And they set up house-keeping.
"My dear friend," Mrs. Blackwood wrote a little later on to a friend
of hers, "I am ill and tired to death. But I must go on suffering, for
there is no solace for an unhappy woman who has no object in life. I
will show the world that I am not the sort of woman who is content to
live on her husband's bounty, and therefore I shall work myself to
death...."
On the first day she rose at nine o'clock and turned out her husband's
room. Then she dismissed the cook and at eleven o'clock she went out
to do the catering for the day.
When the husband came home at one o'clock, lunch was not ready. It was
the maid's fault.
Mrs. Blackwood was dreadfully tired and in tears. The husband could
not find it in his heart to complain. He ate a burnt cutlet and went
back to his work.
"Don't work so hard, darling," he said, as he was leaving.
In the evening his wife was so tired that she could not finish her
work and went to bed at ten o'clock.
On the following morning, as Mr. Blackwood went into his wife's room
to say good morning to her, he was amazed at her healthy complexion.
"Have you slept well?" he asked.
"Why do you ask?"
"Because you are looking so well."
"I--am--looking--well?"
"Yes, a little occupation seems to agree with you.
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