A Lady and Her
                           Husband




                             By

                         Amber Reeves




                      G. P. Putnam's Sons
                      New York and London
                    The Knickerbocker Press
                             1914




                       Copyright, 1914
                             BY
                     G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS




 CONTENTS
 CHAPTER I
 CHAPTER II
 CHAPTER III
 CHAPTER IV
 CHAPTER V
 CHAPTER VI
 CHAPTER VII
 CHAPTER VIII
 CHAPTER IX
 CHAPTER X
 CHAPTER XI
 CHAPTER XII
 CHAPTER XIII
 CHAPTER XIV
 CHAPTER XV
 CHAPTER XVI
 CHAPTER XVII
 CHAPTER XVIII




A LADY AND HER HUSBAND




CHAPTER I


ROSEMARY looked round her mother's drawing-room. It was a charming room,
she thought, of its conventional kind, gay and luxurious, anxious to
please, like some soft, pretty woman. She had never considered its
origin before, but now she felt sure that her father must have planned
it. It revealed his mind--large, cheerful, excellent--and showed the
thorough competence of his taste.

She had chosen this room deliberately for an interview with her mother.
She was going to tell her mother that she was in love, and she had found
herself shy, afraid of the poor lady's emotion. In the publicity of the
spacious room, where anyone might interrupt them, a display of feeling
would be difficult.

She made sure, once more, of this train of thought. Then she looked
anxiously at Mrs. Heyham. Mary was sitting in her usual place by the
side of the hearth, and, for the moment, behind the glittering,
fire-flushed tea-things, she seemed curiously unreal. She was wearing a
chain that her husband had given her, set with pearls and crystals--that
caught the light, and so did a brooch that was a present from Trent, her
son. Behind these witnesses of masculine esteem there was the vagueness
of grey stuff, of lace, of pale brown hair, and a face where the play of
lights and shadows blotted out expression. Rosemary, seeking for some
promise of immediate, cheerful sympathy, could see nothing but her
mother's evident dignity and grace. On the point of speaking, she
hesitated. She had not the least idea, after all, how her mother would
respond to her.

At that moment Mrs. Heyham looked up and met her daughter's eyes. "Yes,"
she said, "I like your new way of doing your hair, my dear, it suits
you, it gives you height. And I like your funny green frock." She smiled
a little shyly. She could not tell the child how lovely she found her.

But the tenderness in her voice reached Rosemary, making her feel
suddenly affectionate and ashamed.

"Mother, dear," she cried, "how selfish I am!--Am I very horrid to you?"

She had forgotten the ungenerous detachment which she had planned, and
as she spoke she crossed the floor to the rug by her mother's knee. She
had been fussing all day about her own feelings, she told herself, and
she had hardly given a thought to her mother's!

Mrs. Heyham paused before she answered. It was her custom to consider
what she said, with a view to her children's welfare, and her replies,
in consequence, were sometimes evasive. Horrid to her? What had made
Rosemary, she wondered, worry about such a thing? "I hope you don't
think so, my dear," passed this scrutiny, but did not satisfy her
daughter.

"You don't say I'm not," she insisted.

Her mother reassured her. "Of course you're not."

Rosemary sighed. "I don't think many mothers are like you!" she
admitted, and for a moment her warmth made Mrs. Heyham anxious. These
expansions from the children were apt to be connected with remorse.
Well, whatever it was, she would hear it now--she put out her hand to
smooth the soft hair pressed against her knee. But Rosemary, turning
quickly, caught the wandering fingers. To Mary it looked almost as
though she had taken fright. Her eyes were wide open and she was
trembling a little. "Mother," she said, "I've something to tell you!
I've promised--I'm going to marry Anthony."

Before she could stop herself Mrs. Heyham had pulled her hand away.
Rosemary promised to marry! At eighteen! Rosemary who had been so
careless of love! The girl, anxiously listening, could read nothing but
disappointment into her "My darling!"

For a moment they looked at each other. Then came the amends, that Mary
was never slow to make. This time she took her daughter's hand in hers.
"You know how fond I am of Anthony--it isn't that. But you--you're so
young--how can you know--how can you possibly know?"

Rosemary found no words that would convince her. Instead she turned away
from her mother's eyes and stared into the fire. It was not a thing one
could talk about, how one knew.

Mary looked down at her bright young head. She loved it too dearly, she
thought, she could not lose it! "Won't you wait--" she began, but then
she checked herself. It was passion, not happiness, that she had wanted
to keep from the child for a little longer.

But Rosemary had heard her cry and was answering it. "We have waited
ever since the summer. I didn't want to hurt you, mother, but I couldn't
bear that anyone should know. Tony wanted to tell you at once, but I
wouldn't let him."

Mary did her best to smile. She could not speak--she was humiliated. She
had never intruded herself on her children or forced the delicate
privacies of their minds, but she had stood apart only, she thought, to
watch and direct them better because they were not conscious of her
attention. And now, for months, Rosemary had known these new intimacies
of love while she had seen no further--that was what it amounted
to--than her charming manners!

Rosemary, from the tight grasp of her hands, guessed at Mrs. Heyham's
suffering. "Mother, dear, don't mind!" she begged her. "Why should you
mind so much?"

Why should she mind?--For a moment Mary struggled with tears. Then she
turned resolutely from her painful thoughts. "My darling," she said,
"I'm selfish, thoroughly selfish! You mustn't let me spoil your
happiness. It's nothing, my dear--only a foolish instinct. You see, I
feel that as each of you goes it closes one of the windows of my life!"

Rosemary sighed a little with relief. Here was the matter on reasonable
grounds where one could argue about it! She rather enjoyed discussing
feelings, though she was shy of showing them. She relaxed her attitude,
which had been a little strained, and started to make her point.

"But you haven't lost us, mother. We're still there, it's only that
we're grown up. After all, having children is an experience, and you've
got it there, so much to the good!"

Mrs. Heyham shook her head. She had not the habit of considering her
life in terms of experience. Her mind had darkened again over Rosemary's
words. Experience--that must be an idea of Anthony's--it was a wonder
the child had not said "mental capital." She would never be rid of
Anthony now--whenever she talked to Rosemary, Anthony would be behind
her!

"And of course I'm not going to marry yet."--Rosemary reproached herself
with not having made this clear. Her mother must think her callous. "I
should feel sorry enough if I were really going away! You do know how
much I love you, don't you, mother darling?"

She started to rise, so that she might reach her mother to kiss her, but
Mary rose too. For a moment they clung together, trying each of them, to
think of nothing but their mutual love. Then Mary made the need of
wiping her eyes an excuse for freeing herself. "I'm going upstairs," she
said, "and when I come down I shall be a much nicer, more satisfactory
mother, and very glad that you have chosen such a dear boy. I'm
delighted that it's Anthony, dear, you must tell him so from me. And now
if I were you, I would go and see your father--he's in the library. You
will be glad to get it all over." She smiled, pressed Rosemary's hand
again, and turned towards the door.

Rosemary, left alone, did not go to her father at once. She was angry
with herself. "I didn't do it right," she thought, "I hurt her. I don't
see why she should have been hurt, but she was." For a moment, though
she sought, she found no explanation; then she decided, "It is father, I
suppose, he has kept her so wrapped up. And now, when she has to face a
fact, she is not accustomed to it. But all the same I do wish I hadn't
hurt her."

She sat down again in her comfortable chair and recalled the
conversation. It had been self-conscious, she felt, and artificial, they
had not really been open with one another. And yet she did not know what
was wrong--it was very difficult.

But she could not keep her mind fixed for long on this distasteful
subject. The fire-light and the solitude were pleasant, and her thoughts
went back to Anthony and the summer. It was in the early summer at
King's Leigh that she had first loved Anthony, though she had not known
it. It gave her pleasure to remember the day. She had been bathing with
Laura in the stream at the bottom of the garden, and on their way back
they had met Anthony coming down the path with towels under his arm. It
was blowing, and the wind blew back the folds of his thin shirt. He had
asked them whether the river was clear again after the storm, and she
had told him yes,--the water was still brown, but you could see the
white stones on the bottom. Then absurdly, like a child, she had flushed
with shame. Laura and she had been pretending that they were water
nymphs, and she had twisted leaves into her hair. Anthony was looking at
the green crown. It had seemed unbearable that he might think she was
foolish--laugh at her--without waiting for Laura she had walked away.
She had gone quickly through the rose-garden because she did not want
Laura to follow her, and along the old stone wall. There was no one
under the beeches at the end and she had stopped there, telling herself
that it was beautiful. The lilies and the blue larkspurs shone in the
sun, there was no wind tinder the trees and the still air felt warm. She
had looked up to see the light coming down through the young leaves--it
was bright and it glowed, like light in the trumpet of a daffodil. And
then, as she stood, a little dazed by the shining leaves and the heat,
something that hurt her seemed to stir in her heart--she had thrown
herself down beside the trunk of the tree because she had found that she
was crying.

She had only been a child then, afraid of love, afraid and exalted
beyond any need of Anthony. She had been in love with the summer days,
with poetry, with warmth and colour, and flowers. The world had become a
place of caressing, delicate contacts, even the air seemed kind to her
as she moved through it. Under her happy senses her spirit had
quickened. Here, she had thought, was worship--if she could
worship--here, in this awe and delight, this conviction that she was one
with the flowering earth, with its light, its heat, its joy. Here was
the new birth--she had lost her old self, her old hopes and desires, and
had become instead a vessel filled with the wonder and the beauty of
life.

This ecstasy had not stayed. It had been banished by something more
personal, less diffused, by a return of her mind upon itself. It was a
new troubling thing--she could remember the first surprise of its
insurgence. It had been a hot afternoon and she had been walking by the
river, slowly, without any thought of where she was going. A willow bush
grew in the long grass by the edge of the water, and beside it she had
seen Anthony's blazer lying on the ground. Anthony was playing tennis
with Trent; he must have forgotten it. It was a pleasant, secluded
place, and the patch of colour on the grass seemed to make a reason why
she should stop. She had sat down in what shade the bush
afforded--presently she would carry the blazer back to the house.

The light flickered on the water; Rosemary sat lazily inert watching the
willow leaves as they stirred a little, and the pointed shadows that
changed their shape as they moved over the uneven grass. A white
butterfly was circling above her, and while she looked he fluttered down
on to the blazer's tempting brightness. The surface did not please
him--his eager trunk found no honey--Rosemary, her face held low, saw
the under surfaces of his wings gleam blue as he rose from the deceptive
cloth. She put out her hand to it, idly, where it lay warm in the sun,
but when her fingers met the soft stuff she paused. In the short space
of her movement the action had become intimate, had assumed
significance. She felt that Anthony must know that she wanted to touch
his coat. Then she took courage. Her doubt, her hesitation, were nothing
to Anthony. His coat was thrown down, forgotten, disregarded. She might
touch it or not, no sense of his could be fine enough to betray her. She
had pulled it towards her and buried her face in the limp, kindly cloth
before she realised, trembling, what she had done.

Now, remembering it, she moved in the big chair and sighed. She almost
regretted that moment of sharp feeling. She was happy now, but even the
first secret delight of her happiness was at its end. She had told her
mother; she had still to tell her father, and Laura, and Trent. And they
would all discuss it and fuss about it. Trent would think it his duty to
express his opinions. She had been foolish, really, not to choose a time
when Trent was away.

She felt restless--she pushed back her chair and went over to one of the
tall windows. Outside a spring gale was flinging drops of water from the
plane trees in the London square. The rain had stopped, there was blue
in the sky, and an old man who sold primroses had left his shelter and
was carrying his basket down the empty street. It was a day for a long
walk over the Downs with the dogs.

She was watching the yellow gleams of light that lay on the pavement and
its iron railings, when her attention was caught by a cry from the old
man. Hope had entered his heart when he saw her and his features were
now bent to an encouraging smile. "Here y'are lidy," he called, and held
up the basket.

Rosemary shook her head, and then, to end the matter, walked away from
the window. Her mother was right, she thought, she might as well get it
over. Slowly and reluctantly she went downstairs.

Meanwhile Mrs. Heyham had gone to her sitting-room. She shut its door
behind her with relief. Here, alone, there was no need to think of
Rosemary's feelings. She could give way now, a little, to her jealousy
and her regret, to the fierce dislike that she had felt when she thought
of Anthony touching her daughter's hair--turning up her face to enjoy
its loveliness.

They had loved one another for months, and she had never known! To her
neglectful eyes the child had seemed unchanged. It had been a joy to her
that Rosemary, fastidious and a little reserved, had never been swayed
or excited by the people who moved her sister. She had believed that
this younger favourite daughter possessed some quick instinct of her
own, some power of direction that was enough for her. Mary had been able
to stand by and see her avail herself of the widest freedom in the
confidence that it was Rosemary with whom she had to deal, not some
friend or some enthusiasm of the moment. And now men had come into her
life, and love, and approaching marriage. To her mother it seemed that
they must spoil it. Rosemary's liberty of mind was gone, she must
respond to a man's clumsy, imperative emotions, tune her mind to his,
find her growth and her insight checked by insistent personal ties....
That was all very well, later on, but Rosemary was only a child.

She turned her mind, with an effort, from this unbearable thought. It
was her duty, she reminded herself, not to be miserable, but to be
honest. Being honest now, as generally, meant to Mrs. Heyham discovering
a way to accept any blame that remained when she had made excuses for
everybody else. On this occasion she found it as easy as usual to
persuade herself that she was behaving badly. She was doing, she must
admit it, just what she had despised in other mothers. She was regarding
her children as mere objects for her own affections. She had not grudged
Laura, because she had felt that she herself was giving the brilliant
creature to Harry, because in Laura she had wanted to live through again
her own early wifehood and motherhood. Now she was hurt and bitter
because Rosemary had put her aside, had claimed a right to her own youth
and her own beauty. She could only feel that Rosemary did not know what
a priceless gift they were.

Since Laura had married she had been hoping, as silly old women hope, to
fill a greater place in Rosemary's life. She had felt that this was the
time for which she had waited ever since Rosemary had learned to walk.
She had stood then, a mere mother, outside the excitements and mysteries
of nursery life. All through the children's youth she had waited, greedy
for their love. Now, it seemed to her, her chance was gone.

Now she was middle-aged, and her life was failing her. With the children
went its purpose and its meaning. She had worked hard to be the sort of
mother they liked, to make her home a congenial background for their
activities. She had not oppressed them with her own needs, or forced
their affection from them. And now they were going, going to other homes
where she would be only a visitor who rang their door-bells and asked
their servants whether they were in. She could no more share them with
their husbands than she had shared them with one another when they were
babies. She could not even arrange the world for them as she had then.
They had grown up, as modern girls do, in touch with an intricate life
that meant nothing to her. She had given them her ignorant sympathy, her
facile interest, her approval, where she could, but if they had valued
these it was because they loved her. And it would not matter to them any
more what she and their father felt. They would wait on someone else's
ideas and someone else's moods. She had tried her utmost to be just to
them, to hold herself in check--it only made her feel the more for them
now the slowness and the egotism of men. They were happy--she wondered
how much their happiness had cost of the freedom she had so painfully
given them.

She rose from the chair where she had been sitting to walk up and down
the room. She was stung again by the knowledge that Rosemary was gone,
that she looked to other loves, to a new life, to another loyalty. She
tried in vain to change her thoughts by centring them on her own
foolishness. "I've been dreadful," she told herself, "ugly, grasping,
blind! She has a right to choose her happiness." That was bald--bald
enough to shock anyone into common-sense. But she could not quite
believe it. Why--why had the child not waited!

One thing she could at least do, she told herself. She could use
self-control, and refrain from causing discomfort to others by her
selfish pain. She had failed already quite sufficiently that afternoon.

The clear discernment of a duty was always a relief to Mrs. Heyham, a
stimulus to which she could respond mechanically. She now turned her
mind, after an effort, to considering the matter from Rosemary's point
of view, to any thoughts, indeed, that would keep her mind from its
ungenerous fretting. And Rosemary's interview with her father, she
supposed, was now taking place. It would not be terrible. James's
children, like everyone else, found him a sympathetic and delightful
man. But Trent was another matter. It was a pity that neither his
sisters nor she could really get on with Trent. She had never felt for
him the passionate love a mother sometimes feels for her only son. She
had hoped to, she had tried to, but Trent had baffled her. It was wrong
of her, for poor Trent was loyal and affectionate. It was a pity,
perhaps, that they had sent him to Harrow, where his family could not
follow him. That was perhaps why they could not follow now his perfectly
correct and manly view of life. She was struggling with a sense of
fatigue and incoherence among these familiar reflections when the door
opened to admit her husband.

James seldom forgot to kiss his wife when he found her alone, not only
because he was a methodical man, but because he seldom forgot that he
was fond of her. To-day he kept his arm around her shoulders and looked
down at her tenderly. "Poor little mother," he said, "to have nobody
left but me!"

She let him draw her head against his shoulder where it was easier to
cry. He used to call her "little mother" long ago, when the children
were babies and belonged to her.

After a little he thought that she had cried enough and ought to be
cheered up now; he made her sit in a comfortable chair while he went
over to the fireplace.

"Of course Rosemary is much too young for this sort of thing," he said,
believing that the only permanent cheering up is obtained by facing
facts, "but we must admit that she's done very well for herself, better
than poor Laura."

This was the first time anybody had thought of calling Laura "poor," and
Mrs. Heyham looked up for explanations.

"Hastings," her husband went on, "is a thoroughly decent fellow, he's a
cut above most of the young men the children have in the house. And
since Laura isn't here, I don't mind saying that Moorhouse is a bit of a
fool. I fancy he came the man of the world over Laura!"

"He makes her very happy,"--Mrs. Heyham's voice was a little
doubtful--"and he's an excellent man of business."

"It's quite possible she'll soon have as many cares as you, my dear,
but, as you know, I've always declared that since my girls would have
enough to live on anyhow I did not mean to make money the most important
thing. I don't object to it, of course, but I don't see why I should let
it sway my judgment. Laura's man is not good enough for her, and I shall
be disappointed if Hastings doesn't turn out a son-in-law to be proud
of." He smiled at Mary, and stroked his trim little pointed beard.

Mrs. Heyham did not answer, but she realised, as she looked up, how
proud she was of James. He was a hard-working business man himself, and
after thirty years of it he might have been forgiven if he had been a
little obsessed by ordinary business standards. Most men in his position
wouldn't have looked at a penniless boy whatever they thought of his
intellect and character. But James did not keep his principles for
nothing. She could almost wish for once, that he had been a more
conventional father, and she felt a moment's anxiety as she wondered how
far his complaisance had extended.

"You told her--of course--that they'd have to wait?" she asked.

"There was no need, the child showed very proper feeling, but I did say
that I didn't suppose you would consent to her setting out on married
life at eighteen. In any case, it appears that the young man wants to be
earning enough to pay for his own share of the ménage."

James was evidently pleased with the interview that had just taken
place. "She's a dear child," he went on after a minute; "you're to be
congratulated on both of them, Mary, though I admit that as a wife I
prefer their mother. The women of your day had more character, though
nobody made a fuss about their brains. Nowadays young people treat each
other as if they were all friends of the same sex; it may suit them, but
I know I shouldn't have liked it."

