, darling, let me, let me.'

He was making a promise to himself to be kept faithfully, since he saw how very much this was to her. If she would give in now, say she would give in as a true wife should to her husband, he would let her go, he would even take her himself, for it would prove she did not put that man before him.

'Dot,' he said, and lifted her on to his knee and held her hands tenderly in his own, 'you must obey me in this, can't you see you must, my darling? Perhaps I have been harsh or unkind about it. Yesterday I _told_ you to obey me, now I _ask_ you, my darling, my little girl, Dot, little, little wife. Say you will.'

But she only stirred restlessly.

He put his face down to hers.

'Darling, think of our happiness, how can we go on living if you persist in breaking up everything like this. There _must_ be a head, Dot, in everything, there must be obedience. What would a ship be without a captain, or soldiers without their chief, an office with no one in authority? And the husband _must_ be the head of the wife. Darling, say you will obey me in this.'

But Dot could not. All her pleading had gone for nothing, why should she listen to Larrie's? She moved his arms away and stood up, her eyes dry and bright again.

'You have refused me the only thing I have ever asked specially since we were married, Larrie,' she said.

'You will stay?' he said.

'You profess to love me, and then you act like a tyrant to me. Why should you always have _your_ way in things?'

There was a red spot on her cheek.

'You will obey me, Dot?'

She walked restlessly up and down the room. She moved some ornaments on the mantelpiece and put the curtains straight with trembling fingers. She remembered she ought to be dressing even now. In two hours the concert would begin, and if she gave in her opportunity would be gone for ever, and just because Larrie was obstinate and stupid!

Baby's ivory rattle, still wet from his mouth, lay on the sofa. She picked it up and put it in her work-basket. Then she altered the position of two photographs on the mantelpiece. She moved one of Larrie's silver cups--in it there was a green programme crumpled up into a ball.

'Dot, you will obey me?'

'No, I will _not_,' she said passionately. 'I am tired of being told to do things. I want a little liberty as well as you. I will _not_ spoil my future just because you want to be a petty czar.'

She crossed to the door. A flame sprang up in Larrie's eyes.

'You will be sorry to the end of your life if you go,' he said.

'No, I shall be glad,' said Dot.

Peggie came in to know if they wanted hot water, or if the master would have another egg. She was really too anxious to keep away.

'I've got a nice brown one, laid to-day, sir,' she said persuasively.

He shook his head impatiently. The woman looked over to Dot, standing with the door handle in her hand, 'Shall I fetch the baby for you?' she asked.

'No,' said Dot sharply.

So she went out to the kitchen again, and looked grave as she lifted baby from his high chair, where he was perfectly happy with a saucepan lid and a tin spoon.

'_That_ obstreperous,' she said, and sighed. Then she added, 'poor man,' under her breath.

Someway she generally sided with Larrie at such times, though she was devotedly fond of Dot.

'I'm going to dress,' Dot said from the door.

'How do you propose getting there?' He did not look at her as he spoke.

She twisted the handle. 'Of course I had expected you would come. As it is I have sent word to mother, she is coming down in the buggy for me at seven. Mr Wooster is going there for dinner, he will drive. No, mother doesn't know; I only said you couldn't come.'

Larrie got up and walked to the window; he could not answer her.

She looked at his big square back for a minute and the short-clipped curls on his head. Then she turned and went away to dress. Only a thin partition separated her bedroom. He heard every sound as he stood in the window, the opening and shutting of drawers, the plashing of water, her hurrying steps across the floor, the creak of the wardrobe door. Every minute he thought she would repent and come in to him, his own sweet, small wife again; then the thought became a hope, and when the wardrobe creaked the hope died, and there was almost a prayer instead. But the door opened and she came in fully dressed.

It was her wedding dress she wore, the white, trailing, exquisite silk she had knelt beside him in at the altar eighteen months ago. It was cut a little low now, and showed her white, soft neck and chest; her arms were bare between the shoulder puff and glove top.

'Larrie,' she said with a little cry, 'oh, let me, Larrie!'

But he stood still.

'_That_ dress!' he said hoarsely.

In very truth she had not thought of the associations of it as she had slipped it on to-night in excitement and anger.

'You--you know I had it made into an evening dress,' she faltered.

'But for this!'

'I had nothing else to wear.'

He turned from her one minute, then back again, and looked at her with wrathful eyes. He had a wild impulse to force her to stay, to compel her to obey him by the superiority of his physical strength. Was she not his wife, his property, did she not belong to him till death? He almost thought he would get a whip and beat her, beat her savagely. She would love him better he felt certain; he told himself there was more truth than half the world dreamt in the saying that wife-beaters, always provided they are neither drunk nor brutal, are best beloved by their wives.

But he knew in a calmer mood he would despise himself for doing it, and he felt, too, how imperfect would be the victory.

'You are going?' was all he said, and 'Yes,' she answered.

Wheels sounded a little distance off, they both knew what it was.

'As surely as you go, Dot, you will repent it.' Larrie spoke slowly, quietly, his face was deathly pale.

She was trembling from excitement, there was a vague fear in her eyes.

'What would you do?' she said with a little nervous half laugh.

'I would never forgive you, never have you for my wife again,' he answered, and his face looked as if he meant it.

She shivered a little, but held her head proudly. 'Perhaps you would be glad of the excuse,' she said, with a pitiful attempt at scorn.

He did not speak. The buggy rattled up to the door, they heard Wooster's voice checking the horses, the mother's saying she would not get out as it was so late.

'Why don't you go?' he said coldly, seeing she stood perfectly still.

'I--' she said. It was the sound of a sob strangling in her throat.

He would not help her though her eyes were speaking imploringly. If he had put his arms round her that minute and begged her as at tea to stay, even now she would have given it up. But he stood like a rock, his face hard, his chin square, his lips bitter.

The bell rang, and Peggie's heel-down slippers went up the hall.

Dot moved a step nearer to him.

'_Ask_ me to stay, Larrie,' she whispered, and this time the sob would not be strangled.

But he turned right away from her.

'I would rather die than ask you again,' he said with passion in his voice.

'Mr Wooster,' said Peggie cheerfully.

She had quite beamed at the man when she opened the door, the quarrel would have to be smoothed over now a guest was here.

But five minutes later Dot came out into the hall, her train a yard behind her, a great white fur-trimmed cloak around her.

There was a beautiful angry colour in her cheeks, a defiant light in her eyes; but her lips were saying smiling things. Mr Wooster was behind with a roll of music and an opossum rug.

Peggie watched them through the front door and down the steps, she saw Dot lifted in beside her mother and well tucked up; she watched the buggy lamps flash passing out of the gates and disappear round a curve in the road. Then with quite a weight at her kindly heart, she went in to see if the 'poor master' wanted anything. But he was standing in the middle of the room with folded arms, and such a look on his face, that she shut the door softly behind her, and went away.