Her face was drawn with suffering. She
insisted that she was not complaining, that it was her deep and
tender love for her husband that made her suffer so. "But it is
killing me, it is killing me," she said, and one who saw her could
well believe it. And if the distress and the great strain upon her
nerves had kept on it certainly would have made her ill, if not have
actually ended her life with a nervous collapse.
The friend in whom she confided sat quietly and heard her through.
She let her pour herself out to the very finish until she stopped
because there was nothing more to say. Then, by means of a series of
gentle, well-adapted questions, she drew from the wife a
recognition--for the first time--of the fact that she really did
nothing whatever for her husband and expected him to do everything
for her. Perhaps she put on a pretty dress for him in order to look
attractive when he came home, but if he did not notice how well she
looked, and was irritable about something in the house, she would be
dissolved in tears because she had not proved attractive and pleased
him. Maybe she had tried to have a dinner that he especially liked;
then if he did not notice the food, and seemed distracted about
something that was worrying him, she would again be dissolved in
tears because he "appreciated nothing that she tried to do for him."
Now it is perfectly true that this husband was irritable and brutal;
he had no more consideration for his wife than he had for any one
else.
Pages:
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65