Mrs. Heyham did not move, and he wondered whether his talk was having
the desired effect. He felt very sorry for her--when he thought about it
he often felt sorry for women. Good women had such a hard time of it,
they suffered so inevitably as life went on. It was rough on them losing
their looks, it was rough on them when their boys went to school, and
many of them had a bad time with their husbands. Men wouldn't have stood
it, but women--thank God for it!--were like that. Men were not grateful
enough, but he had done his best to make life smooth for Mary and the
girls.... Poor Mary, he was glad she had cried on his shoulder. She was
a dignified little thing, it was not always easy to tell what she was
thinking.

He went over to her and stroked her hair. That, to his mind, was the use
of her hair, and to please him she dressed it in a way that was not
easily disarranged.

She looked up at him, and he saw at once that she was still a little
excited. "James," she said, and then paused. He sat down on the arm of
her chair so that he might give her better attention. When she spoke it
was in the slow thoughtful way he deplored. It meant that she was taking
things too hard.

"What do other women do when the children go?" she asked him. "How do
they fill up their days?"

"I should say a good many of them were glad of a rest," he told her
reassuringly. "It's not such easy work bringing up children. Haven't you
noticed a friend whose grey hairs have gone brown since her daughters
married? We shall have you a gay young thing again in no time. Or you
could take up politics and make Trent stand for Parliament--the old lady
would look fine as candidate's mother!"

She shook her head. "You forget the candidate's wife. I don't think I
want to play second fiddle to Trent's Lady Hester. But I suppose that is
about what they do. Either they knit boots for their grandchildren, or
they go on committees."

The mention of Lady Hester had ruffled James's good humour. "If Trent
waits for her, he'll wait some time," he said. He shrugged his shoulders
and then they both smiled. "Trent's good at waiting," he admitted.

Mary jumped up from her chair and took his hands. "James," she
whispered, "I sometimes wish there were something Trent wasn't good at!"

James kissed her. That was all right! Here was the old lady quite
cheerful again. They must all be very kind to her for a day or two, and
when she realised that Rosemary wasn't leaving her yet and got used to
Anthony's new status she would see that there was nothing to be unhappy
about for a long time. And when the disaster came she would be busy
waging war on Laura's nurses.

"I told Rosemary she could have her young man to dinner, my dear," he
said, apprehensive, but feeling that on the whole it was better to get
it over. "It seemed the only decent thing to do."

His wife appeared to have accepted the worst. Her "I'm glad, I forgot to
tell her," was serene. "Laura's been here to say that she and Harry
aren't coming. That's just as well, Trent will be quite enough for them
in one evening."




CHAPTER II


BUT Mrs. Heyham, though she did her best, could not settle down as she
ought to have done. James watched her carefully, and though she was
charming about it he felt that the engagement still distressed her. She
was a little pale, he thought, and detached and indifferent to carefully
planned amusements. Something more radical would have to be done. He
would have liked to take her abroad, but he had business matters in hand
which he could not trust to Trent. Nevertheless things must not remain
as they were. He took his problem to Rosemary, whose own conscience was
not untroubled. "We've got to think of some way," he told her, "of
interesting your mother."

Rosemary agreed with him. Now that she turned her mind to it she could
see that her mother's life needed interests. For what, when she came to
express her sense of it, had Mary's life been? She expended some little
ingenuity in pointing and amplifying her own conception of such an
existence before, in her turn, she consulted Anthony.

Her mother, that was the gist of it, had not lived. Here, in this great
world of speed and steel and electricity, this world of banks and
syndicates and organised labour, Mrs. Heyham had kept her house and
nursed her babies as she might have done a hundred, five hundred, years
ago. She used the clothes and the food and the furniture of the
twentieth century because they were there, at her hand. She knew nothing
of how they were made or of what brought them to her. She lived like an
insect in a coral reef, ignorant of the laws by which she was governed.
Mathematics, the triumph of man's intellect, meant some x's and y's,
some circles and triangles in children's school-books. Philosophy meant
that a great many cultivated people do not believe in God. Biology meant
that in some indiscreet manner we are descended from monkeys; economics
that the Conservatives think a lot can be done with Tariff Reform, and
the Liberals have been left to make the best of Free Trade. Industry was
represented in her mind by the shops where she bought her clothes and
ordered her provisions, by factories, heard of but never seen, by a bank
with large stone pillars that sent her cheque-books, by so much money
from her husband every week. When she tried to escape from it all, at
least to vary it, she travelled on padded seats of first-class
carriages, she slept in hotels where she was carried to her room in a
lift, she stared at views whose last details of excellence had been
dissected in guide books. Public opinion, since she was a rich woman,
did not allow Mr. Heyham to beat her or to take her money, and she could
walk alone in the street without being insulted. She could read novels
about other women's love-affairs, she could turn up the light in her
house by putting her finger on a knob. Yet she had no clue to the
meaning of her life or of the lives of the people who served her and
worked for her. She knew as little of the city she lived in as she knew
of the fields where primitive women toiled. She was shut off--like all
of us, Rosemary thought--from the wild things of the earth, from its
oceans, its forests, its snows. She was denied man's heritage of
knowledge, the rewards of his search for truth. She was sheltered from
the need of working with her hands. She had lost the keenness of her
savage senses and the strength of her savage impulses. She had lost her
bodily hardness, her mental vigour and curiosity. Even her love of
luxury had gone--she did not care, as some women do, to scent herself
and hang herself with jewels, to wrap herself in soft furs and in supple
bright-coloured stuffs. All these desires had withered to a mere dislike
of dirt and disorder, a vague positive aspiration that things should be
nice. Mrs. Heyham was a graceful woman, good, simple, sensitive. She
respected herself and she was respected by others. That was her
spiritual share of the loot of the centuries!

They were walking through the park to Hampton Court when Rosemary tried
to impose this view of the matter on Anthony. He listened to it with
interest but without excitement. He was a fair-haired, sunny-tempered
youth, a little lazy about giving rein to his own enthusiasm but
tolerant of Rosemary's, for he admired her wits. It was a fine
afternoon. He turned appreciative eyes to the long lines of trees
changing from green to grey in the slight pleasant haze. Then he looked
back at Rosemary. "Well," he asked her, "granting all that--and you've
put it very nicely--what is your solution?"

Rosemary had thought of a solution and a very good solution too,
suitable, revolutionary, and high-minded. She was not deterred from
explaining it by Tony's indolent tone. Rosemary was herself a Socialist
and she could not help feeling that if her mother were to take up some
sort of work among her father's employees the results must be thoroughly
satisfactory to all right-thinking people. Her father was a good
employer--neither she nor Anthony doubted it--but it is admitted that
only a woman can understand a woman's difficulties. If you thought of
the matter with an open mind, some such devotion of herself seemed only
Mrs. Heyham's duty. There could be no doubt that she ate and wore the
profits of the business.

"Delightful for the girls, but what is your mother going to get out of
it?" Anthony asked. He thought of his own mother, a strong-minded lady
who made a great point of remembering that she was only a woman. No
child of hers would willingly have extended the sphere of her influence,
but then she lacked essential human kindness. Mrs. Heyham, on the other
hand, was the kindest woman he knew, she was kinder than Rosemary. He
wouldn't, personally, have considered that her life or her personality
needed any addition. They seemed to him gracious, complete, and
satisfying, and he did not think that she herself would wish to tamper
with them.

But Rosemary was answering him. Why--she told him, looking round in her
turn at the still trees and the sunny grass--here would be her mother's
chance. She could leave her artificial, opulent home and go out into the
world, the man's world, that she had never seen. She would touch it,
study it, find out her own place and her value from it. She could live
again, not only with her charm and her sympathy and her admirable
legitimate affections but with her mind, with her soul--Tony might jeer
at the word as much as he liked, but it was exactly her soul that
Rosemary meant. She would learn that out in the world justice and mercy
and pity are not easy, natural things. They must be found--fought for,
insisted on. "Mother," she finished, "has never fought for anything in
her life."

"On the contrary," Anthony told her, "you know nothing about it. A woman
like your mother--I speak with the authority of all the ages--finds her
life and her adventures in herself. She doesn't need to be stirred by
your gross realities, your sordid politics, your miserable clamour for
things to eat and a hole to go to sleep in. She lives, so to speak, in
the depths of the sea, dark-green and heavy, far away down, while you,
my dear Rosemary, are running about in a bright red bathing-dress and
splashing in the little waves on the beach." He smiled at her all the
same as if he approved her choice of occupation.

"And the air," Rosemary reminded him, "and the sky, and the sun! But
seriously, Tony, isn't that all drivel? There may be a mystical life
that can do without experience, but most women haven't got it--mother
hasn't. Taking things as they are, what can you find to criticise in my
plan?"

Tony turned to look at her and met her earnest eyes. She was a beautiful
creature, he thought, and he liked her gallant tilting at destiny. It
was rather jolly of her to marry him. When he spoke, his voice expressed
an easy-going affection. "If I were your mother," he informed her, "I
wouldn't stir a finger to touch what you call life. However, from your
point of view, your plan is all right--if you can persuade your father."

Rosemary had no doubts upon that score. She could easily manage father,
and her mother would simply have to be persuaded. Really it was a
masterly idea--it would be thrilling, most thrilling, to see what she
made of it all.

To her father next day she presented the plan as if it meant nothing
more than a trifling charity, and Mr. Heyham, after careful thought, saw
no objection to it. He was not aware of any deficiencies in his system,
but he was a broad-minded man and could very well believe that there
were a lot of little things that might be done for the girls as long as
they were done in a proper way. He had always deplored the spirit which
makes so many employers regard their business contract as the only link
between master and men. He had given his support to Progressive
legislation when his party introduced it, and when he went into one of
his restaurants he liked to see the waitresses looking cheerful and
well-fed. He knew that he was popular, and the thought of Mary among the
work-people, doing good to them and adored by them, was pleasant. Also,
and this was the chief consideration, it was just the thing for Mary.
Her own children were leaving her and what she wanted was somebody to
mother. He thought well of Rosemary for her idea; he told himself that
there is a good deal to be said for these modern young women.

Laura, whose own struggles with housekeeping had given her a new respect
for Mrs. Heyham, showed the easy enthusiasm of the irresponsible. It
would be splendid for mother to have this fresh outlet for her powers,
and it would be so nice for them all to feel that everything was being
looked after from a woman's point of view. Perhaps later on, if mother
organised clubs or anything that might help her--after all, they all
shared in the profits of the business and in a sort of way they were
responsible. She also felt that it was so splendid of father to want to
let mother in, not like most men who are so vulgar about their wives.
And--this when she had been told of the young man's attitude--it was
just like Trent to make a fuss about what everybody else wanted.

Rosemary, though she was glad of this warm reception, did not feel that
it took her very much further as to Trent. If Mrs. Heyham chose to see a
difficulty in his beastly mulishness she was not likely to be moved by
Laura. After all Trent worked very hard at the business and, in a way,
he had plenty of brains. You could not disregard him as if he were a boy
or a fool.

"Why not, when he behaves like one?" Laura had only looked in for a few
minutes and as she was in a hurry she was inclined to take a lofty way
with obstacles.

Rosemary did not agree. "It's very tiresome of him, but what is the use
of owning a business if you can't be tiresome and obstinate about it?
That's what employers mean when they write to the papers and say that
they must be allowed to manage their own affairs in their own way!" In
her heart Rosemary was not sorry to see Trent embodying her notion of
the grasping capitalist. She was fond of her brother, but she preferred
a dramatic interest.

Laura refused to see matters in this light. If they wanted to win, the
point to be stressed was not Trent's rights but his ungraciousness.
"But, my dear Rosemary," she said, "he can't have any serious objection!
Isn't it obvious that he's merely trying to be disagreeable? Unless of
course--" this struck her as a good idea--"he thinks his Iredales won't
consider it the thing!" She had a train to catch and as she spoke she
moved towards the door.

Rosemary shook her head. She didn't believe that Lord Iredale's
objection to Trent as a cousin would be affected by any charitable
enterprises that Mrs. Heyham might undertake. Trent's reasons, whatever
they were, were clearly not of a kind that he could make public.

This, as Trent himself felt, was the weakness of his position. He was
not a man who could make a show with sentimental values and this was a
matter of sentiment. Trent liked little soft childish women. He liked,
in a quiet way, to be made a fuss of; he did not long to be understood,
but only to be prettily admired. Women who sat on committees and
superintended movements were apt to cultivate an impersonal manner which
he found chilling. He had not much leisure for ladies' society, but when
he did adorn it he expected to be received with womanly charm. And his
grievance now was that Rosemary, with her confounded ideas, was getting
hold of, was doing her best to spoil, his charming mother.

However you looked at it, it was a horrible plan. Mrs. Heyham, as Trent
saw her, was the last person to throw among waitresses and factory
girls. Their girls were no worse than the rest, in fact the firm made
distinct efforts towards moral tone, but he could not believe in his
heart that they were better. And Trent was afraid of waitresses. At
Oxford there had been a rather large waitress who made advances to him.
She was a moist lady with bright yellow hair, and Trent still shivered
with disgust when he thought of her dirty fingers on the edge of his
plate.... That was the sort of person Rosemary wanted to bring into
contact with his mother! He pictured Mrs. Heyham being imposed on, made
use of, duped and talked over by malcontents and agitators. Sooner or
later there was bound to be trouble and once she was there they would
have to stand by her. On the other hand the prospect of his mother
hardened, his mother become managing and suspicious, his mother under
the influence of inspectors and Trade Union officials and Socialists of
all kinds, filled him with a mild anguish.

Trent did not realise that Mrs. Heyham, who was now forty-five, had a
character of her own. She had been almost his ideal of a mother,
receptive and sympathetic, and he could not think of her now as anything
but immature and easily swayed. A wave of protective feeling rose in his
heart. It was particularly shocking that her own husband should expose
her to this danger!

But though these considerations glared broadly before his eyes he could
not state them directly. Trent had, of a formal kind, an immense respect
for his mother, and he accepted the fact that it was as impossible for
her husband to discuss her with her son as it was for her son to discuss
her with anyone else. It was unfortunate, he thought, that the serious
approach had come from his sister and that when James had mentioned the
plan to him he had done so in a casual manner, alluding to it as
Rosemary's newest idea. Trent had hoped to avoid offence by laughing
too, saying that Rosemary's imagination was given to running away with
her, and promising that he would think it over as fully as it deserved.
Thinking it over had only produced reasons to fortify his impulsive
aversion, and if he did not mention it again it was because he hoped
that Mr. Heyham might have seen fit, on reflection, to drop it. Trent
never made it harder for people to do right by enlisting their pride
against him.

But James, who had learned from Rosemary of Trent's real attitude, had
as a matter of fact been waiting, not to retreat from his position, but
for some sign of an apology from his son. In business matters Trent
might stand up to him if he could. Young brains were sometimes a match
for experience, and in any case they could only develop by making a
fight for it. But where his own wife--where Trent's mother--was
concerned, Mr. Heyham was still the head of his family, and he was hurt
that Trent should lack the good taste that would have taken this for
granted. He had never exacted a show of respect from his son, and he had
perhaps assumed too easily that the young man had understood his
attitude. He ought to have understood it; if he hadn't he showed a
mental coarseness which his father did not find easy to forgive.

Mr. Heyham had always stuck up for Trent, if only because he was a boy
and the girls were down on him, but it seemed to him quite possible now
that he had been wrong. The possibility was not pleasant, and James,
when business allowed it, preferred his thoughts to have a mellow
savour. He therefore decided, when two days had passed and Trent had
said nothing, to finish the matter out in the library after dinner.

He waited until Trent had left the hearth-rug and settled himself in a
chair. James himself remained standing, it was always, he felt, annoying
to have your adversary leaning over you. Trent was looking particularly
thoughtful, for he was trying a new kind of cigar.

James opened briskly. "Rosemary and I are anxious to know, Trent, when
we may mention this plan of ours to your mother?"

Trent was deeply disappointed. He had hoped, at the least, for a
reasonable openness of mind, and he was met with what looked painfully
like a display of temper. It was clear that argument was no use, there
was nothing for it but to be firm.

"As soon as you like, sir," he said in a tone which he hoped would
express the sentiments desirable to a man in his position, "as long as
my mother understands that it has nothing to do with me."

"As long as we tell her that you wash your hands of her!"

This was unfair, and Trent hated unfairness. He stared hard at the cigar
for a moment while he tried to master his irritation, telling himself
that thirty years of business make a man quick to put others in the
wrong. His father, watching him, was struck by the attitude. "Good
lord," he thought, "he might be a curate! Well, well...." Meanwhile
Trent was answering. "My dear father, once we're committed to this plan
it won't be possible to wash our hands of it. But I don't want my mother
to think I approve of it."

"It would be interesting," said James, who was accustomed to come off
best in verbal disputes, "exceedingly interesting to know why!"

Trent picked his way as well as he could, among his reasons. "Well, in
the first place, I'm convinced that it will make difficulties. Perhaps I
see more of the girls than you do, and they're as discontented as they
can be. Especially the waitresses. We simply can't afford to have them
upset." He hesitated.

"And what in the second place?"

"In the second place, then, I must say that I don't think it's suitable
for my mother. Our girls are not like villagers, they're not accustomed
to ladies. And mother has never had any experience of this sort of
thing."

By this time James was angry too. Trent had as good as said that he
didn't take proper care of his own wife. That wasn't an arguable matter,
so he let it rankle a little and turned to the other point. "I really
can't congratulate you on your apparent experience," he said. "Our
waitresses are a perfectly respectable lot of girls; I shouldn't in the
least mind my daughters going amongst them. In any case I can't see why
you should think that your mother is likely to corrupt them!"

Here was more unfairness! "I didn't say corrupt. I said upset. Anything
they are not accustomed to upsets them. Look at the trouble we had over
stopping their tips, though they must have seen that it's a far better
plan to have a regular bonus! What I feel is that the person at the back
of this is Rosemary, and frankly I'm not prepared to be responsible for
Rosemary's ideas."

Rosemary's ideas received no defence from her father. He had thought of
a new weapon. "My dear fellow," he retorted, "suppose we look at this
from your mother's point of view for a moment. It may not occur to her
that her influence is likely to be disastrous and upsetting. She may
even feel that she has some rights in the matter, seeing that half the
business is hers! You forget that it was your mother's money that bought
out old Clarkson!"

Trent had forgotten it, indeed it was not often remembered by anyone but
Mary's unsatisfactory brother. When Trent heard it mentioned now he knew
that he had lost; money is money, even when it belongs to a woman. But
he was too much annoyed to admit defeat. "I wasn't disputing my mother's
rights, sir; if it were even her own wish it would be different. But, as
I understand it, she is to be persuaded into a rôle of interference
that is the last thing she would have thought of for herself!"

His father laughed. "In fact there's a general conspiracy in the family
against the dignity and peace of mind of Trent Heyham, Esq.!"

Trent, he flattered himself, could be a gentleman even in an argument.
Such cheap sneers were unworthy of his father. They were not argument.
He did not answer them.

James, too, felt that almost enough had been said. Trent hadn't a
chance, and there was no need to press the boy.

