The Husband's Story: A NovelPhillips, David Graham
General
The Husband's Story: A Novel
Phillips, David Graham
Husband and wife -- Fiction; New York (N.Y.) -- Social life and customs -- 20th century -- Fiction
“I understand the essential thing,” said I. “And that is their mania
for money.”
She was on the verge of hysteria--afraid I would not go, afraid of what
I would do if I did go. “But they have to be handled carefully,” she
urged. “If you put them in a position where their pride won’t let them
take the--the money----”
“Trust me,” said I. “Go to bed, sleep soundly, and trust me.”
I stood. She suddenly flung herself against my breast and began to
sob on my shoulder. “You are hard and cold,” she said. “You have no
sympathy with me--no feeling for anything but business. But somehow--in
spite of it all--I have such a sense of your strength and your honesty.”
I laughed rather awkwardly, patted her shoulder, helped her to a chair.
“There are times when a coarse, common American business man of a
husband has his uses--and advantages,” I said lightly. “I’ll telegraph
you how things are going.”
She dried her eyes, looked at me in a puzzled way. “You always repulse
me,” she said.
“I appreciate your kindness in remembering to toss a few crumbs to the
starving man,” laughed I. “They are precious crumbs, no doubt, and more
than he deserves. But--please don’t do it. He hates that sort of thing.
You are free to act as you feel like acting. I’ll do as much for you
and Margot without the crumbs as with them.”
“How hard you are, Godfrey! How you have always misunderstood me!”
“That’s right,” said I amiably. “I’m too coarse for such a fine nature.
Well--good night.”
I took myself hastily away to bed; and at ten the next morning I
departed for London.
I decided to see Margot first. She was at Sothewell Abbey, about an
hour by express from Paddington. You perhaps know Sothewell Abbey
through the pictures and descriptions. And it is indeed an imposing
pile of old masonry seated in the midst of a park of surpassing beauty.
As soon as I entered the ancient gates for the two-mile drive to the
Abbey, I saw signs that my money was in action. When I first visited
it, the lodge was in sad disrepair, the gates were about to fall to
pieces and the vista of the drive was unkempt. Now, all was changed.
The servile pair who came out to open for me, and made me fear they
would drop down on their bellies and crawl before me, were neatly and
properly dressed, in strong contrast to their former appearance.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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