Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
years than I like to count that pinching and scraping are my appointed lot. . .
Of recent months the task became almost too much for my powers. Not only the cost of living. . . Will had lost this Morecambe appointment without finding another. Arthur complained that figure-head directors were not in so great request as formerly ; he was shame-faced about it, as though his pride were hurt; I did not then imagine that he had to give me less money because he was giving more in another quarter. . .
And you will remember that, when you told me, I refused to believe it. Goodness me, I am not so vain as to think that the man who once loved me must always love me, but there is such a thing as loyalty—and gratitude. I had trusted him . . . and that was enough; I did not need to tell him—or you—or even myself that he had enjoyed the best years of my life, that I was an old woman while he was still—thanks to me—a young man, that I had borne him a son and worn myself out before my time in scheming and contriving for the comfort and well-being of them both. . .
It was brave of you to tell me, to insist on my knowing. . . and believing. I was dazed. That Arthur should be giving her dresses and jewellery, when he could not afford to redecorate
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