"Look here," he said, quite agreeably, "I'm not prepared to discuss your
mother with you. You can take it from me that nobody is going to
persuade her against her wishes"--Trent grunted, he knew Rosemary's
powers--"and I'm not going to discuss the whole position of women with
you either, though I don't mind telling you that you know nothing about
it. But before we close the subject you must understand that I really
can't undertake to explain your views to your mother. They're beyond me.
But of course I shall be delighted if you can make her see why she is
going to do all this harm. Only you'll have to put it off until
to-morrow because I mean to speak to her myself first." Victory had made
him energetic, and he felt this was a good moment for explaining the
matter to Mary. He stood up, paused for a minute as if he were waiting
for Trent's answer, and then walked briskly, almost gaily, out of the
room. He knew that he had left Trent nursing a grievance. He knew that
Trent did not mean to speak to his mother, and that he felt insulted by
the accusation. He did not care whether the poor young man felt insulted
or not. For the moment Trent was merely a defeated adversary.

Moreover he was a nuisance. Mr. Heyham had never felt certain that Mary
would take to the plan, and now it had become necessary that she should
receive it with enthusiasm. He was not going to overpersuade her, he had
said so, and, besides, it is of no use forcing a person to do a thing
for her own amusement. But Trent had certainly made it difficult for him
to give way on the matter. Trent was a self-righteous young fool. Damn
him!

Mary was alone in the drawing-room, for Rosemary had gone to a theatre
with Anthony. James became more impressed by the beneficence of his
scheme when he noticed that Mary was doing nothing. But she took up some
knitting and pretended to be busy directly she saw him--brave little
woman!

He hovered over her rather awkwardly for a moment. Twenty years ago, if
he had wanted to persuade her, he would have sat down on the footstool
at her feet, and some unreasonable impulse was urging him now that the
footstool would be appropriate. He made no conscious decision, habit
settled him in his usual chair, but for once he went doubtfully. He
remembered the time when their house had seemed to him merely an
opportunity for being alone with Mary, when his heart had beat with a
little feeling of triumph as he closed the street door. Then the
children had come, with their right to interrupt, to burst joyfully into
rooms, and now that the children were going he had discovered a sense of
what was due to the servants. It would be ridiculous now to jump up
because the moment had come for some of the servants' confounded
fidgetings. He told himself that there was nothing to regret. He and
Mary were beyond the old constant need of these little symbols and
affirmations. It would be absurd if they weren't, after twenty-six years
together. Such things had to give way to the other pressures and
interests of life, but that didn't mean that love had given way!

He looked fondly across at Mary, satisfaction completely restored. It
was a commonplace that there are not many wives like Mary, and a matter
for congratulation that he had, on the whole, been able to make her a
very decent husband. At any rate, she thought so, bless her, and he was
perfectly willing to admit his debt to her belief. If James had really
believed in a God he would frequently have thanked Him for His
forethought in creating good women.

As it was, the force of Mr. Heyham's gratitude went to increase his
determination. "I suppose Rosemary has been telling you of the great
things you are to do?" he began lightly, wasting no more time.

"Well, she hasn't said anything, but she has been looking at me with an
appraising eye. And she has lent me one or two books to read." It was
plain to Mary that James wanted her to be pleased about Rosemary's
scheme, so she prepared herself to receive it. "Dear James! Dear
children! How sweet of them to think of me!" she told herself hurriedly.

James seemed amused. "I saw she was trying to make Trent read somebody's
_Principles of Economics_ the other day."

"I don't think these were economics. I'm afraid I haven't looked at them
yet, though I meant to begin one this evening. She said they were books
that would give me an insight into the lives of the poor."

James was touched by the thought of little mother bent over Rosemary's
books. "Tyrannous young bluestocking!" he said, "I don't think we need
bother our old lady with books! It's just where books fail that we want
her to come in. The fact is, mother--I don't know whether you will
forgive us--but your family have been hatching a plot. Rosemary is
concerned about the workgirls ground down under the masculine heels of
Trent and her father, and I am very much concerned about the old lady. I
don't think she's as happy as she ought to be. She's an active old
thing, and it's no use her pretending that she can settle down to
knitting. I believe if she looks she'll find the sock she's got there
has two heels to it. So we thought that if she were to give some of her
time to combating the firm's ruthless oppression it would be a new
interest for her, besides putting an end to one of the worst excesses of
the capitalistic régime!"

Mary was startled into opposition. "But, my dear, what could I do? I'm
certain I shouldn't suit Rosemary at all--I should probably be on the
side of the tyrants! And I know nothing about it!" She smiled at him to
hide a sudden feeling of fear.

James was very soothing and very affectionate. She needn't be afraid
that she would have to participate in crimes--things weren't as bad as
that, in spite of Rosemary's friends. And she mustn't fear either that
she was going to be asked to move mountains or change human nature. It
was really the mere fact of her interest that was important. The girls
would feel that someone cared about them, someone who needn't have
cared; they wouldn't suspect her motives as they always suspected the
motives of their employers. And her presence would help them in other
ways. A word or two would encourage the lady managers to treat their
staffs more kindly--though James could assure her that they were a kind
set of women, wonderfully kind when you thought how heavy their
responsibilities were--yet Mary's example would perhaps infuse a new
courtesy into their intercourse with the girls. And perhaps Mary's quick
eye would see little things that might with advantage be altered--it was
very difficult for a busy man to realise where rules pressed perhaps a
little more hardly than they were meant to, and the lady managers hadn't
always the fine sense that could be trusted only to complain about the
right things. It is difficult to explain the necessities of the case to
people of no education without appearing brutal, or even to concede a
reform without appearing weak. On the whole they had had to discourage
complaints. But a private word to him from Mary would stand in a
entirely different category. It would be like giving him double time,
two pairs of ears, two pairs of eyes.

He didn't for a moment propose that she should make a burden for
herself, or tie herself down to stated hours and times. She was to take
them as lightly as she chose, and they would know how to be grateful.

Mary submitted to the flood of these persuasions in helpless silence.
James did not like being checked in the middle of his explanations.
Moreover, taking his argument point by point, she could not answer it.
James was so just and so reasonable--everything he said was sure to be
true. Her only defence was that she didn't like the idea--that she was
afraid of it. She did not want to be mixed up in James's business. She
had been perfectly content to trust him where she could not follow him.
His work, to her, seemed vast, complicated, laborious, and she credited
him with a display of qualities in relation to it which matched the
candour, the courage, the generosity she so counted upon at home. She
knew that he shone at business as he shone everywhere else, but for her
it was different. How would she fare in this world where men made the
rules, with its stalwart virtues and strange stumbling-blocks? How could
she know that she wouldn't give offence, be weak, or foolish, make James
look down on her? "It would be all very well for Rosemary," she told
herself, "but I can't--no, I can't--it's too much for me!"

"Well, what are you hiding in that wise little head of yours?" her
husband was saying.

She could not find words. Her opening "James" remained unsupported. She
would have liked, instead of answering, to cry.

"Is it as dreadful as all that? Are we bullying our little mother?"
James had crossed over to her and taken both her hands, and made her
stand up in front of him by the fireplace. "She must have a little more
courage--oh, yes, I can see she is afraid, afraid of making a mess of
things and not coming up to expectations. But she must pull herself
together and remember that I've just been telling Trent, that in a way
she owns a good deal of this terrifying business, and in a way she is
responsible for it. Trent and I have done our best to administer it for
her, but as Rosemary thinks, though she's too polite to say so, we are
dull masculine creatures at best, and the place needs its mistress's
eye."

If James spoke like that it meant that his mind was made up. There was
no real use in disputing and making matters more hard, more definite.
Nevertheless, she spoke. "But, James, supposing we don't agree?"

James accepted the admission with a smile. "My dear, are we in the habit
of quarrelling? And do we always agree? Well, then! When we don't agree
we shall talk things over."

"And I shall give way!" Of course she would give way, it was simple
enough.

James shook his head. "I'm not so sure about that! I know somebody who
can be as obstinate as a tiger with a bone! I'd sooner move mountains
than move her from off one of her scruples! She's a dreadful little
person to tackle when her mind is made up!" Mary's obstinacy had been
agreed upon between them since she had successfully refused to have
footmen in her household, or even a boy and a butler.

Mary reassured him. "But in this case you'll have the making of it up!"

James thought it probable he would. "Well, there's no need to sigh like
that!" he told her. "In six months, ridiculous one, we shall have you
thanking us for a new lease of life!"

Mrs. Heyham smiled faintly, and let him swing her hands in and out. "You
said you had to remind Trent," she asked presently. "Does that mean that
he doesn't agree with you?"

James let go her hands that he might clasp his own behind his back. "I
rather gather that Mr. Trent believes in women leading a sheltered life.
Dew-sprinkled flowers and bloomy grapes and that sort of thing. He was
distressed at the idea of your going among the girls, who don't meet his
ideas of nice people. And on the other hand he seemed to fear that you
would prove a channel for Rosemary's revolutionary doctrines--want to
hand over the business to the London County Council, or whatever the
theory of the moment is."

Mary could laugh. "Dear Trent--to tell you the truth, though I wouldn't
care to admit it to Rosemary, I've only the dimmest notion of her
theories! It's a subject on which I've felt too ignorant for discussion.
But, seriously, James, how can I undertake the work you suggest if one
of the directors objects?" For a moment she felt grateful to Trent.

"I don't think we shall hear much more of Trent's objection, my dear,
and even if his manners were worse than I think them, it's of no
consequence. I made him a director because I thought it more fair to
him, but until I retire I, and not Trent, am at the head of the firm."
He spoke in his business voice.

There was nothing very hopeful in that, and Mary felt weakly inclined
for a compromise. "You'll give me a night to think it over, won't you,
James?" she asked. "It's just possible I might discover an argument that
would send you and your old plan packing."

James laughed and kissed her. "Oh, I'm quite ready to allow Rosemary her
share in the glory of convincing you. I'm sure that not even Anthony
could have lured her out if she had known that the assault was to be
made to-night. Think it over as much as you like, but I don't expect
you'll find your argument!"

There was nothing more to say, the matter was settled for the evening,
and James became aware of the fact that it was ten o'clock. Moreover, he
was in the drawing-room, whereas at ten o'clock, if they were alone, he
was accustomed to be in his study. Mary did not want him, she had turned
back to her knitting, and she would soon be going to bed. He waited a
moment, to be sure that she did not want him, but when it came she
seemed quite to expect his good-night.

Nevertheless, Mary did not go to bed. She lay back in her chair and
tried, in the interval that he had left her, to bring some pertinent
order into her thoughts. She had not only to decide what she should do,
but, equally difficult, how she should put the thing to James. She knew
that she was not good at sustaining an argument even when she had
thought it out carefully beforehand.

She tried to state the case very plainly to herself, James's side and
the other side. After all, that was the important thing, it did not
matter so much that he should be pleased with the answer he got from
her. Just now she had been cowardly; it was only fair to him that he
should know what was really in her mind. She had slid too much into the
habit of answering James's mood and not his arguments.

As she thought it seemed to her the case against her going was, in
substance, Trent's case. He, silly boy, tried to make it a shackle to
hold all women. She did not believe in these lofty generalisations, but
she doubted, all the same, whether she might not be wise to respect the
prohibition for herself. She was not one of the women who were fitted,
either by training or by an adventurous disposition to work with men, at
men's affairs, on a neutral footing. Men, for her, had been creatures to
be pleased and to be cared for, and men had loved her and been good to
her precisely because of this attitude of hers. To do what James asked
would be to approach them on a different basis, and she felt it was hard
she should be asked to risk what she had been so proud of--her
successful relations with her husband and her son.

She could see, as she thought it over, that all her life had been passed
in this cherishing of individuals. She had learned to study them, to
respond to them, to guide herself and them through intricate problems of
character and conduct. It had not been easy, she could remember times
when she had lost her way. But it had always been this person and that,
people she knew, people whose lives she understood. She had never been
called upon to deal with them in numbers, as classes, to rule them with
rough and ready decisions. Moreover, though there had been limits to her
time, her strength, her money, and even, she felt remorsefully, to her
good-will, she had at any rate been sure of the principles on which she
based her decisions. She had known what she wanted for them all, for
James, for the children, for the servants. These waitresses and factory
girls were beyond her ken. How was she to know what she wanted for them
or what she ought to want? If she found out how could she then count the
forces available to help her or discover what barriers stood in her way?
If it had been simple to arrange proper conditions it would not have
been left all this time for her to do.

She was returning to her old feeling of timidity and aversion when she
pulled herself up. She was not, she told herself, looking at the thing
squarely; she was arguing as if James had advanced his plan out of sheer
wantonness. He had started, and she must start, too, from the fact of
her narrowing life. She mustn't pretend that the alternative to
agreement was her old round of interests and activities. It was
something less and less important than that. Soon she would be an old
woman whose empty house waited for the children to open its doors. James
was right, she couldn't condemn herself to that. And if she went
forward, if she saved her life from this dreariness, then, James's plan
or another, she must take a risk.

She tried now to reassure herself. She knew that she was not a fool; and
these terrifying waitresses were, after all, human beings like other
people. Their needs were ordinary human needs for health and happiness.
It would probably amuse them, poor things, if they knew that their
employer's wife was frightened of them!

These painstaking reflections were suddenly scattered. Mrs. Heyham's
conscience, always partial to conviction of sin, had flashed upon her a
charge of unkindness to James. James's kindness and forethought, his
sympathy for her loneliness, the trouble he had taken, the trouble he
was prepared to take over her stumblings in the future, all were arrayed
against the wife who had never thanked him or shown that she recognised
them. It was perfectly true, he had been a dear about it, and she had
thought of nobody but herself!

Mary could not have slept with this upon her mind. Two minutes later
James, looking up from an article on the latest naval scare, saw her
crossing the floor of his study.

"James," she said softly, bending over him, "you must have been thinking
what a selfish creature I am! I never thanked you at all, and it was so
kind of you, my dear!"

James made her sit on the arm of his chair. "The absurd old lady!" he
scolded. "A moment ago she was worrying because she wasn't clever
enough, and now, Heavens above us, she's selfish! She will positively be
smothered with gratitude from all sorts of poor creatures presently, and
then will be time enough to hand on a little of it to me. Now, are there
any more deadly sins to be explained away?"

Mary bent over him until her cheek touched his head. "I want you to
promise," she said a little shyly, "promise that however silly I am you
won't think the worse of me for it. Please!"

James laughed. "Solemnly, on my honour, you funny old darling! May I die
in my shoes if I doubt that whatever you do is the most admirable thing
in the world! There, will that suit you?"

Mary kissed him, slipped from his arm and went to the door. "Sometimes,"
she told him, looking round before her final disappearance, "I'm rather
fond of you, James!" The door shut.

James found his place in the article with a smiling face. Germany or no
Germany, he felt that this is not a bad world. He liked to see Mary
scrupulous in matters of emotion; sometimes it was a little tiresome,
but it gave him a feeling that she was dependable. "That's the best of
her," he told himself, "she likes to think things out for herself, but
she always sees one's point of view in the end." He plunged into
statistics. He did not believe in this invasion, but to read of it
reminded him that he was doing his duty. He had said that if any of his
men cared to join the Territorials he would arrange about their
holidays. It was inconvenient, of course, having them all go together,
but he had done it. In this way, as he had pointed out, even the senior
men, whose holidays now had to wait, contributed their little sacrifice
to England's greatness. We cannot all die for our country, but dear me,
that's no reason for not doing something!

James slept well that night.




CHAPTER III


DURING the next fortnight Mrs. Heyham's sitting-room took on a
business-like air. A desk appeared in it, a typewriter, and finally a
lady called Miss Percival. She was Rosemary's idea, and the theory of
her was that one cannot be certain of doing good, even to waitresses,
unless one knows something about them before one begins. Miss Percival,
who had been secretary to a philanthropic member of Parliament, was to
help her employer acquire this necessary knowledge, and then act, so to
speak, as a reservoir of information whose tap would be turned if Mrs.
Heyham showed signs of forgetfulness or of letting her feelings run away
with her.

There could be no doubt of the lady's fitness for this task, for away in
her past behind the conscientious member lay services to every
progressive society in London that wanted investigation done for
nothing. And if testimonials can be trusted each of these bodies had
relinquished Miss Percival with passionate regret.

Mary waited for such efficiency with certain misgivings. Her kind heart
had prompted her to buy a fumed oak desk instead of the elegant sycamore
she would have liked, in order that her secretary might feel at home.
Anything so ugly must, Mary thought, be excessively practical. But when
Miss Percival arrived she did not look like a person who would be
affected by the material of her desk. She was short, dark, unexpectedly
young, and quite kind to every one. She even informed Mrs. Heyham that
this was the sort of work she had been hoping to get. The only other
thing one noticed about her, at first, was that she would not speak, if
she could help it, in front of James or Trent. Mary, when she saw that
this was so, felt sorry for her, and almost suspected sad experiences.
The M. P. was out of the question--Mary had once sat next to him at
dinner--but she had no such guarantee about all the queer people there
must have been in the societies. But kindness might be trusted to remove
any doubts that lingered in Miss Percival's mind, and in the meantime
the important thing was that she seemed to have a clear notion of what
she meant to do. This was a relief to Mary, who could organise very well
when she must, but took no delight in thinking out a plan for its own
sake.

The first thing, according to the expert's scheme, was to ask Mr. Heyham
to give them an account of the business. This he willingly did, at ease
in his arm-chair, while Mary looked at him with quiet appreciation. Miss
Percival was not present. James, when he told a story, liked to tell it
in his own way, and in this case Mary's dead father and mother were
involved, besides James's own father, who was intensely alive and sinful
in South America. Mary could repeat the important facts to Miss Percival
afterwards, and then Miss Percival could make a note of them.

The business came into the family in the middle-age of James's father,
who in those days was a plausible, restless fellow, continually
initiating enterprises and continually throwing them up. At this period
in his career he was associated with a dubiously virtuous old man called
Matthew Clarkson, and Clarkson persuaded his ally to invest some money
they had recently acquired in a mineral water factory in East London. It
was called the "'Rule Britannia' Aerated Water Co.," and that, as its
vendor pointed out, was a very good name to start from. The factory, as
they found it, was small and exceedingly dirty, and perhaps for these
reasons congenial to Matthew, who developed a habit of visiting the
place very morning in order that he might irritate the foreman, and
conduct experiments in an unpleasant cupboard that he called his
laboratory. Meanwhile Mr. Henry Heyham was making the most of this brief
life, spending a good deal of mysterious money, moving into a larger
house, giving his sons a passable education, and looking about him for a
suitable match for his daughter Edith. Even her brothers thought Edith a
handsome girl, and in particular she was attractively plump. Henry found
it possible before his own financial needs became too glaring to marry
her to a wealthy gentleman interested in meat. And thank heaven this is
a Christian country where marriage is still held sacred.

He bore up until the honeymoon was over, for he always liked to do
things decently, but two days after Edith's return he summoned his
second son James, fresh from a London school, and told him, with an
almost tearful impressiveness, that he, Henry, was for the moment done
for. Honourably done for, mind you, not through his own fault but
through the fault of those he had trusted. Not that he regretted having
trusted them, he would rather have a mind full of faith and confidence
in his fellows even if he had to pay for it than pass through the world
crammed with ugly suspicions and for ever taking precautions against his
neighbour.

Even without the old man's deprecating look, James would have understood
that this was Henry's way for apologising for some gross and culminating
piece of carelessness.

