She was convinced of her mistake by his saying, slowly and
distinctly,-"You do not enter into Clara's whole meaning, Mabel. We have been
careful, all of us, never to tell you that our father was imbecile
by the time he was fifty and died, in his sixtieth year, of the
disease your brother named this morning--softening of the brain. I,
of all his children, am most like him physically. If it be true that
this danger menaces me, you should be informed of it, and know,
furthermore, that it is incurable."
Mabel also paused before answering.
"I cannot assent to the hypothesis of your inherited malady,
Herbert. These headaches may mean nothing. But let that be as it
may, you should have told me of this before."
"You see," broke in Mrs. Aylett's triumphant sarcasm. "The reward of
your maiden attempt at congugal confidence is reproof. What have I
warned you from the beginning?"
"Not reproof," corrected Mabel, in mild decision. "My knowledge of
the secret he deemed it wise and kind to withhold would have gained
for him my sympathy, and my more constant and intelligent care of
his health. It is the hidden fear that grows and multiplies itself
most rapidly. Before it is killed it must be dragged to the light."
"That is YOUR hypothesis," was the bright retort. "We Dorrances have
justly earned a reputation for dissretion by the excellent
preservation of our own secrets, and those committed to our keeping
by our friends. My motto is, tell others nothing about yourself
which they cannot learn without your confession. An autobiography is
always either a bore or a blunder. Not that I would regulate the
number and nature of your divulgations to your wife, Herbert. As to
Winston's unlucky hit this morning, it was mere fortuity. I have
never felt myself called upon to enlighten him in family secrets,
and his is an incurious disposition. He never asks idle questions.
He has a marvellous faculty of striking home-blows in the dark, but
that is no reason why one should betray his wound by crying out.
Apropos to darkness, may I ring for a lamp, or will the light hurt
your eyes?"
"The fire-light is more trying," rejoined Mabel, pushing a screen
before the sofa, and placing herself where she could, in its shadow,
hold her husband's hand.
It was cold and limp when she lifted it, but tightened upon hers
with the instinctive grip of gratitude too profound to be uttered.
She had never been so near loving him as at the instant in which he
believed he had incurred her ever-lasting displeasure. Generosity
and pity were fast undoing the petrifying influences of her early
disappointment, their mutual reserve, and tacit misunderstandings.
If half he feared were true, his need of her affection, her counsel
and companionship were dire. Whatever wrong he had done her by
keeping back the tale of hereditary infirmity, he had suffered more
from the act than she could ever do. Who knew how much of what she,
with others, mistook for constitutional phlegm and studied
austerity, was the outward sign of the battle between dread of his
inherited doom and the resolve of an iron will to defy natural laws
and the sentence of destiny herself, and hold reason upon her
rickety throne?