for,
position and influence. My resentment rose again against Perry and Tom,
and I began to attribute their lack of appreciation of my achievements
to jealousy. They had not my ability; this was the long and short of
it.... I pondered also, regretfully, on my bachelor days. And for the
first time, I, who had worked so hard to achieve freedom, felt
the pressure of the yoke I had fitted over my own shoulders. I had
voluntarily, though unwittingly, returned to slavery. This was what
had happened. And what was to be done about it? I would not consider
divorce.

Well, I should have to make the best of it. Whether this conclusion
brought on a mood of reaction, I am unable to say. I was still
annoyed by what seemed to the masculine mind a senseless and dramatic
performance on Maude's part, an incomprehensible case of "nerves."
Nevertheless, there stole into my mind many recollections of Maude's
affection, many passages between us; and my eye chanced to fall on
the ink-well she had bought me out of the allowance I gave her. An
unanticipated pity welled up within me for her loneliness, her despair
in that room upstairs. I got up--and hesitated. A counteracting,
inhibiting wave passed through me. I hardened. I began to walk up and
down, a prey to conflicting impulses. Something whispered, "go to
her"; another voice added, "for your own peace of mind, at any rate." I
rejected the intrusion of this motive as unworthy, turned out the light
and groped my way upstairs. The big clock in the hall struck twelve.

I listened outside the door of the bedroom, but all was silent within. I
knocked.

"Maude!" I said, in a low voice.

There was no response.

"Maude--let me in! I didn't mean to be unkind--I'm sorry."

After an interval I heard her say: "I'd rather stay here,--to-night."

But at length, after more entreaty and self-abasement on my part,
she opened the door. The room was dark. We sat down together on the
window-seat, and all at once she relaxed and her head fell on my
shoulder, and she began weeping again. I held her, the alternating moods
still running through me.

"Hugh," she said at length, "how could you be so cruel? when you know I
love you and would do anything for you."

"I didn't mean to be cruel, Maude," I answered.

"I know you didn't. But at times you seem so--indifferent, and you can't
understand how it hurts. I haven't anybody but you, now, and it's in
your power to make me happy or--or miserable."

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