But that was not all he had to say. Many fathers, if not most fathers,
when they had reached the age of having grown-up sons who had been
treated with every kindness, supplied with every luxury, and equipped
with an unsurpassed education, would consider--and in his opinion they
wouldn't go beyond their rights if they did--that the time had come when
the said sons were in duty bound to turn to and support the authors of
their being. But he, Henry, was not that sort of man. He would never be
a burden on any child of his. On the contrary it had been the object of
his steadfast endeavour to provide a safe start in life for his boys, no
matter what might happen to their old father. Edith couldn't have been
better disposed of, Timothy was doing well with the smartest, most
up-to-date solicitors in London, and he now proposed to complete the
beneficent work by giving James an opportunity that most young fellows
would cut off their ears to get, an opportunity so resplendent, if he
only liked to use it, that ten years might see him a rich man, and
twenty find him a captain of industry--and this in an age when to be a
captain of industry, honest British industry, was the goal of every
decent man's ambition. There was much that might be said upon this
subject, upon the essential meanness and hollowness of politics, art,
literature, the Church, the services, science, medicine, and teaching,
regarded as careers. But time pressed. He would put what he wanted to
say briefly, simply, without trimmings, as befitted a business man. He
proposed to make over to his dear son James his share in the thriving
mineral water business known as the Rule Britannia Aerated Water Co. And
to whatever quarter of the globe fortune might drive him, to whatever
depths of squalor she might plunge him, he would never forget to pray
for the immediate, the triumphant, the cataclysmic success of his dear
son, his old friend, and the Rule Britannia.

James had not known that there was such happiness. He could not speak.
His eyes were dazzled by a vision of shining bottles, thousands of
smooth glass bottles, crystal clear, through which gleamed splendidly
the ruby, the topaz, the diamond, of their appetising contents. Above
waved the flag of the greatest of nations, and the distant voices
singing a glorious song broke off to acclaim him a captain of industry.
His heart was full; for a moment he forgot his anxiety concerning the
fate of a parent.

Old Henry, who had only paused for dramatic effect, felt no pain at this
lack of piety. Let James rejoice, he went on, and not sadden his days by
thinking about him. He had knocked about the world before now, and if a
peaceful old age was denied him he would submit anew to the scourgings
of fate. As a matter of fact--here his eye brightened--he had heard of a
little affair in South America. There might be something in it or there
might not. In any case no good would be served by talking about it now.
If matters went well his boys would hear from him. If not--he hoped they
would keep a warm corner in their hearts for the memory of their poor
old father. And now James had better come along and see to the necessary
papers, as he was sailing for Montevideo in a couple of days.

When next his boys did hear of him, two years later, he was lodged in a
South American prison. James, who had long feared something of the sort,
could only be thankful that it had happened in a romantic continent.
None of Henry's family doubted that when Henry returned--if he ever did
return--he would have some explanation compatible with the greatest
physical courage and the loftiest qualities of heart and head. As a
matter of fact when a letter arrived it contained the tale of a maiden
in distress so beautiful, so tender, so virtuous, that only a scoundrel
could have turned away from her piteous appeals.

Meanwhile James worked hard, for the captain of industry still dominated
his dreams. But it was some time before he began to make more than a
bare living. Even when he had to a certain extent surmounted his own
inexperience he was faced by his partner's refusal to spend a penny on
making the factory even decently clean, by the impossibility of keeping
a good class of work-girl owing to the same old gentleman's roving eye,
and by Clarkson's Ginger Cordial. This was the result of years of
patient and muddled investigation on Matthew's part. He was not
satisfied with it yet, he said, and meanwhile he was offended if he was
not allowed to call the whole staff away from their work in order that
they might conduct experiments with him. This was particularly
troublesome because the coadjutor he most favoured was the forewoman,
the only person in the place whose tongue was sharp enough to keep the
girls in order. It was useless for James to explain that no business
carried on in this way could have any chance of succeeding. Clarkson
replied that it didn't matter a damn whether it succeeded or not until
the Ginger Cordial was ready for the market. After that event it
wouldn't be able to help succeeding. And further, he wasn't going to be
preached at in his own factory by--young puppies.

That seemed an impregnable position, but Matthew's defences had one weak
spot. The passing of the Employers' Liability Act revealed the fact that
the senior partner was terrified of inspectors and of the fiendish
things inspectors might do to him. He had no knowledge of the law, and
only a vivid something in his past seemed adequate to account for his
fear of it. Happily in this country we have, besides the clumsy and
public efforts of our legislators, the subtle and intricate machinery of
Home Office orders. One Julius Trent, a friend of James's, persuaded him
to spend a few pounds at a costumier's and a few shillings at a
printer's. After that one of Her Majesty's Factory Inspectors, in an
imposing blue uniform, visited Mr. Clarkson several times a week. The
old man withstood this onslaught for some time, but when the inspector
arrived one day with a printed document which set forth that owing to
information and complaints recently received regulations had been issued
to the effect that those who were guilty of any breaches of the rules
laid down for the safety and good government of the English people, and
in particular of obstructing or using obscene or filthy language to Her
Majesty's Factory Inspectors in the course of their duty, should in
future be liable to imprisonment with hard labour without the option of
a fine, the old man's courage failed. He undertook to allow the
necessary cleaning, he promised to respect a salutary rule just made by
the Home Secretary that no forewoman was on any account whatever to
enter her employer's private room, he even gave up his laboratory
because the same authority had found it inexpedient to permit
experimental research into the composition of cordials to be carried on
under one roof with the manufacture of mineral waters between the hours
of 6 A.M. and 10 P.M. He retired routed to a shed at the bottom of his
garden with no revenge but his votes, and the next thing to do was to
buy him out before he discovered what had happened.

That took some time, partly because every penny James could spare was
needed for repairs and improvements, partly because Mr. Clarkson, as
soon as he found that James wished it, showed an obstinate reluctance to
being bought out. The Home Secretary could not exclude him from his own
premises altogether, and he still enjoyed an occasional ramble round.
Finally James, who was growing more masterful, dismissed the forewoman.
That was a blow, for her successor and her successor's underlings did
not appreciate Mr. Clarkson's practised smiles. James found him one day
examining himself rather sadly in a looking-glass.

The sight of James's reflected face suddenly mingled with an already
unpleasing picture roused Mr. Clarkson. Hitherto, he said, he had borne
with young Heyham's goings-on in a Christian spirit, but this was
spying. Heyham seemed to think that he was cock of the walk, that he'd
only got to say the word and every one would lick his boots; well, they
wouldn't. And when he, Matt Clarkson, liked to be nasty he could be
nasty. And no mistake about it.

Being nasty meant abusing James in front of the hands, jeering at him,
or, what was worse, assuming in public that nothing delighted him more
than to hear one of Mr. Clarkson's appalling anecdotes. Even the Home
Secretary cannot forbid a Briton to make the jokes that please him.
Nevertheless in his heart the old man was afraid. He did not attempt to
control the business, and when he had made his partner really angry, he
would say that he didn't mean anything by it, it was just his way.

Meanwhile James had arrived at a time of his life that he could discuss
more fittingly with a wife on the sofa beside him than with a wife on a
separate chair. Julius Trent, afterwards such a nuisance, then so
charming, introduced his friend James to his parents, and old Mr. Trent
took a fancy to the young man. Old Mr. Trent approved of young men who
worked very hard and showed every intention of succeeding, and he had
been amused by Julius's account of Mr. Clarkson and the factory
inspector. He also enjoyed discussing books with James, for in those
days James took an interest in political theory. He hadn't much time to
think of these things himself, but there were plenty of men who had, and
surely some day one of them would produce the simple, gentlemanly,
inexpensive solution of social problems that would relieve an overworked
business man of further anxiety.

Old Mr. Trent, like many people who have few chances of talking over the
subjects that interest them, had invented two or three systems that
would abolish bad times and make England prosperous for evermore. The
trouble with most of them was that they involved a good deal of
compulsion at the outset--before people had learned to appreciate their
excellence--and Mr. Trent was against compulsion in any form. It was
this that had made him give up his great Malthusian scheme of grading
workmen according to their capacity and regulating their families in a
corresponding manner. He still hoped that a more enlightened generation
might adopt it of their own free will, and to this end he subscribed
considerable sums to a Neo-Malthusian journal. But the plan to which he
had finally devoted his declining years might perfectly well, if only
the Government would leave off wasting their time, be put into effect at
once. It consisted in taking a tenth of the capital of anybody who had
got a sufficient quantity, buying gold with it, and depositing the gold
in the vaults of the Bank of England. It would not be at all an
oppressive measure, for the resulting prosperity and expansion of credit
would far more than compensate everybody concerned. After only two or
three years he was sure that no more compulsion would be necessary, for
here you would be dealing, not with uneducated workmen, blind to their
own interests, but with astute financiers and men of business. The only
difficulty would be that other countries might get hold of the idea and
refuse to sell gold. But let his hearers take heart, recent discoveries
all went to show that there was a far greater quantity of gold in
various parts of the planet--mostly, by the direct favour of God,
British possessions--than one was apt to imagine. If James would glance
at these geological maps....

James was not always allured by these problems, but he appreciated Mr.
Trent's library and the comfortable, sufficiently cultured air of Mr.
Trent's house. The manners that prevailed in it seemed to James very
gracious and elegant--they were in any case a pleasant change from the
manners of Mr. Clarkson. He also grew fond of Mrs. Trent, who was kind
to him, and he fell in love with whatever her mother and her governess
allowed him to see of Mary. She was sixteen when he saw her first, very
pretty, very quiet, very easily made to blush. She would laugh
delightfully, as if she could not help it, at the clever, witty things
James said, and then stop suddenly, and droop her head over her
embroidery, until James surpassed himself to make her look up again.
They were engaged when she was eighteen, and at the end of another year
he felt that he was in a position to marry her. Mr. and Mrs. Trent
believed in girls marrying young, while they would still view facts in a
romantic light and before they had become unable to adapt their
dispositions to those of their husbands. James's only regret was that he
could not present himself as the sole owner of his growing business, but
old Clarkson persistently demanded not only three thousand pounds for
what had only cost him fifteen hundred but an extra five hundred for the
formula of his Ginger Cordial. Nobody wanted his cordial, but he would
not sell one without the other. That he would sell at all was due to the
fact that James was still bent on developing the business instead of
considering all the returns as profit.

Neither James nor Mary was ever sure of the motives that led Mr. Trent
to make his daughter part owner of the "Rule Britannia." But they
believed that the idea must have occurred to him first on the day when
he met Mr. Clarkson in James's office. The senior partner's clothes were
particular greasy that day, he had been drinking a good deal of Ginger
Cordial with a little rum in it to make it more satisfying, and he
insisted on showing the visitor some picture postcards that he
considered truly comic. Mr. Trent was a fastidious little man, and as an
estate agent he had come into contact with some very good people. He
asked James at the time whether he ever saw Mr. Clarkson outside the
factory, and James's reply of "Not if I can help it!" may not have
seemed sufficiently reassuring. At any rate when James came to sign his
marriage settlements he found that Mr. Clarkson had sold his share in
the firm and his rights over Clarkson's Ginger Cordial for £3,500, the
said rights to revert to him if the said cordial were ever sold under
any other name, and that Mrs. James Heyham would in future be entitled
to half the profits of the business.

After his marriage James worked harder than ever. Old Mr. Trent made an
excellent father-in-law; he never interfered but he was always ready to
lend James a hundred or so when mineral-water provided some sudden
opportunity for a rich man to become a little richer. James found
considerable moral satisfaction in repaying these loans. Mrs. Trent was
sympathetic, helpful when Trent and Laura were born, and an unfailing
example to Mary of how a wife should cherish and revere a husband. The
Heyhams lived frugally, for the firm was still absorbing every penny
that could be spared. Bread companies and milk companies were beginning
to make fortunes out of shops for the sale of tea and light
refreshments. James did not see why a similar venture should not succeed
with mineral water for its basis. The "Rule Britannia" was turned into
a private company under the name of "Imperial Refreshments Limited." Mr.
Trent lent James the necessary capital and three tea-shops were
established.

The tea-shops flourished and their numbers grew. Before long they were
the most important part of the business. They did not provide the market
for mineral waters that James had expected, but, though it seemed a
little perverse of them, they were steady customers for the Ginger
Cordial. This proved to be a heartening mixture, unnecessarily
complicated perhaps, but undoubtedly with an interest of its own. In
summer it imparted life to our Imperial Fresh Fruit Drinks, in winter,
hot, it made clients feel brisk but not aggressive. James hated the
sight of it, and its smell gave him a headache.

Now he still worked, still looked for opportunities, still kept an open
mind. But it was with the ease and amplitude of recognised success.
Worries came and went, weather and government interfered with prices,
this man or that turned out bad, neighbourhoods altered, and rivals had
bright ideas. But at the bottom the Imperial was sound and everybody
knew it. Its methods and its machinery alike were the most up-to-date in
the trade. Its premises were spotless, the materials it put into its
products were absolutely the best that could be done for the money. And
James took trouble to please his customers' minds as well as their
bodies. The tea-shops had begun in a somewhat gloomy fashion; the glass
doors between their windows had been darkened with large bills of fare,
the upper panes of the windows themselves had been pasted over with
labels, and below a Japanese tea-set on one side and some fruit and a
boiled ham on the other had been thrown into relief by red plush
curtains. Inside there had been bamboo furniture, black screens with
gold birds on them, and an occasional artificial palm. But as James rose
in the world his taste improved. With the changes in Mary's furniture at
home the decorative scheme of the tea-shops changed too, until now they
were models of charm and sanitation. Their walls were white and their
paint was black. Customers' hats and coats were massed in places where
they did not destroy the effect. The tables had tops that were excellent
imitations of green marble and as light as wood to shift--heavy wood.
There were casement windows, and in winter the curtains and the crockery
were cherry-coloured, in summer they were white with a border of green
leaves. Trent thought this extravagant, but James preferred to consider
the beneficial effect on the æsthetic natures of his customers. Besides
it pays in the long run to be distinctive. Even the company's monogram
had been carefully designed to add to the beauty of these favoured
places. In short, they looked like shops where you might well have paid
sixpence for your cup of tea, and they, were shops, as the posters by
real artists reminded you, where you could get a superlative cup for
twopence.

The Imperial manufactured their own china, under another name, and held
the patent rights of the marble substitute. In the newer shops they were
paving the floors with it, green and white. The fact that several other
restaurants and tea-shops came innocently to him for their cups and
saucers gave James a good deal of quiet pleasure, though he didn't
attend to that side of the business himself. Nor, as the china factory
was naturally not in London, would Mary be likely to have dealings with
it, though they employed a good many girls. But he could assure her that
go where she would, at any time, whether she was expected or not
expected, she wouldn't find a corner of the Imperial's premises that she
would be ashamed to see in her own house. James knew all about dirt, and
he didn't believe in it.




CHAPTER IV


THE next thing to do, clearly, was to visit the tea-shops. James took
Mary to the Oxford Circus depot himself. He was particularly proud of
the Oxford Circus depot, because the girls wore frilled aprons and green
dresses, and the washing-up was done by machines. Their gay attire was a
recognition of the girls' good looks--they had been chosen by a manager
who was a real lady and had an eye for a pretty face. She explained the
thing to Mary:--At Oxford Circus their clientele was superior to most,
and the girls came to them not so much to get married, as they came to
shops where the customers were chiefly clerks, but because they liked
the feeling of being in fashionable life. So they naturally appreciated
the chance of looking more elegant than black woollen dresses permit.
Only last year one of them had left to be a mannequin at Ormesby's. A
gentleman from Ormesby's had been lunching at the depot and noticed her
figure. And of course that had made the others more anxious than ever to
be smart. It was very natural, and one couldn't be hard on them,
especially as the ladies liked it so--they felt more as if they were in
Bond Street, though the prices were the Imperial's usual prices--but she
did have to say a word sometimes about high heels. Mrs. Heyham could see
for herself that it wasn't safe carrying trays up and down those marble
stairs with high heels. And then there was the tap, tap, tapping.
Besides, high heels give so much trouble with feet, and they had to
think of that, if Mrs. Heyham would forgive her seeming vulgar.

James nodded hastily at this, and changed the subject. He liked to think
that the manager looked after the girls' health, but really their feet
were not things that he cared to discuss. He preferred to contemplate
their trim waists and the clever manipulation of their hair. That was
another point in which they differed from the attendants in less stylish
places, and Mrs. Creemer, her voice dropped in a manner suited to
James's modesty, did not fail to mention it. It appeared that she had
said only yesterday, "Miss Perkins, my dear, off with them pads! A
simple side parting and a wave over the ear is what you want. Just a
touch of black velvet, perhaps, as you're fair, but nothing showy!" She
did her best to take only superior young ladies, but you couldn't expect
them all to have taste like your own.

Mary would have felt a little overwhelmed by Mrs. Creemer if James had
not taken her so coolly. James, of course, met women like this every
day. He was their employer, he had business dealings with them, though
she had never realised it. There was nothing about James to make her
realise it. He lived in this atmosphere, but it did not touch him. Mary
looked quickly, almost shyly, at her admirable husband; then she brought
her thoughts back to the matter in hand. After all, the woman might be
vulgar, but she was also praiseworthy; she seemed to have both a kind
heart and sound common-sense. That was a great deal, and meanwhile Mary
could sincerely praise the Oxford Circus tea and smile at the Miss
Somerville who brought it.

This visit was a social affair, a mere introduction and Miss Percival
had not come. James, naturally, did not always care to have Miss
Percival about. But next day investigation began in earnest. Mary chose,
this time, a branch in Chelsea, and in the early afternoon she drove
there with James's order, Miss Percival and Miss Percival's list of
questions. It was a long list and Mary did not feel sure that all the
questions were necessary. But she said nothing, for she respected
experience and certified ability.

The manager of depot C.L. was a harassed looking lady who received them
with an air almost of helplessness. Certainly let them come in, and she
would do what she could to tell them anything they wanted to know.
Perhaps--brightening--they would sit down and let her give them a cup of
tea!

Mary praised the tea as she had already praised it, and as she would
continue, steadily, to praise it during the next six months. Then she
asked the waitress, a pretty girl of about eighteen, what her name was
and whether she was happy.

The girl said that her name was Florrie Wilson. She did not seem to know
whether she was happy or not. Pressed, she said yes, that she was a
lucky one, she had been taken on straight in Coronation year, when there
were the Colonial troops in Chelsea and people coming to see them, so
she hadn't had to do her year's washing-up. And then Miss Sower getting
ill and leaving she was kept on. She liked Chelsea, she thought it was
gayer than Maida Hill where she lived.

She worked from eight in the morning to nine at night, with the
intervals that the law prescribes, and she came and went very
comfortably in the blue motor-bus that runs from the World's End.
Florrie's mother hadn't at first quite approved of Florrie's going about
so much alone in motor-buses, but then Florrie's mother was a real lady,
only her health had failed because she was left a widow. And Florrie had
come to work in the depot not because she needed work, but because she
liked her independence and a bit of fun. She left home at seven sharp,
and she got back about ten. She had Sundays off, and alternate Bank
Holidays.

At this point Mrs. Black, the manager, intervened and sent Florrie off
to a customer. The manager was of opinion, she said, that Florrie was a
talker. She preferred, it was clear, that their information should come
reliably from her rather than erratically from Miss Florrie Wilson.

