Арчибальд Кронин: The Innkeeper's Wife[Christmas Story]

"Why? Are you not well?" Then she laughed meaningly. "Is it the need of me that turns you so weak?"

He did not answer. She was the last person he had wished to see. In the revulsion of his feelings she was at this moment repugnant to him. But he dared not, from very shame, expose his weakness to her.

"I am tired perhaps," he muttered. "As you say… the day has been long."

"Then come sit by me and I will refresh you." She repeated her gesture of invitation.

"No…" With head averted, he fumbled for an excuse. "I am indeed weary, Malthace… there was much for me to do… tonight I must rest."

Her face changed, hardened - less at the words than at the manner of his refusal.

"Come now, Elah," she cried sharply, "you cannot treat me like this…"

But before she could protest further, he turned and went away.

In truth, a great lassitude had come upon him and, heavily, as though each foot were weighted with lead, he climbed the steep stairs to his room. He had thought to find his wife asleep but despite the lateness of the hour she had not yet retired. Seated on a low stool by the open window, a pensive, lonely figure lined against the brightness of the heavens, she was gazing outwards, so still and self-absorbed she seemed unaware that he had entered. Something in her posture, or in his own state of mind, arrested him and, though he wished to speak, left him at a loss for words. And suddenly he felt drawn to her, with an acuteness of emotion he had not experienced for years, not since those early days when, as an awkward youth, he had sought her in marriage. In the present confusion of his thoughts he longed to converse with her, to open his heart and confide in her. But that was an intimacy he had lost during these past months and awareness that the fault was his left him constrained and mute. Yet he had to speak, it was a necessity that could not be denied, and finally, with an effort, he broke the silence.

"Is it not time you were abed? You have worked hard these past days."

"They have not seemed hard," she replied, without moving. "For me this has been a time of gladness."

"Then do not mar it with a fever. You know the night air suits you ill. Draw the shutter and I will light the lamp."

"Need you?" she queried, in a low voice. "Is not there light enough from the star without?"

"Ay, the star," he answered and broke off. Then, not to expose himself, he tried feebly to introduce a touch of lightness to his tone. "Odd things have happened here of late… and tonight as well. As I went to lock up three purse-proud strangers appeared… a haughty trio, I warrant you… they would have none of us. What business they were about I could not tell."

"They have gone," she said quietly. "I saw them come and I saw them take their leave only a moment ago, so doubtless they have accomplished what they came for."

He saw that she was looking down towards the row of outbuildings now wrapped in perfect stillness, and more than ever he felt within him the pressing need to reveal his state of mind, and to seek in her wise experience an elucidation of his incredible enigma which from first to last had so unceasingly afflicted him. But before he could grasp it, the moment passed - with a sigh she had risen and begun to shade the window, saying:

"I had better shut out the brightness Otherwise you will not sleep."

In silence they began to disrobe and presently they had composed themselves to rest. But weary as he was, and try as he would, Elah could not find the respite of sleep which he craved. Never had he known such affliction of mind, such abject desolation of soul, such a crushing sense of his own worthlessness. It was as though for the first time he saw himself with the eyes of truth. The foundations on which he had built his life, the whole comfortable structure of his existence, had been undermined by the sequence of events which had marked these past days. In this moment of enlightenment and self-revelation all that he had sought and striven for so avidly - profit and gain, worldly success, the pleasures of the senses - all now seemed futile and sordid. Especially did he perceive in its true light the folly and danger of his involvement with Malthace. He had never loved her. It was a mere infatuation, surrender to flattery and enticement by a man past his prime.

And then, by contrast, hid thoughts turned to Seraia, his wife, who for so many years had made life’s journey with him, worked by his side, endured his irritable words, his moods and selfishness, suffered without complaint, the heat and burden of the day. How could he have taken all this for granted, without a word of gratitude? Patience and kindness, regard for her neighbor, the desire to do good, above all a constant unselfishness, these were her qualities, all hitherto unacknowledged, and they rose to confront and accuse him. A dampness broke upon his brow. That unearthly light, penetrating the slats of the shutter, cast bars of shadow on the walls, seemed to imprison him in his iniquity. Swept by a wave of compunction and remorse he turned to her.

"Seraia… are you awake?"

She answered him at once: she, too, had been unable to sleep. A tense silence vibrated between them, then, at last, the strings of his tongue were loosed. In a broken voice, with a rush of words that told of his troubled spirit, he acknowledged his unfaithfulness, expressed his sorrow, asked her forgiveness. He would break with Malthace, send her away, with her brother, tomorrow. She heard him in silence, holding his hand with a consoling touch, and when he ceased she soothed him with calm and tender words.

After this release of all that had been upon his mind a great relief came to him. It was like a burden thrown off and, with renewed intimacy, he began to talk freely, confidingly, even in some degree extravagantly, since this was precisely his nature, that in his rebound from the depths he should soar to the opposite extreme.

"Tell me, Seraia… dear wife… all that has occurred… what do you make of it?"

"I do not know. But of one thing I am sure. There is a heavenly secret in what we have witnessed here."

"For my part," he meditated, "striving to put the facts together - and you know I have always been a logical man - this little one could well be the son of someone most important - an august personage… the Lord alone knows whom… yet one who for his own good reasons might wish at this stage to conceal the child’s origin. All the circumstances, especially the obscurity of the birth - though the meaning of this is not altogether clear to me - seem in great measure to support this view." He ran on like this for a few minutes, extemporizing, then concluded fulsomely: "Be that as it may, I will admit freely that I regret my unfeeling conduct in the matter - so much indeed, that I would willingly make reparation."

The innkeeper paused. Ever since the Child’s glance had struck into his heart a longing had germinated there, born of an unsuspected love and fostered by the instinct of possession. Thus with a touch of his old self-importance he resumed:

"I have been thinking, dear wife… if perhaps… we might offer to take the infant for our own."

For a moment she did not reply. Then she shook her head slowly, but with certainty.

"No, Elah, that could never be. What mother would give up such a one?"

"But consider the advantages we could offer. We are well off… at least," he interpolated cautiously, "moderately so… I could well afford to be generous and kind."

There was a brief silence then, seriously, she said:

"This very afternoon I spoke with Joseph. He told me they must leave tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!"

Elah exclaimed. "It is not possible."

"Yes, it is possible. The mother is young and strong. And if danger threatens her child she will not tarry."