Mary, left to herself, would not have submitted Mrs. Black to any very
fierce ordeal. She was feeling pleased, pleased with Florrie for looking
so pretty and speaking so nicely, and with herself for obtaining so much
information in so pleasant a way. She was glad that she had resolved to
make this inquiry, it was interesting, more than interesting,
fascinating, and it would not be impossible to make a success of it. But
there, at her elbow, was Miss Percival, and on the table before Miss
Percival was the list. Mary was reminded that they were there to be
thorough and scientific and with the smile of one who does her duty she
intimated that Miss Percival's moment had come.

The inquisition began happily. Yes, it was perfectly true that the
company only took girls who were not dependent on their wages for their
living. Not that they gave bad wages, but you couldn't live as a young
lady ought to live on eleven shillings a week, bonus instead of tips,
making it up to twelve. The manager thought that was good money, she
herself had begun--in another company--as kitchen help at seven
shillings, and kitchen work was man's work, not girl's work at all.

Mary thought that sounded satisfactory. If the girls' parents supported
them you could set that off against their board and lodging, and that
left them with what any of her younger servants would have considered
excellent wages. She was surprised when she saw the expression with
which Mrs. Black received the next question. Mary had hardly noticed it
on the list, but Mrs. Black seemed to think that it was deliberately and
pointedly offensive. How did she find out whether the girls were being
supported at home or not? She went round to take their characters, just
as any lady would, as Mrs. Heyham would herself. And she could assure
Mrs. Heyham's secretary that she was just as particular as any lady. How
did she know by that that they were being supported?--Well, she used her
common-sense. It might be friends of the girls having her on, of course,
but she didn't think so. She couldn't be hard on them, of course, she
wasn't that sort of woman. In fact, she was only a plain woman not
accustomed to answering questions. All the same she knew, though she
mightn't be able to explain exactly how, that there wasn't one girl in
the place who wasn't living in a comfortable respectable home. She had
worked for the Imperial fourteen years, and Mrs. Heyham might take it
from her that she knew the difference between a young lady and a low
common girl.

Miss Percival took this down without any change of expression and Mary
said kindly that the girls looked very happy and contented. Mrs. Black
propitiated, replied she did her best for them, and Miss Percival
proceeded to the matter of aprons.

Aprons, it appeared, were a burning subject. Opinions differed as to who
ought to supply the aprons, who ought to pay for them, who ought to pay
for washing them, and how many aprons one ought to be called upon to
wear in one week, supposing one were unlucky with splashing urns and
dirty tables. Mrs. Black, apparently, was all for peace. She couldn't
allow herself to be trampled on, but she didn't go looking for trouble.
Some managers made the girls change if they got so much as a little
water or milk down them that took the gloss off, but in her opinion, in
Chelsea, there was no need except for real stains. And she must say she
did not think that could be called unreasonable. For the other rules she
was not responsible, they were the firm's regulations.

Mary was accustomed to regard difficulties like this from the employer's
point of view, and she did not think the matter of great importance.
Miss Percival passed on to the subject of fines for being late.

Here again it was admitted that some managers were tartars. In some
tea-shops--not necessarily the Imperial's--the girls were treated really
hard. But as long as the work did not suffer and the Inspector was
pleased with her returns Mrs. Black did feel that five minutes sometimes
in the morning might be passed over. She knew that she was giving
herself away to Mrs. Heyham in saying so, but when a lady asked her a
question no one should say that she didn't speak the truth. It occurred
to her as an afterthought that there weren't any fines, of course, only
part of the eleven shillings took the form of a bonus at the end of the
weds if the girls had been punctual.

Mary thought that sounded very fair, Miss Percival nodded, and took it
down. Among her other accomplishments was that of taking shorthand
notes.

When all the questions had been answered, Mary, whose smile was becoming
a little mechanical, rose to go. After all she had come to the tea-rooms
in order to make life easier for the girls, not to ruffle the feelings
of the managers. Miss Percival rose too, but instead of standing back
while Mary said good-bye she turned to her employer with the suggestion
that they should now see the washing-up.

Mary had forgotten the washing-up and she accepted the reminder as
meekly as if it had been a rebuke. "Oh, yes, please, the washing-up!"
she agreed.

Mrs. Black assented with a "Certainly if you would care to, Mrs.
Heyham," that, together with the sweep of her skirt as she turned,
demonstrated sufficiently that she took her orders from the lady and
from the lady alone. She led them downstairs, past the kitchens, and
Mary reproached herself for feeling glad that the kitchens were served
by men and laid her under no obligation to enter them.

As they went the manager explained that it wasn't every company did
things like the Imperial. Raised boards for the girls to stand on, and
as much clean water as you liked, and a good big room with varnished
walls. The manager, before she rose to that dignity, had washed up in
places where you stood in a swamp and rats ran between your feet, and
the water was more grease than water and as black as ink.

Mary shuddered, then she felt proud of James. They were downstairs now
and the manager opened the door of the washing-up room. For a basement
it was clean and light, but it was as damp as a bath-room after a hot
bath. And it smelled, of stale food, of dirty water, of washing-powder,
of well-worn clothes. Steam rose from the sinks, water dripped from the
racks of clean china fixed to the walls, the floor was wet, and the
paint on the woodwork glistened. There were six girls at work, two
scouring saucepans and kitchen utensils, four handling the
cherry-coloured china that looked so pretty against the white walls.
Their faces were flushed and their hair hung limp over their foreheads.

"They come to this first," the manager was explaining, "and go upstairs
afterwards."

The girls washed thoroughly and methodically. Mary felt certain that
when the plates and cups left their hands, they were clean.

"That's what I call good conscientious work," she told Mrs. Black.

That lady brightened. "I do my best, Mrs. Heyham," she replied. "You'll
not find a smear of mustard on a plate upstairs once in six months. And
so it should be, with the beautiful water we get. And the linen the
same, as much water as you like, and open-air drying. Customers say that
what they get at home don't touch it."

At that moment Miss Percival, who had been watching one of the girls
cleaning saucepans, intervened. "Do you have much fainting?" she asked.

"Never had such a thing!" Mrs. Black stared straight in front of her as
if Miss Percival were disembodied. "At least," she added, with the air
of one who was anxious to be absurdly truthful, "there was a young girl
here who fainted once. I put it down to them silly corsets myself." She
turned to Mary, as if to invite her sympathy.

The girl with the saucepans straightened herself and tried to appear
thoroughly well. Mary, noticing her, looked round for a chair, but
discovered that there was none.

"Oughtn't she to sit down for a minute?" she suggested. She felt sorry
for the girl, who looked delicate.

"There again!" Mrs. Black's voice suggested that she was put
out--"there's two chairs provided for this room, and if you'll believe
me they puts them into the passage! Says they get in the way!"

Here one of the girls turned round. "'Tisn't us that puts them into the
passage, Mrs. Black! It's the kitchen as takes them, as you know!"

"And what's the kitchen doing in here?" retorted Mrs. Black. "Anyway,
you go along and get one for the lady!"

The girl protested. "It's as much as my life is worth to put my head
inside the door!"

Her superior looked at her with that fine irony which only the powerful
can afford. "I suppose you expect me to do your fetching and carrying,"
she was beginning, when a voice from the corner made her turn. By this
time the girl with the saucepans had succeeded in making the sink and
the wooden racks stand still instead of swooping and whirling round her.
"Don't get no chair for me, Mrs. Black!" she urged. "I don't want to sit
down. It was only a feeling of giddiness like, and if we gets a chair
we'll have them fellows in here after it again!"

This seemed the general opinion of the room and Mrs. Black endorsed it.

"You might have the politeness to thank Mrs. Heyham!" she told the
sufferer, and then turning to Mary, "What we have to put up with from
that kitchen you'd never believe! Why, the girls don't dare go into the
pantry to eat their dinner for fear of their impertinence! And good room
as this is, it isn't a place for eating, with all the steam and the
dirty plates. It puts you off!"

"But they oughtn't to eat in here!" Mary looked round with dismay.

It appeared that the washing-up girls were not supposed, strictly, to
take their meals in the building at all, they were supposed to go home.
But some of them lived far away, so Mrs. Black, if it hadn't been for
the kitchen, would have let them have a bit of dinner in the pantry. The
company allowed their employees to have food at half price. The
waitresses ate their meals in the serving-room, or they could use the
cloak-room, but they didn't care to have the washing-up girls about.
They felt that what they had been through others could go through. Not
that they were unkind girls, but that was how they saw it.

Again Mary felt very glad that she had come. She did not like annoying
people and seeming inquisitive, but she was prepared to put up with
anything that would really lead to good. And it was clear to her that
there was a great deal that a tactful woman could do here. Some place
must be managed where these poor girls could eat their dinner in peace,
and they ought to sit at their work. She would tell Miss Percival to
note those two points.

As they passed through the restaurant on the way out, Mary saw Florrie
standing by one of the tables. Florrie smiled--she had an attractive
smile--and Mary nodded and smiled back. She told herself that she would
remember Florrie's name.

Mrs. Black took them to the door and said good-bye to them with a
wonderful brightening and softening of manner. The gratitude which she
expressed with great fervour was clearly not feigned, merely diverted
from the providence which had brought her so creditably through a trying
time. It would have been easier if she had known what Mrs. Heyham was
after. Inspectors she could manage, none better, whether they were
enemies from outside or so-called friends from headquarters, but Mary
had puzzled her. She oughtn't perhaps to have let on about the girls'
dinner, but she hadn't been able to resist the chance of a possible
score off the kitchen. Mrs. Heyham herself was all right, she felt sure,
but she didn't trust that secretary person. However, it was no use
worrying--she banished any remaining uneasiness, when the visitors had
gone, by telling Florrie to change her apron at once and never let Mrs.
Black see her in such a rag again.

Mary settled herself comfortably in the car. "Of course this has been
the most interesting day," she said. "It won't be so amusing when we've
been to a dozen of them. I suppose they are all very much alike."

Miss Percival seemed to hesitate for a moment, then she spoke. "It
depends a good deal on the manager I think. And in the B depots the
wages and hours are different."

"What are the B depots?" Mary was alert to increase her knowledge.

"They're in poor neighbourhoods and open for supper as well. The girls
work short hours one day and long the next and have lower wages, 10s.
instead of 11s. They get off at five on short days but the work's
harder."

Mary smiled at Miss Percival. "You must have studied the subject!" She
was pleased to recognise such zeal and initiative.

Miss Percival looked at the note-book that she held in her lap. "Yes,"
she said, "I was investigating it some time ago--I've worked in two or
three tea-shops myself. It's the only way of telling what the life is
really like."

Mary looked at her. This was most interesting! "But how useful--" she
began, then she checked herself. It would be better, perhaps, if she did
not, at any rate for the present, accept information from Miss Percival.
A friend of Rosemary's, she was certain to have theories about what she
had seen. And James would rather, Mary felt sure, that his wife formed
her own ideas from her own experience. She had better not even ask the
secretary whether one of the shops she had worked in had been the
Imperial's. Then she herself could not be biassed by Miss Percival's
chance remarks. "It must have been very exciting," she finished kindly.

Miss Percival did not seem stirred by the memories of its excitements.
"It was interesting," she said, and they talked of indifferent subjects
for the rest of the drive.

When Mrs. Heyham, hearing voices, looked into the drawing-room on her
way upstairs, she found Laura and Rosemary sitting over the fire. They
jumped up. "Here she is!" Laura called to her. "Well, mother darling, I
should love to think that you've unearthed a perfect hive of scandals!
But I don't really believe that your mind is suspicious enough!"

Mary stood by the door for a moment smiling at them. "I am so glad
you've come, my dear," she said; "I have some letters to write that will
take a quarter of an hour, but if you can wait, Laura, I will come down
and have another tea."

"But that's what I'm here for, darling, tea with you!" Laura blew a kiss
to her mother before the door shut behind her. Then the two girls went
back to their chairs. "She isn't suspicious enough--if there's anything
to find out!" Laura added.

Rosemary laughed. "Miss Percival will do the suspicion. But it isn't a
matter of finding out--it's merely seeing."

They were silent for a few minutes. Their minds were full of something
else, of the delightful topic that they had been discussing--Anthony's
career and Rosemary's future. Presently Laura leaned forward.
"Rosemary," she said, "are you simply happy and nothing more, or do you
find it all rather queer as well?"

Her shy tone made Rosemary feel a little shy. "How do you mean, queer?"
she asked, avoiding Laura's eyes. Laura hesitated. "I think it's the way
being in love makes you look at things that is so odd--as if nothing
mattered but yourself and one other person and a bundle of
feelings--what they feel and what you feel and what they feel about what
you feel. It is queer--it's the right word--to find these extraordinary
new emotions running all over your life. There doesn't seem anything for
them to have come out of. I don't feel in the least, sometimes, as if
they belonged to me--they've just appeared." She hesitated, and then
frowned. It was not easy to find words for her meaning. "And yet because
of them," she went on, as Rosemary did not speak, "the whole of the rest
of the world seems insignificant and far away, and you've become in a
sort of way unresponsive, unexpectant to it--it doesn't really matter.
Not like the mornings when one used to wake up and think that
anything--the most heavenly adventure--might happen that very day! One
doesn't even want the adventures--it's like losing a whole lot of tiny
delicate feelers, and getting instead of them a sort of anguished
sensitiveness to one set of impressions."

She finished on a questioning note, but Rosemary did not look up. This
was a discussion that she ought in theory to have welcomed eagerly.
Laura was offering her a new outlook, fresh experience--she had always
deplored the fact that women find it hard to be open or even candid with
one another about their fundamental emotions. And now that this chance
had come for a frank conversation with her sister she was embarrassed.
She hoped that Laura would say more--she was ready to listen, with all
the sympathy that she could command, to anything that Laura wished to
say. But she could not join in, she could not apply Laura's wisdom to
herself. She did not want to know, from Laura, what she was feeling or
what she was going to feel. That belonged to no one but her and Anthony.
Even remotely, Laura must not influence it. She had rather run blind and
unwarned into the future than lose the privacy and mystery of her
thoughts. Laura, after all, was her elder sister, capable of discussing
her with their mother. She ignored her question. "You mean," she said,
"that you leave off being interested in outside things."

Laura shook her head. "No, not exactly. You don't lose your interest, if
it's really the things you were keen about and not the romance and
excitement of being keen, but I think perhaps you grow more selfish
towards them." She looked thoughtfully into the fire.

"I don't see why!" Rosemary was not of an age to be skilful at
understanding other people's half-expressed subtleties.

Laura became conscious of her sister's reluctance. Rosemary must think,
she told herself, that she was complaining! "I suppose," she said
quickly, "that it's a phase women tend to go through. A phase of being
absorbed in subjective emotional things rather than in objective
intellectual ones. What made me think of it is that mother, thanks to
your idea, may be going to come out of it. We shall be able to see at
last what is really mother and what is only the attitude belonging to
what she has been taught. The more I think of it the more splendid I
think it will be for her."

Rosemary caught at this. "I am so glad! Only, Laura, did you notice what
she said just now? I don't believe she's going to let us see anything at
all!"

Laura laughed. "That's her darling conscience. It's father's business,
and its black secrets are father's secrets. She won't tell us anything,
but the point is that she will change. We have only to wait."

This was not enough for Rosemary. She had been hoping to hear exactly
and in detail what Mary thought of the tea-shops and their implications.
She had been hoping too, to slip into such talks a few incontrovertible
general principles. She was not sure that without some such help Mary
might not be carried away by her husband's point of view. "I hate
waiting," she said, "it's dull. Trent waits."

Laura laughed.




CHAPTER V


IT was not until Mary, with her Miss Percival, had visited all the
depots that she thought the moment had come for a conversation with
James. Up to this time she had scarcely mentioned her activities to him.
She did not wish to seem precipitate and she had felt, too, that
constant references might worry him. But there was no reason now for
putting it off any longer and every reason why the little reforms she
had thought of should be carried through at once. She was planning, as
well as these, a sort of convalescent home, a cottage by the sea where
the palest, weakest girls might be given holidays. And she hoped, too,
some day to suggest a system by which the girls should take turns to
rest during the slack hours of the day. But she did not mean to say
anything about that yet. Time enough when she had seen how James
accepted the home and her other suggestions. She meant to ask him now
for a better meal in the middle of the day, a nice room to eat it in,
and proper regulation shoes. Also, though that might be impossible,
where there were long flights of stairs there ought to be lifts for the
trays. The matter of wages, in spite of Miss Percival's hints, she did
not think important, as all the girls were being kept in their
comfortable decent homes. Their wages, therefore, were merely
pocket-money and it could not matter much that they had to pay for their
fares to and from work and for the cuffs, caps, collars, and aprons
supplied to them with the stuff for their black dresses, by the firm.
They paid, too, for any food which they ate on the premises; the
managers charged them half price for goods which, though not exactly
stale, had lost that first exquisite freshness demanded by customers.
They paid fines for breaking the rules, and an insurance of sixpence a
week against breakages. The firm, its inspectors told Mary, lost heavily
over this, but then it was composed of kind-hearted men, and not of
ogres.

Mary's investigation was not yet complete for both she and Miss Percival
thought that they ought to see something of the girls' home lives. Miss
Percival, whom Mary saw to be a suspicious person, did not seem to
attach much importance to the manager's declarations that the girls all
came from happy, well-to-do homes. But then Miss Percival had seen such
terrible things and read so many books upon Socialism that she probably
confused the Imperial with less conscientious firms. Mary, on James's
advice, had read no books on the subject. James had said that what he
wanted were the little mother's own wise little thoughts, not a hash-up
of other people's opinions. And Mary had not formed the habit of going
to books for information.

Now that the moment had come for a conversation she found herself
shrinking a little from the criticism not only of James but of Trent.
Trent had regarded her during these months with a disapproving air. He
was suffering, Mary thought, from Lady Hester's mother, who, though she
sometimes permitted his presence, had a way of successfully repressing
his suit. And Trent's fondness for Lady Hester was based on just those
qualities in her which would prevent her from rising to the vulgar
heights of a row with her mother. Mary fancied that this source of
irritation was blackening Trent's view of her own behaviour. If so, she
did not see that she was bound to run the risk of annoying him further.
To have Trent sitting there annoyed from the beginning would make her
too nervous to do herself justice with James. She finally chose,
therefore, a time when Trent was out. It was an evening when James had
said that he had no work to do, and after dinner she collected Miss
Percival's careful notes and went down into the study. The study was a
more business-like room than her own or the drawing-room, and one less
associated with moments of sentiment. She did not want James to be
sentimental that night, she wanted him to be earnestly reasonable, to
listen to her as if she were a man. She knew exactly what she meant to
say, but she was afraid of being turned aside and only remembering her
best points afterwards.

James was detached and good-humoured, perfectly ready to talk things
over with her. He seemed to think that it was really very creditable
that she should have stuck to the thing like this, and taken such an
interest in it. One gets rather too much into the habit of assuming that
women do not care about serious things. Well then, to what revolutionary
courses did she--dear little person that she was--wish to commit her
wretched husband and his old-fashioned business?

She told him that she thought it was a wonderful business--she did. It
had touched her imagination, it had filled her with respect for men.
This was what men could do when they bent their brains to women's work.
Mary remembered her own early struggles with cook-generals on the
battle-ground of tea-trays, the drillings, the chivyings, the
exhortations, her triumph on days when the silver was clean and the
cloth smooth and the bread and butter nicely cut. The making of the tea
itself had been her own charge, that pouring of boiling water onto
measured leaves was too delicate, too sacred, for the hired and casual
fingers of a servant. But let a man turn his attention to the matter and
straightway, at Chiswick, in the Strand, at Islington, he could command
ten thousand tea-trays each with its pretty plate bearing three
impeccable slices of brown bread and butter and three of white, with its
six gay pastries elegantly set out, with its unvarying, unsurpassable
cup of tea. Woman fussed and there was a table, more or less adequately
equipped; man considered and he found a formula and a tradition to which
tables conformed in their pleasant hospitality, here or a hundred miles
away, yesterday or ten years hence. It seemed to Mary that few tasks
could be more noble, more satisfying, than thus to provide a sovereign
democracy with dainty and nourishing food. Now that she had seen his
great work she could share in the pride that exalted James when he spoke
of the bad old times when a single beefy beery meal cost more than you
would spend nowadays on a week's supply of stimulating coffee and
poached eggs on toast. It was no small thing, and she felt it, to be the
wife of a man like James.

James accepted her admiration. It is pleasant, when you show your
manhood's work to your wife, to find that she appreciates its greatness.
"Found it clean, eh?" he asked her, in a tone that anticipated her
reply.

She had not the heart to tell him that perfect cleanliness is inhuman;
she relinquished too, her protest against the dubious eggs that made
such light sponge-cakes. She must be a woman of business, the kitchens
were not within the range of her inquiry. She must not depart from her
proper sphere merely because she had seen a kitchen boy sticking his
fingers into some dough and licking them clean. That might happen
anywhere; it was one of the things that civilised people agree to
ignore. So she told James that his business had given her quite new
ideas of discipline and method. After all, practically everybody makes
their sponge-cakes with eggs that you wouldn't use for boiling. James
couldn't be expected to be quite different from anybody else. We all eat
game.

James took that easily. "And now what is it we've got to do if we're not
to forfeit the old lady's good opinion?" he asked.

She had made a list on a sheet of paper, and she told him. She began
with the little home at the seaside--she knew he couldn't object to
that. The only thing he had to do was to promise to keep the places of
the girls who were there open for them. She would pay for it--it would
be a real pleasure to her--and she would undertake the whole
responsibility.

She watched him anxiously while she spoke, but he was not looking at
her. He was looking at the fire.

In the next place, the girls oughtn't to stand so much. Let him ask a
doctor, or even the managers--anyone who understood the work and its
effect on women--it really was harmful to them, and they ought also to
wear proper shoes.

His face changed a little. It would be perfectly easy to make them wear
regulation shoes.

The next point was the dinner--and the room where they could sit
comfortably. She seemed to see, suddenly, that it was no use mentioning
the lifts. That was all, she said.

James sat forward and looked at her. She saw at once that he was not
laughing or feeling unduly affectionate. In fact his voice sounded a
little sharp.

"My dear little girl," he laid it down, "we can't make a house have a
room that it hasn't got, can we?"

Mary looked back at him courageously. "I thought that perhaps you could
take a room outside, or perhaps partition off part of one of the
tea-rooms. Some of them are very large."

James chose to answer the last part of this remark.

"And that's why the customers come to them, my dear," he told her more
urbanely, but not, she suspected, in a really pleasant spirit. "People
hate small, hot, stuffy rooms. Imagine yourself passing by the door of
two shops and looking in--wouldn't you choose the one that seemed wide
and airy and high rather than the one that was poky?"

Mary stuck to her point. "Then the room outside?"

This time he was frankly irritable. "If you knew a little more of
business conditions you would understand that what you are asking is
impossible. In business parts of London there aren't 'rooms outside'
waiting to be rented next to each of our shops. They're not to be had.
Space is gold. We have to wait years sometimes before we can get the
sites we want for the depots themselves. Do you think we had only to ask
to get a frontage on Oxford Circus?"

When Mary had come into the room she had come humbly. She had been
prepared to be told that her demands were out of the question and she
had not intended to be obstinate or wrangle about them. Now she did feel
obstinate, and she felt too, that she had not been fairly met.

"Of course I can quite understand that it isn't easy to arrange," she
admitted, "but I think that girls working as hard as that ought to have
some little corner where they can be private and comfortable."

James found himself irritated as he was seldom irritated--even by Trent,
or even by the damned fools who wanted him to allow his people to form
Trade Unions. "Good Heavens!" he said, "do you imagine I pay them to be
private and comfortable! I pay them to do my work! When they go home
they can be as comfortable as they please. As long as they are on my
premises they ought either to be working or waiting their turn to
work--and I'll see that they are!" He almost glared at her.

Mary said nothing. She was astonished.

After a moment James was astonished too. He could never remember
speaking to her like this before. It cost him very little effort to
admit that he had been hasty. "What a shame," he said, "to fall on the
old lady like that because she isn't very experienced in business ways!
We asked her for her advice, and now we rate her because some of it
isn't quite practicable. I was very bad-tempered, my dear, and I hope
you will forgive me. Suppose we talk about one of your other
points--you said something about shoes--and sitting down."

Mary did not want to leave the matter of rooms. By this time it seemed
to her horrible that when the girls found time for a meal they should
have to eat it in a cupboard that served for a cloak-room, at a table in
the china room, or standing in the passage. Other firms provided
dining-rooms. But when James was looking kindly at her, frankly and
generously apologising, offering peace, she could not refuse it because
she, being a woman, wanted to worry her point--to "nag."

She told him with a smile as generous as his, that she would discuss
standing, or shoes, or anything else that he wanted.

Here James was at his best, quick, attentive, sympathetic. He praised
her womanly insight and expressed his gratitude for the trouble she had
taken. He understood at once that the girls' feet ought to be looked
after, even on the low ground of self-interest, and he told her that he
would fix up with a firm that supplied ward shoes to nurses and see that
the girls each bought a pair. As for the standing, she laid great stress
on it, so he would stretch a point and give way to her. He didn't
believe the girls came to any harm by it and it was a fact that
customers didn't like the look of girls in uniform lolling on the chairs
doing nothing. If Mary ever noticed, no big shop ever allowed its girls
to be idle. A customer who came in when the shop was empty would always
find the assistants busy at something, in spite of the Shop Acts. But
still one wanted to keep them fresh for the busy times--he'd have a
circular drafted, and if Mary liked to look at it before it went out to
the managers, she could. After all, he'd heard that they were doing
great things in America by studying the workers.

Mary thanked him, and then, as if his amiability were still a little
stretched, he suggested that they should defer the consideration of her
other proposals, as he had one or two things to see to. So would she,
dear old thing that she was, let him kiss her, and then leave him.

She went to him for her kiss, and discovered that he was more upset than
she had imagined. His hand trembled as he smoothed back her hair, and he
murmured over her head that he was a brute, a savage, a horror to bully
the most precious thing in his life. As a rule this emotion of his would
have melted her; she would have remembered, with a rush of feeling, that
after all a man is only a great child, something very simple and clumsy
and pathetic, but to-day she stood apart from his remorse and she found
herself laughing lightly, telling him that he was a funny sensitive old
thing, and that, if he would only think of what he had promised, he
would see that she had every reason to be pleased with herself.

Then she left him, still a little absurdly unassured, and went upstairs
to her own room. It was only a quarter of an hour since she had gone
downstairs to James's study. Then she had thought of James as the
beneficent, all-wise authority from whose words there was no appeal; now
she was puzzled about him, thinking him over. Why had he been angry with
her--what had made him angry? It wasn't that she had chosen a bad
moment, she couldn't believe that it was her manner, for that never
annoyed him; why was he angry because she had wanted the girls to have
a proper room where they might go? She could understand his rejecting
her plan, but not his being angry about it. It was not like him; it did
not agree with her conception of him as a man who was not only generous
but singularly patient and just. After all these years she couldn't be
wrong about that--it was absurd to suggest, merely because he had shown
momentary irritation, that he had an unknown side that his work called
out, but that she, so far, had never seen. She pulled herself up. It was
not loyal of her to hunt after this fashion for faults in James. He had
been a little sharp--for a minute--and it was her duty, as it ought to
have been her natural instinct, to forget a trifling occurrence which
had pained him already far more than was necessary.

The only serious thing about the whole incident was that she was afraid
that now she would not get her room. It was a great pity; she still felt
that the girls ought to have it, but she must, she really must, remember
that James knew best. There was no other basis on which her enterprise
could possibly be successful.

Nevertheless she could not force her thoughts away from the picture of
James's frowning peremptory face, and as she considered it, the whole
interview took on, more and more, a flavour of oddness, of unreason. She
had lived in complete intimacy with James for more than twenty years,
and yet she was left to infer his real thoughts, in a moment of
significant emotion, from the twitch of his mouth, the key of his voice,
the physical symbols by which his body betrayed him hardly more
successfully, on this occasion, to her than to a stranger. It was
strange that she should have no more direct access to him than this
method of inference, of guesswork, this clumsy process whereby a thought
before it can reach another mind must first translate itself into terms
of sense. She had read poems that told of lovers whose spirits flamed so
brightly that these dark barriers became translucent, shot through with
the soul's light, a medium to its ardour. Those beings had known one
another as poets know nature, as mystics know God. But such ecstasies
were foreign to her, she felt herself to be too prim, too frail, too
anxious, for the great fires of the spirit. Her experience had
been--would always be--the common experience of common folk. Her wisdom
consisted in the building and maintaining of barriers between herself
and the sordid, the vicious, the vulgar. She had built barriers round
her love, she had kept it fine and pure, untroubled by anything but its
own tenderness. She had not asked for ecstasy, she had not asked for
knowledge, she had been content to trust. She must continue to trust,
she must realise that she did not know her husband, she must let her
affection bridge the gaps in her understanding. That was the way of life
she had made for herself.

Then from the deep place in her mind where she had thrust it, her
uneasiness returned. Why had he been angry? She stirred in her chair,
and the movement made her realise that she was still holding her forlorn
little bundle of notes. She rose and put them back into their
pigeon-hole with a slight feeling of discomfort. To-morrow was one of
Miss Percival's days, and she would have to make her admission of
defeat. Miss Percival never said much, but Mary's impression was that
she cared a good deal about the room.

The proper thing to do now would have been to turn her mind to something
else. Unfortunately Mary's knitting did not hold her attention and she
did not get as far as finding her place in the novel which succeeded it.
Why had James been unreasonable? Why hadn't he met her calmly with his
excellent and conclusive arguments? Must she be prepared for a similar
reception when she spoke to him about the girls' dinner? She could not
banish her troubled sense of his hostility.

While she was wondering, one of the maids brought her a letter. It was a
letter in a mauve envelope, unstamped, and the maid said that it had
been delivered by a little boy who wanted to give it to the lady
himself. But it being late in the evening the maid had sent him away.
The marks left by the little boy's finger and thumb on the paper gave
some colour of prudence to her decision.


The sheet of paper inside the mauve envelope was white, and the writing
was in pencil. It was not very easy to read.


                             100, EXE ST.,
                                    Maida Hill.

DEAR AND HONOURED MADAM:

I venture to write to you and Mrs. Black the manager at our place you
know was kindly give me your address. Or I should not have known how to
find you. Honoured madam might I venture to ask you to grant me an
interview? I do not want to Take advantage of your kindness only there
is no one I can turn to except Mrs. Black and she must think of her
place so will you please forgive me troubling you and don't deny me
this.

         Your obedient servant in great distress,

                             FLORRIE WILSON.


It was too late to do anything that night--and there might not be
anything serious to do. Mary told the maid that she could go. She
remembered Florrie; she was the child with the nice smile and the pretty
flower-like face whom she had seen in the Chelsea depot six months ago.
When Miss Percival came next day they would go to Exe Street together.
The only thing to be decided now was whether she should show the letter
to James. She decided, after slight hesitation, that she would not.




CHAPTER VI


MARY woke next morning to a feeling of uneasiness, so that she knew,
before she could remember why, that she must brace herself to meet a
disagreeable day. Then the sight of her maid, trim and composed, looping
back her window curtains, reminded her of Florrie's letter. That was bad
enough, but she soon realised that she could only turn from it to other
anxieties. What had happened to the poor pretty child, what was James
thinking, and what was Mary herself going to say to Miss Percival?

She tried to dismiss this last annoyance by telling herself that she was
a coward. Miss Percival, as a secretary, could not seem curious about
what her employers, in their Olympian privacy, had said to one another,
and she must necessarily put the best face on what she was told. But
this was small relief to Mary, who had so little need to dread harsh
words that she had trained herself to reckon with thoughts. She now felt
the weight of Miss Percival's private disappointment more severely than
that lady seemed likely to feel it for herself. But after all, this was
nothing compared to her disloyalty to James. She had pretended that she
did not hear James when he opened her door last night, and he had gone
away, believing that she was asleep. She dressed quickly now, to avoid
meeting James in her own room. In the dining-room she would be better
able to persuade herself that she hadn't, practically, deceived him.
Keeping back Florrie's letter she did not consider deceit; she was
accustomed to use her judgment in the matter of shielding James from
worry, but the other affected their emotional relations.

In the dining-room she found Rosemary, unexpectedly in time for
breakfast. It was one of Rosemary's charming gifts that she could
saunter downstairs at noon with the air of dewy freshness proper to an
Arcadian milkmaid. Trent was there too, for Trent counterbalanced his
sister's masculine carelessness of time by a beautiful punctuality.
Their presence shielded Mary from the affection which James, had they
been by themselves, would certainly have shown. After her first relief
it seemed terrible to Mary that she should be thus welcoming obstacles
between herself and the display of James's love. She tried in vain to
assure herself that she didn't feel guilty, that her heart beat faster
not for James, but for poor little Florrie, that if it cost her an
effort to look up from her coffee pot it was merely because she did not
wish to trouble her daughter with the anxieties that destroyed her own
appetite. She knew all the same that somewhere, in her thoughts, in her
actions, she had overstepped an ancient boundary; if she was not yet
disloyal she was running the risk of disloyalty. At any rate she was
allowing herself, unknown to James, a new attitude of mind which, when
he came to realise it, he might not share.

In a moment James would be there! Mary forced her mind back to the table
in front of her, poured herself out some coffee, put in two lumps of the
sugar she detested, drank it, and then blushed crimson at the proof she
found of her own preoccupation. She looked up, instinctively, but no one
had noticed her. Rosemary was eating bacon; Trent was reading the
_Times_ with an air of kindly tolerance. Trent would dearly have loved
to be a Unionist, for the Unionist assumptions soothed his gentlemanly
instincts, but he could not see his way to anything but loss from a
protective tariff. Trent dealt in luxuries; if he charged more for his
cakes his customers would eat fewer. He could picture them, in all their
plebeian meanness, eyeing the dish and stilling their appetites with the
saw that too many sweet things are bad for the teeth. But the article he
was reading did not allude to this cause of stumbling, and his
complacent smile turned Mary's uneasiness to a wave of irritation. Why,
she asked herself, had she a fool for a son? What was there wrong with
him, or with his surroundings, that after twenty-six years of life, with
health, with plenty of money, his mind should have acquired nothing from
experience but the simple cunning of an animal? She seemed, for the
moment, to detach herself from Trent, to see him as coolly as though she
were not his mother, pledged to admire him. His fault, poor youth, was
that of being slow to receive impressions. He had will and capacity and
application, good qualities that came from within, but the walls of his
mind had no windows. His dogmas, his attitudes, he took from the
children with whom he had been at school; when Trent was an old man his
spirit would still be that of a little boy in a lower form. Other women
congratulated her upon having a son so handsome, with such good brains,
who would deign to become his father's right hand and live quietly at
home. Other women's sons went into the army, at best, or they brushed
their hair back from their foreheads and spent money in ways their
mothers couldn't approve, or, having brains, they caused great anxiety
by thinking with them.... Mary had always pitied the mothers of these
young men, but now, with a pang, she realised that beneath their
smoothness they might have pitied her, have thanked heaven that their
boys weren't sticks like poor Mrs. Heyham's.

At this point Trent put down his _Times_ and asked her pleasantly for
some more coffee. Mary, as she took his cup, felt a wave of
self-reproach. What had happened that she should be bitter like this? He
was a good boy, a dear boy, as handsome as possible, and as fond of her,
and for his affection she had given him secret contempt. She was, as a
matter of fact, the luckiest woman she knew. She looked across at
Rosemary, to fortify this feeling, and was rewarded by a pleasant
picture. The blue dress the child wore showed the clear tones of her
skin and the long lines of her chin and throat. Mary loved Rosemary's
chin; there was a soft place underneath it where she had always kissed
her when she was a baby. The engagement ring Mary hated was out of
sight. That was a pretty thing to have at one's breakfast table--Mary
felt that she must talk and be cheerful instead of letting the meal pass
in silence. "Have either of you seen your father?" she said, to this
end.

Rosemary looked up. "He's gone. He had something to see to down at the
works. He had breakfast at eight. And he wants your car at twelve as
Trent is using his to-day."

To Mary this came as a fresh proof of her own unkindness. Poor James,
away working for them all before she was down, gone without a kiss or a
good-bye because he was considerate of her sleep! Gone without a
suspicion that his wife had been criticising him and practically lying
to him! Mary's impulse to talk passed. She was humbled; she hardly felt
relieved when she realised that she would not have to face him until a
day lay between her and her deceit.

Meanwhile Rosemary had come to the end of the table and was bending down
to kiss her mother. "Good-bye, darling!" she was saying, "I'll be back
to dinner on Monday. I'm going for a walk in the Mendips with Margaret,
you know. I've never seen them; they ought to be lovely in this
weather."

Mary kissed Rosemary and Trent frowned. Trent did not approve of girls
going for walks by themselves. At least, if she let them go, Mary should
have spoken a word of caution!

Rosemary saw the frown and left the room with a cheerful smile.

Mary followed her. It had not been at all a cosy breakfast.

When she went into her room she found that Miss Percival, that perfect
young woman, was already waiting.

"There's something I want you to see," Mary told her, and showed her
Florrie's letter. Miss Percival read the letter slowly, without moving
the muscles of her face. Then she gave it back. "I'm afraid it looks
like the usual thing!" she said, in a voice that took the place of a
shrug.

This cynicism affected Mary painfully. "The car is coming in a minute,"
she said, with a grave look. "I thought we had better go to Exe Street
at once and see what has happened for ourselves. I've looked up your
notes, and I see that Florrie Wilson is living with an invalid mother
who is a widow with some means of her own. She said that her mother is a
lady, but I expect that was only her way of saying that they had seen
better days."

"Or it might just be her idea of good form," suggested Miss Percival.
"One has, after all, in Florrie's walk of life, to be one's own College
of Heralds."

Mary looked surprised. Then she retired to put on her hat and to ponder
a sentence that clashed with her notions of Miss Percival.

No. 100 Exe Street was a dirty little house in a dirty and depressing
street. The few inches of garden in front of it were ornamented with two
large white shells and various old tin cans. Its windows were shut, and
as much light as possible kept out by torn lace curtains. It did not
look like the house of one whose acquaintance with better days had been
at all intimate.

Mary would not let the chauffeur ring the bell; she could not be as sure
of his manners as of her own, and she waited with Miss Percival for
several minutes before anyone in the house responded to her gentle pull.
Then the door opened a little, and they could see a strip of a woman
with bright red cheeks. She stared at the two visitors suspiciously,
then she stared, with more interest, at the car. Finally, when Mary had
asked her twice whether Florrie was in, she replied that they could go
upstairs if they liked, and see. Top landing, back room. She shuffled
along the passage in front of them and disappeared down the stairs that
led to the odours of the basement.

Mary dismissed the car, since James wanted it, and went into the house.
She wished to think well of Florrie, but as she climbed the two flights
of stairs she was assailed by a doubt as to whether Florrie could be a
truthful girl. She had said that she lived with her mother in a nice
little house, and here she was, apparently a lodger in a house whose
stairs were the stalest Mary had ever smelt and kept by a most
disagreeable looking woman.

Mary knocked at the door of the back room on the top floor, and a voice
that was not Florrie's told them to come in. For a moment, when they
were inside, Mary thought that they must have made a mistake, for as she
turned towards the window she saw a bed in which a stout woman was
sitting, a shawl over her shoulders and some work in her hands. The
stout woman however seemed to expect her. "You've come for my Florrie,"
she said politely. "She'll be back in a minute. Won't you sit down,
ma'm? Florrie was expecting you, and she's got the room straight, but
she didn't think, being gentry, you'd be 'ere so soon."

Mary stared at her for a moment. She was fascinated. The woman's face
was not stout, it was puffy, livid, swollen. It cost her an effort to
say thank you and to find herself a chair. There were only two chairs in
the room; Mary took the sound one and Miss Percival the one with a hole
in its seat.

Meanwhile Mrs. Wilson continued to address them, but as she spoke
bitterness overtook her and her voice reverted to its natural sharpness.
"She's gone round to Moses's," she went on. "She seems to 'ave some
maggit in 'er 'ead about it's not being safe. I tell 'er it's safe
enough, a sight too safe, and we shall be lucky if every stick we got
ain't safe the same way soon. So she goes and looks in the winder to see
if it's out for sale." Mrs. Wilson's words gathered speed and her
crochet-hook jerked rapidly backwards and forwards. "To lose a good
place like that, ma'm, with me dependent on 'er, when she might 'a'
married a gentleman too! And look at us now--where are we--with 'er
character gone, and nothing put by for the rent? It isn't as if I could
do anything with me 'ealth so bad, and the pain keeping me awake all
night so I don't sleep a wink. And there's no market for crochet now,
along of them niggers!"

Mrs. Wilson's shawl heaved, showing glimpses of pink flannelette.

Mary was puzzled. "But what is it that has happened?" she said. "I don't
understand. What is Moses's and what has Florrie done? And I thought you
and she had money of your own that you lived on? Money your husband left
you?"

Mrs. Wilson's reply was not coherent, but Mary gathered that Wilson had
never left nothing to nobody but worry and trouble. What money Mrs.
Wilson had she made, a shilling or two a week it would be when the Turks
allowed one to make anything. Further, Florrie had lost her place, owing
to a bracelet and to a man she didn't never ought to have had nothing to
do with. And Mrs. Wilson had once been second housemaid in a very good
house, where she had been very differently brought up to what girls were
nowadays. The end of this explanation was confused by large tears which
rolled down the poor woman's distorted face and needed to be wiped away
with the corner of the blanket.

Mary tried to express a reassuring interest while she turned her eyes
politely from this intimate and unpleasant misery. Mrs. Wilson mustn't
distress herself, Mary was only there to see what could be done. She
would find some way out--there could be no doubt about it--it was only a
question of taking courage for an hour or so. If Miss Percival had not
been there Mary might have gone across to the creature who was sobbing
so wretchedly, so grotesquely, on the bed, but her volition was
paralysed by the thought of Miss Percival alert to take everything down.
She looked round her, waiting uncomfortably for some lull in the snorts
and groans which were shaking the opposite corner of the room, and tried
in this interval of inaction, to collect her impressions and to clear
her mind.

The one thing, up to this point, that admitted no doubt, was that poor
little Florrie, whatever else she might be, was also a liar. She had
deceived Mary, and Mary could not help feeling that she had also
deceived Mrs. Black. James selected his managers with care; he would not
have put Mrs. Black into the position she held unless she could be
trusted to keep the firm's most important regulations. Very well then,
Florrie must have obtained her own post under false pretences,--that
legal phrase, slipping unbidden into Mrs. Heyham's mind, seemed to shed
an even deeper gloom over the affair.

But as she examined the room where Florrie lived, while the primitive
woe of Florrie's mother offended her ears, Mary's hatred of deceit
became less uncompromising. It was a small room, and the stains made by
damp on the walls and ceiling were freshly reinforced. The window was
small, and shut, and some torn muslin was held across its lower half by
a sagging tape. There was a varnished table in the middle of the floor,
a cupboard at one end of it, and a packing-case by the fireplace covered
with odds and ends of bedroom china. The wall-paper was yellowish brown,
and on the mantelpiece there were some ancient ornaments and two scarlet
paper fans. It wasn't a place, in its dreary stuffiness, where ascetic
virtues would make a strong appeal. Mary began to understand why
Florrie, armed for the conquest of life by a becoming cap and apron, had
invented this romance of a lady mother. She felt that even she herself
would have needed something to shield her from the realities of such a
home. She scanned the room again for traces of the girl's presence.
Florrie's best hat hung on a nail on the wall, and a petticoat hung
beneath it, but Mary could see no signs of any other bed. It was some
moments before she realised, with a sense of shock, that pretty Florrie
slept in the bed in the corner side by side with the diseased woman who
had bad nights.

This was hideous, it was revolting--nothing in the world could make it
right! Mary shivered with the intensity of her repugnance. A sudden
picture of Rosemary came into her mind. The two girls were the same age,
and what gulfs lay between Rosemary and such contact with corruption!

She turned her eyes again to the shameful bed, drawn by the fascination
of her own horror. She saw then what her agitation had not let her
notice, that Miss Percival had left her seat and was bending over Mrs.
Wilson. Miss Percival's reserve had gone; for a moment, as she stood
motionless, her shadowed face revealed a conquering passion. Its wide
eyes, staring across the room, saw nothing; she was shaken by an emotion
that closed the avenues of sense. Then, as Mary's surprise was growing
into wonder, the drawn muscles quivered and relaxed, and Miss Percival
turned, with a swift movement of pity, to slip her arm round the huddled
woman on the bed.

"Poor mother," she said, stroking the swollen hands, "don't cry, my
dear, don't cry! You're not alone now; we're going to stand by your
Florrie and help her face the trouble. You mustn't be too hard on her;
she's a good girl, you know! See how well she looks after you, and how
clean she keeps the room! A great many girls wouldn't do that, with the
hard day's work she has. She may have done wrong, poor tired little
thing, the world's too hard for us all sometimes, but think how pretty
she is, and how bright, and how she's stuck by you and stood up for you!
Why, she won't even have it that you're poor and ill; she always tells
people what a fine mother she has, a lady she said you were, and that's
because she's fond of you, and won't have others look down on you!"

Mrs. Wilson could not have heard half of these rapid words, but they
succeeded in changing the current of her thoughts. Her moans ceased;
Mary saw her pull the shawl together across her chest and turn to the
young woman stooping over her. "Pretty?" she said earnestly. "She's as
pretty as a summer's day, my Florrie is! They men's been after her ever
since she left school! It's a wonder to me she's kep' straight the way
she 'as. But she should 'a' known--" here the unhappy creature was
shaken by fresh sobs--"as that swine wasn't after no good with 'is
dimon' bracelet! What would 'e be givin' 'er a dimon' bracelet for? A
dirty little cur like 'im? Stands to reason!"

Miss Percival smoothed back the hair that hung over the woman's face.
"So Florrie took his bracelet, did she?" she asked softly. "But why did
she lose her place? Was he a customer? If that's all I'm sure we can put
it right!"

But Florrie's mother did not seem able to answer. She covered her face
with her hands and bent over her matted blanket. Miss Percival seemed to
think it enough that she was crying more quietly, for she said no more,
but stood, still with her arm round Mrs. Wilson's shoulder, looking
steadily at the wall.

Mary, if she had been alone, could have hidden her own face in her hands
for self-contempt. She was the leader in this adventure, she was the
mother, she the woman of age and experience, the woman who had taken
credit for keen perceptions and ready sympathy. And here she had sat,
hard, cruel, disgusted, shutting out kindness and pity from her heart
while a girl, her paid secretary, had taken her place. She had despised
these poor creatures because their ugliness and their sin were spread
before her, but what of the sin, the deceit and pride she had been
hiding in her own heart? She had despised Trent a few hours ago because
his mind was shut to everything that did not accord with itself, and now
what was she doing but thrusting out her own notions, her prejudices and
daintinesses to shield her from the suffering that came with a knowledge
of suffering? It was nothing unusual that was happening here; it was
unusual to her only because she had escaped her share of the world's
misery.... Mary's conscience was always ready to accept a conviction of
sin.

But after a time even Mary sought for relief. As she sat stiffly on her
chair, her head bent, her hands clasped, rigid with the pain of thought,
a little quick idea ran across her mind--the Insurance Act! She caught
at it, embraced it with relief. Five shillings a week for life--meant
for such cases as this! Her own housekeeping cost her fifty pounds a
week, but just now her mind was tuned to a different scale. She smiled,
she raised her head, leaned forward hopefully. "Miss Percival, what
about the Insurance Act? Couldn't we get Mrs. Wilson into an approved
society? She ought to be getting disablement benefit!"

The sound of her employer's voice made Miss Percival start. She had not
been thinking about the Insurance Act. When she looked round to face
Mary's hopeful expression she did not look as if her thoughts had been
pleasant. "Mrs. Wilson is not an employed person," she said, as briefly
as if she had been speaking to a fool, "and anyway, no society would
take her with her health like this." Then she turned back to the wall
with her look of dislike accentuated. Mrs. Wilson, who had been
recovering, groaned feebly.

Mary flushed, and then leaned back again. She would accept the snub, but
she must think it over. She could see now that the Insurance Act would
not help Mrs. Wilson, but that was only an accident, a matter of dates.
It would help the Mrs. Wilsons of the future. Her mind felt eased. She
wished she knew more about the Act. She was resolving to buy a sixpenny
book about it when her honesty reminded her, uncomfortably, that there
was little to ease her mind in an Act which she had done nothing to
bring about--an Act of which she hadn't, as a matter of fact, approved.
She had obeyed the law, but she felt that it was hard on the
servants--she wished she could feel sure that poor Florrie had obeyed
the law!

The room was quiet now, Mrs. Wilson had stopped crying, and Mary's mind,
confused by the unaccustomed nature of the facts presented to it, and
their incompleteness, wandered foolishly between the problem of her own
responsibility for the distress of the poor and the probable nature of
Florrie's offence. She was also harassed by a recurring recognition of
the stuffiness of the room.

She had decided, vaguely, that there must always be rich and poor,
because there isn't enough money to go round--though we ought to do more
than we do--and also that Miss Percival was probably right, and Florrie
had been detected taking presents from customers, when Florrie came in.
Mary did not recognise her for an instant--the figure in the doorway
lacked the good looks of the girl at Chelsea--then she saw that Florrie
was merely looking shabby and ill.

"Good morning, my dear," she said, resolved now, at least, to do more
than her duty, "I'm glad you've come back."

Florrie came forward into the middle of the room. Her expression, Mary
thought, was almost sullen. She jerked her head towards her mother. "She
told you?" she asked.

"Nothing that I could understand. Your mother is very unhappy, Florrie!"

"That you may well say, ma'm, me own daughter treating me like this!"
added Mrs. Wilson, who had assumed an air of self-righteousness and
freed herself from the shelter of Miss Percival's arm.

Mary spoke hastily to interrupt her. "I am sure you will prefer to tell
us yourself."

Florrie took off her hat and put it down on the table. Then she arranged
the tips of her fingers in a neat line along a crack in the wood.
Finally, without looking up, she began to speak. "'E's been followin' me
'ome every night for the last month," she said. "Time and again I've
asked 'im not to, an' I've tried to run away from 'im, an' once I took
the bus, but 'e knew I couldn't go on with that. An' none of the others
don't come my way. An' 'e's offered me everything you can think of,
jewels an' choclits and take me to the theatre, an' a glace silk dress,
an' I wouldn't take one, because I saw what 'e was after, the dirty
beast. An' I never 'ad no drinks with 'im, only once an ice off a
barrer. That was fore I knew 'im well. An' I've cried in the street,
I've been that wild with 'im. 'E knew I'd no one could do anything to
'im. 'E's called at the 'ouse even, an' told 'er downstairs I'd invited
'im! Me invite fellows up 'ere!" Florrie looked up at this. Her eyes
were red.

She did not go on for a minute, her hands were trembling, though she was
pressing them against the table to keep them still.

The silence was broken by Mrs. Wilson. Mrs. Wilson seemed excited; she
was leaning forward, her shawl dragged tightly round her shoulders,
nodding eagerly at each of Florrie's phrases.

"Don't you stop, Florrie," she said. "You tell the ladies, me girl. Jus'
you tell them what 'e done!"

Florrie looked slowly at her mother, then turning away she told them.

"Then one day 'e came and said I'd broken 'is 'eart, and 'e were goin'
away and I shouldn't never see 'im again. An' 'e'd brought me a partin'
gift, an' when I'd taken it 'e'd go, only not before. An' I was that
bucked at gettin' rid of 'im I was fool enough to take it. It was a
dimon' bracelet in a real leather case. An' 'e said good-bye, an' would
I think of 'im sometimes, an' I said not if I could 'elp it, an' we
parted. An' mother 'avin' been so bad I took it straight roun' to
Moses's that night. I suppose 'e must 'a' followed me, for 'e waits a
day or two, till I'd spent the money, an' there 'e was at the corner
wanting to know if I were ready to do my part of the bargain. I told 'im
there weren't no bargain, told 'im I wouldn't go with 'im for a hundred
dimon' bracelets, and then 'e said--" she stopped again.

"You go on--you say it, darlin'!" Mrs. Wilson's excitement was growing.

"'E said I'd stole it, an' if I didn't give it back 'e'd 'ave me put
away!"

After that nobody spoke for a moment. Mary was trembling, Miss Percival
was white, Mrs. Wilson looked from one to the other of them, nodding her
head with an air almost of triumph.

Then Mary remembered that there was more to hear. "My dear," she said
quickly, "my poor little girl, you mustn't trouble about that; we'll get
the bracelet back, and if you like we'll call it a loan and you can
return it when you have the money," Mary did not want to crush Florrie
with a sense of obligation--"but how was it that you lost your place?
Did the man tell his story to the manager?"

Florrie stood quite still and did not answer. Mary waited for a minute
and then glanced across at Mrs. Wilson. The invalid had assumed a
piteous expression; she looked back mysteriously and shook her head, but
when, after a considerable silence, Florrie still did not speak, she
could bear the silence no longer, and she turned upon her daughter. "Now
then," she admonished her, "you tell them! Don't you go shirkin' the
'ard part! If the ladies is to 'elp us they must know the 'ole truth!"
She looked at Mary for approval.

Florrie, whose attention had been caught by her mother's tone, saw the
glance. "Well, then, I won't tell them!" she cried. "I'm not going to!
Tell them yourself as you seem to enjoy it!" She flung herself into Miss
Percival's chair, her face turned away from them over its back, and Mary
could see that her shoulders were shaking.

Mrs. Wilson tried to look shocked. "Well, if she's got one of 'er wicked
tempers, ma'm, an' won't tell you, then I must!" she said, "though far
from enjoyin' it! Well, then, 'e came after 'er, worryin' every day,
till she felt desprit, as she must get the money, so--that I should 'ave
to say it--she tried to see if some ole keys we 'ad would unlock the box
where Mrs. Black keeps the silver. An' not only they wouldn', but Mrs.
Black catches 'er at it, so of course she couldn't see 'er way to
keepin' 'er, so now she's lost 'er place, and no character, any foot on
the stair may be the police, and we've 'ad nothin' to eat but a cup o'
tea since yesterday dinner time and the rent owing, and the Lord 'ave
mercy on us, for I don't know what we're to do!"

So that was it--Florrie was a thief. An hour ago Mary would have been
shocked by this, now she was angry, giddy with anger. This world in
which she had been happy for so long had become intolerable, and Mary
resented it. It was monstrous that these things should happen, and that
no one should care. Mary's indignation consumed all thought of guilt or
care of responsibility. She turned to Miss Percival with a decision
which the morning had not yet found in her. "What are we to do?" she
said. "They must have something to eat, and I suppose we'd better get
back that bracelet without loss of time?"

Miss Percival agreed. "I wish," she added, "that we could get hold of
the man!"

Mary shivered. To face a man like that was more, she thought, than she
could do.

Then she went over to Florrie. "My dear," she said, "if you'll put on
your hat and show us where the bracelet is, we'll get it back for you,
and we must bring a pie or something for your dinner." Mary had a vague
feeling that poor people generally eat pork pies for dinner.

Florrie stood up. She looked stupid, as though she did not quite
understand. "'E's outside!" she said. "Followed me 'ome."

Mary was startled. She could hardly believe that the unspeakable evil
thing was so close. "He won't hurt you when we're with you," she told
Florrie, but her heart beat faster. The girl put on her hat and they
left the room without another thought of Mrs. Wilson. She was lying back
against her pillow, her swollen face pale and distorted, and she did not
speak.

When they reached the street Mary looked round her fearfully, almost as
though she had a sense of guilt. She felt as if she were taking a
furtive peep at an indecent picture. There was no one near the garden
gate of No. 100, but some way off on the other side of the street a man
was leaning wearily against a lamp-post. "That's 'im!" said Florrie.
"'E'll follow us--you see!"

They turned off down the street and Mary knew for the first time the
choking excitement of the chase. She would not look round to see whether
the man was following, every instinct forbade it, but she could not help
wishing that Florrie would do it for her. This did not seem likely;
Florrie's eyes were fixed far ahead, and every line of her shoulders
expressed an unyielding singleness of purpose. It was extraordinary that
she did not seem to mind whether the man were there or not. Even the
bold Miss Percival was looking at the ground. Mary's nervousness
increased--he might, for all they knew, be quite close to them! Finally,
at a corner, she found that she had looked round without meaning to. The
man was there, about twenty paces behind. He was little and young and
fair and very unhappy, not at all the red, gross creature he ought to
have been and that Mary had expected. She covered the rest of the
distance in a tumult of nerves that did not allow her to see where she
was going.

It was only as they entered the door of a shop that she made an effort
to recover her self-command. This, of course, must be the pawnbroker's.

Mary had never been into a pawn-shop before, and she expected to find it
an interesting place. It was not. Neither the empty counter before them
nor the walls of the compartment that hemmed them in presented any
features of interest. The young man behind the counter was not even, as
it happened, a Jew.

Meanwhile, Florrie, trembling and intense, had produced her ticket. The
young man took it in a perfectly ordinary way. Mary realised suddenly
that he was accustomed to pawn-tickets.

"Thirty-five bob," he said.

Mary looked at him with astonishment. She would hardly have been
surprised if he had asked for so many pounds. Florrie at her side gave a
little soft sob of agonised suspense--Florrie was wondering whether it
was too much.

Mary put back the cheque-book she had been innocently taking from her
bag, and brought out the necessary money. As she put it on the counter
Florrie caught hold of Miss Percival's arm to steady herself. The
assistant was gone now and the shop was spinning round Florrie in
circles of yellow light. There was a fine dancing halo, especially,
obscuring the door through which he had disappeared.

He was not away long, and when he came back he was unwrapping a little
parcel. Florrie, shaking all over, held out her hand for it. Inside the
parcel was a leather case; the young man, as he handed it to Mary,
opened it.

There lay the bracelet. Not even a lady, Florrie felt, could deny its
glories. It was a golden snake with a beautiful pattern of scales on its
back, and in his eyes there sparkled two small diamonds.

"A pretty thing," said the young man, in a sociable tone. "Real gold,
nine carat." Before he had finished Florrie was out of the shop and Mary
was obliged to follow her without replying. It was a corner shop, and
Florrie had turned into the little side street instead of the busier way
by which they had come. As Mary came out she saw that the fair young man
was staring into the window of a tobacconist next door. When he saw
Florrie coming he hesitated and then stepped forward to meet her with a
nervous smile.--"So you've got it--" he was beginning, but she did not
let him finish. "Take that, you muck!" she said, and threw it at him.
Then she turned her back on him with a laugh of triumph.

The little man did not seem to have felt the leather case which had hit
him on the chin. For a moment he stood still, staring after Florrie,
then, suddenly, he pulled his cuff across his eyes.

"She's gone!" he said to himself, and when he raised his head, Mary,
disgusted, could see that he was crying.

The little man did not mind Mary. He cried for a little and wiped his
eyes again, and then stooped to pick up the bracelet that had fallen out
of the case at his feet. He did not look at it, but slipped it into his
pocket, and then walked away down the street, still sniffing. He was a
miserable little man; Mary, immorally, felt sorry for him.

She was recalled to more fitting sentiments by Miss Percival's voice in
her ear.

"Don't you think Florrie had better have something to eat at once?" she
said urgently. "She's hysterical!"

Mary agreed, and they moved away to an eating-house known to Florrie.

The interior of the eating-house, unlike the pawn-shop, was full of
interest, but Mary forgot to study the people seated at its tables; nor
did she drink the milk, which, to put Florrie at her ease, she had
ordered for herself and Miss Percival. She was very much puzzled by the
fair young man. He ought to have shown forth his wickedness on his face,
he ought to have filled Mary's soul with a shudder of loathing, and he
had not. She had meant to banish the subject as quickly as possible from
Florrie's mind, but she could not help--when Florrie had finished her
soup--asking her a few questions.

"Why couldn't he have offered to marry you, my dear?" she said. "Is he
married?"

Florrie was feeling better now. She put her spoon down neatly like a
lady, and answered with some of her old deference:

"No, he's not married, ma'm, but he's a gentleman. He's a merchant in
his father's office and he lives at home and gets a pound a week. His
father would have turned him out if he'd married me. Or he would have,
he told me so. But I wouldn't never have married 'im. He wasn't my
sort." Her attention wavered to the sausages which the waiter was
putting before her.

This composed reply added to Mary's discomfort. If the villain who had
tried to wreck Florrie's soul lived on a pound a week, he must have
saved up to buy the bracelet. Or perhaps he hadn't paid for it, perhaps
he wanted to take it back to the shop himself. Mary couldn't believe
that that feeble little man would ever have prosecuted Florrie. She
reminded herself that he hadn't been too feeble, all the same, to drive
the poor child to stealing. What a horrible tangle it was! She left the
table hastily and went to the counter, where she bought eggs and
sandwiches for Mrs. Wilson. She realised that she was, more or less, in
charge of Mrs. Wilson and suddenly she felt very tired.

But Mrs. Wilson's future was a burden that Mary was to be spared. When
they arrived on the doorstep of No. 100, they found the landlady was in
the hall waiting for them. She was full of importance, of mystery,
almost of triumph. She addressed herself to Florrie. "Your ma's been
took bad," she said, "just after you gone out. I 'eard 'er shriek, as it
'appened, an' I sent for the doctor. But it wer'n't no good, the poor
thing were gone before he came. It's a miracle she lived so long, 'e
said!"

Mary was conscious of a great relief.




CHAPTER VII


IT was a day of tears. Poor Mrs. Wilson and Florrie had every right to
cry, the landlady had cried because it seemed the proper thing to do,
the little man had cried, presumably because he could not help it, and
when she reached home Mary had cried without any definite excuse. It was
true that she had realised for the first time how gay, how clean, how
spacious, her own house was, how refreshing warm water is, and plenty of
soap, but a sensible person need hardly have made these an occasion for
weeping. As a matter of fact she was crying where a more energetic woman
would have rejoiced. Miss Percival, though she was coldly above the
weakness of tears, had taken Florrie home. There was a spare bedroom in
her flat for which she didn't consider Florrie too immoral, and in it
the child was to spend the day which, in this industrious age, is
sufficient concession to the filial grief of the lower classes.
Afterwards she was to be apprenticed to a friend of Miss Percival's who
was a dressmaker. Mary would pay for her support, for the necessary
instruction, and for the funeral. The dressmaker was a lady with
theories and perfectly able, said Miss Percival, to cope with such a
poor attempt at a thief. Mary ought to have been gratified at the good
her money was doing. Even Mrs. Wilson might be said to have come well
out of the adventure. She herself had admitted that since heathens in
Asia had learned to make crochet lace their rivals in England must feel
themselves better dead; and as far as this one case went Mary agreed
with her. The coarseness, the subservience, and the cruelty of Mrs.
Wilson had shocked Mary. That being so, there was no one for whom to
feel pity but the unhappy little man, and as a right-minded woman she
knew that he deserved heavier punishment than a passing pang of sorrow.
He was a wicked little man. Nevertheless she cried very heartily, and
only recovered her self-control when she remembered that James might
well be home early and would certainly be upset by visible traces of
tears.

She did not now dread the return of James; the unwonted emotions of the
day had exhausted her capacity for worrying herself. Florrie's cruder
troubles made the subtleties of her former uneasiness seem a little
ridiculous. She forgot that she had meant to greet James with a special
compensating tenderness; she only felt a little excited when she
realised that for once she had something of real importance to talk to
him about.

But James had not forgotten. As soon as business released his mind he
remembered that he wanted to be particularly loving. He hadn't had a
chance that morning of kissing and reassuring poor little Mary; all the
more reason to hurry home now and put an end to whatever thoughts might
still be distressing her. He knew from experience that Mary, with no
other imperative claims on her attention, let her mind dwell too long on
such trifles. She would suffer all day because she had done or said
something that had left his mind when the first thought of his day's
work entered it. He had always tried to be very tender with her, since
she was so harsh with herself--his last night's bad temper had been
inexcusable. He could not imagine now what had provoked it. Nothing that
she, poor darling, was responsible for, but that wouldn't have kept
her--he knew her--from persuading herself all this time that it was
entirely her own fault and nothing to do with him.

He hurried through the last batch of waiting papers, and decided to
forego even his walk home. It was a sacrifice, because he felt in need
of exercise. Instead he drove to a florist's and bought some roses. When
he had first become able to afford it he had bought Mary rings. She had
charming, slender fingers, and he had a taste for rings. But after some
time he had noticed that though she thanked him delightfully she seldom
wore them. She was afraid, she said, of losing them. So he had been
forced to fall back on flowers. The dear little thing was fond of
flowers.

He bought enough flowers to-day to satisfy five or six ladies of Mary's
size. It was one of the troubles of being rich that she could,
undoubtedly, procure roses for herself if she really wanted them. But he
liked to think, so strong was the instinct that had made him give up his
walk, that the roses he gave her were different from those that she
merely ordered.

She was in her room when he reached home, and when he had thrown aside
the florist's wrappings he went up to it. He didn't want to give her
just an immense unwieldy roll of paper. She was to see, as soon as she
saw him, the beauty which he had chosen to be the token of his love. She
was leaning on the mantelpiece as he came through the door. There! Red
eyes!--just as he had thought!

She seemed perfectly pleased, however, with him and his roses, and her
mouth, as she lifted it to be kissed, had no wistful droop.

"How lovely, darling!" she told him, and rang the bell. "I particularly
wanted some to-day. I've had no time to get any and the others are
dying. And I'm so glad to see you so early, because really, James, it
has been an extraordinary day, and I do want to hear what you think of
it all!" She looked at him anxiously.

He stroked her hair, and then put a finger beneath her chin. "I don't
think I like you to go through extraordinary days if they leave you
looking like this--tired out, and red round your dear grey eyes! But as
you are in this state it's quite right to tell me all about it!" He made
her sit down on the sofa and sat down by her.

Mary, for once, was too full of her tale to notice that he looked a
little disappointed. She did not usually entrust to a servant flowers
that were his special personal gift. It was quite right--as he had
said--that she should be eager to give him her confidence, but he had
wanted to-day to be welcomed for himself, affectionately, intimately,
not merely as a friendly audience. Nor did her story, when she told it,
astonish him as much as it astonished her. He was accustomed to the idea
that the lives of the poor are often tragic, and he was angry with these
people for dragging Mary into their sordid affairs. When she came to the
account of Mrs. Wilson's death he interrupted her.

"Poor little mother, no wonder you are distressed! You're not accustomed
to these painful occurrences. But there's one thing I must say, you're
not asking me, I hope, to take the girl back?" He softened the effect of
his speech by stroking her hand.

Mary relieved his mind. "Oh no, of course I understand that you
couldn't."

He might have left it at that, but it seemed a pity to waste arguments
he had ready. "Because even if it were not for her dishonesty, my dear,
a girl who had lied in that fashion would have to go. After all, the
inquiries we make are just as much for the girls' own sakes as for ours.
We owe it to those who come from decent homes that they shouldn't be
asked to associate with girls of a lower class. From our point of view
of course this business of the man, and of her having tried to steal, is
a complete justification of the rule. The whole thing must be gone into.
I'm not sure that the manager is free from blame. She ought to have
reported the case. I'll send someone down to Chelsea to-morrow."

Mary gave a little cry of dismay. "Oh, James! please don't let anyone
get into trouble through me! It would be dreadful! They'd think of me as
a sort of spy! I shall never be able to do anything for them again!"

James did not see her point. "The getting into trouble, my dear, is my
affair. And as for spying, surely this young woman doesn't imagine that
you and I are dissociated, that you have secrets from me? She had no
business to go to you at all, I didn't send you there to stand between
thieves and their punishment, but as she has, she must take the
consequences!"

This was impossible! James must be made to see--anything rather than
this! "James!" she took his chin between her hands and turned his head
towards her so that he was looking her in the face. "James--don't you
understand? She came to me because she was in despair. She didn't think
of me as Mrs. Heyham, only as someone who could help. And I'm not asking
you to take her back, or to show anything but the most extreme official
disapproval. What I've done for her I've done as a private person,
because I was sorry for her. You mustn't--I can't have my sympathy
turned into the means of disgracing poor Mrs. Black!"

James looked down for a moment on her urgent eyes, on the distressed
quiver of her mouth. Then he turned away, pretending that he did not
feel the faint pressure of the fingers that lay against his cheek.

"My dear," he said patiently, "I admit it's an awkward position for you,
but put yourself in my place for a minute. You aren't asking me to take
the girl back, I know, but you must see that you're asking something far
more important. Mrs. Black is a manager, in a position of power and
trust. I must know whether she has been deliberately winking at a
serious breach of the rules. You can't expect me to leave her there
without even knowing whether she is deceiving me!"

Mary tried another tack. "I don't see how you are to find out!"

"That's not the point. The point is that I must try. Even if I find
nothing it will frighten her."

Mary did not speak, and after a moment he went on. "You know me well
enough to know that I don't like punishing people. I had rather they did
their duty honestly and simply, so that I could reward them for it. But
on the day that I began, from whatever reason, to comply with abuses, to
overlook corruption of this sort, the downfall of the business would
begin. It is Mrs. Black's duty to see that the girls she employs are of
good character and come from respectable homes. We don't take girls
whose wages are their only means of support, for obvious reasons. Still
less do we take girls who are supporting other people. Of course, we
make it up to those we employ in other ways: they don't come to us
merely to earn a living, but that is not the point. The point is that
either Mrs. Black's methods of inquiry are at fault, so that she has
allowed herself to be deceived, or that she has become party to a
conspiracy to deceive the firm. It's clear that something is wrong, for
she had no right to dismiss Wilson for theft without reporting the
case."

Mary, bewildered, tried to gain time. Perhaps it had been reported
without his noticing it.

James smiled. "We don't dismiss people for theft every day, my dear, and
when we do we make a full enquiry. It is only fair to the culprit.
Besides a trouble of that sort is often a sign of something wrong."

"Perhaps she was sorry for Florrie--she knew that if she reported her
Florrie would be ruined. It's a great responsibility, James, and after
all she hadn't actually stolen anything."

James turned to her again, but not, this time, to study the entreaty of
her face, he wished to give force, on the contrary, to his own attitude.
"Really you're not very logical, Mary! The only responsibility of my
managers is to perform the duties that I pay them for. I undertake that
my employees shall not be dismissed unjustly, and it is for me to decide
whether or not they shall be prosecuted. And as for not actually
stealing, I gather from you that by the girl's own admission she was
caught in the act of trying to open a cash-box. Five minutes later she
might have opened it. For all I know she did--you'll hardly ask me to
place much faith in the word of a person who lies so fluently. You told
me that she told lies even to you, and her story of the man and the
bracelet strikes me as a pure fabrication. It's exactly the sort of
story such a girl would be likely to invent; if there was a man and a
bracelet at all she probably stole it from him. If she was innocent, why
was she so much afraid of being charged? It's not probable, to say the
least of it, that an honest girl would commit a real theft--and a theft
on her employer--in order to escape being charged with one that she
hadn't committed." Mary did not speak, and, after a moment, he left the
sofa and walked over to the window. There he felt more at ease; the near
presence of her emotion had troubled him. It was creditable emotion, and
though in this case he could not give way to it he would deal with it as
gently as he could. His face cleared, "I understand your feeling, little
mother. You are sorry for her, and you don't want it to seem that you
have taken advantage of her confidence. But if you think it over you
will see that the results of my action can't now affect Wilson, and I
undertake that your name shall not be connected with the matter in any
way. You can't seriously have thought that I should bring you into it.
And as a concession to you I am prepared to behave with every possible
leniency towards Mrs. Black. Beyond that I think you must leave it to
me."

Mary looked up at him as he stood dark against the waning light. Her
protest against his words was mingled with the excitement of a
discovery. She had been right last night--the mood she had chanced upon
had neither been an accident nor unimportant. It had sprang from some
deep essential in his mind. To-day it was overlaid with patience and
with kindness, but none the less it shut him away from her, made him
impervious to her entreaties, insensitive to whatever truth might lie in
her point of view.

She felt now that she had suspected all her life the existence of this
baffling quality. It was what she had feared when she had not wished to
touch his business life. She had not only been afraid of herself, she
had been afraid of him. As she had known him he had made her, their
children, their relation to one another, the pivot of his life; here she
was discovering another principle of loyalty, another axis round which
his judgment and his ideals might revolve. He didn't misunderstand her
now because he wished to wound her, or even because he would not take
the trouble to examine what she said. Her wishes, potent as they were,
had run counter to something stronger than themselves--she had not
merely then to persuade him, she had to overcome his resistance.

Her mind was so busied with this thought that for a moment or two she
did not speak. James, believing that she was considering the force of
his words, did not hurry her. Then she made one more attempt to reach
him.

"Perhaps I didn't explain very well, James. I didn't mean that what I
minded was Mrs. Black's knowing that I had betrayed her to you, if it
turns out that I have. I should mind that, because it would make all
these women hate me when I only wished to do them a kindness. But what I
mind most is being used, in actual fact, as an instrument of misfortune,
as the channel of your displeasure--you force me to become a spy in
fact, whether anyone knows it or not. And, you know, I resent it, I'm
not prepared to be made use of in such a manner. It's a thing between me
and you James, not between me and them--" She stopped, her eyes fixed on
his face for some sign of comprehension.

James turned away a little, evading her gaze. "I'm very sorry," he said,
"I'm exceedingly sorry. I had no more idea than you that this unhappy
position would arise. Normally one couldn't have supposed that
information of this sort would come into your possession. But since it
has I do not see that I can be expected to disregard it. This girl must
have known perfectly well that in telling you she was as good as telling
me."

"I don't suppose, poor little thing, that she thought about it!"

James was annoyed. It seemed to him that for Mary after what he had
said, to call Florrie a poor little thing was to display a wilful,
provocative obstinacy. But he had determined not to give way to
irritation, so he said nothing. After all, these lying impostors were
new to Mary.

Mary, meanwhile, thinking the matter over, had resolved to make one more
effort. She too got up, as these things are more easily said when one is
standing, and went over to him. "Will you do one thing for me," she
asked, "will you, before you take action, consult Trent, and let me, if
I want to, tell him what I feel about it? I'm almost sure, though I
don't know why, that he will agree with me."

James paused. Then he took her hands. "Yes," he said, "I'll do that, if
you'd like me to. But look here, little woman, you put it to yourself
fairly. Have you, even for a minute, tried to look at this thing from my
point of view?"

Mary looked down at the floor for an instant's reflection. What he said
was perfectly true. She had made no attempt to consider his position.
Then she looked up and met his eyes. "No," she admitted, "I haven't."

He said no more, but kissed her and left her to think it over.

It did not occur to him that his leaving her would annoy Mary. He had
acted instinctively upon the principle of making the most of an
advantage. Moreover, he was tired, he had had a long day's work, and he
had not expected to find an argument of such gravity awaiting his
return.

Mary, unfortunately, was annoyed. She had not finished telling James
about her adventures, and it hurt her to feel that he took no interest
in what she had been doing. He would have taken all the interest she
could wish if she had made them into a funny story; he liked what he
called her witty way of commenting on events, but as it was true and
important and serious he only considered its possible effect upon his
business.

She tried to conquer her displeasure by telling herself that this was
very natural. If a man has worked hard at a business for thirty years
one should not be astonished that it has dominated his mind--one should
be grateful if he has any mind left to be dominated.

Mary set herself to consider this, so that she might turn from her sense
of personal grievance. What would she feel if she had spent the years of
her working life serving, not individual people, whose happiness was a
simple and obvious end, but an elaborate machine? In James's case the
use of the machine was easy to see, people must be fed, and in some ways
James fed them better than they had ever been fed before. But that, and
he would have admitted it, wasn't the reason why he fed them. He had
provided tea-shops because he saw in them the chance of a business
opening. Other business men jumped just as eagerly at a chance to make
cotton blankets and paper boots, even the tea-shops encouraged women to
gad about and spend money instead of making their jams and jellies at
home.

He didn't do his work to serve the country,--after all, if James hadn't
built his shops one of his rivals would have built them instead,--but
neither, Mary felt sure, did he work purely from a love of money. He
liked money, but he had as much money now as he would ever care to
spend. He liked a beautiful house, and a beautiful garden, he used a car
to make journeys more convenient, he liked all the things that join with
these to make life run free from hampering anxiety. And it cost money,
immense sums of money, to have fresh air and flowers and cleanliness and
books. But these, after all, did not provide a bottomless pit for
wealth; in Rosemary's ideal state--Mary smiled--they were to be the
common pleasures of the crowd. And these were, on the whole, all that
James wanted. He had not been vulgarised to the point of demanding a
hundred servants or jewels in the heels of his women's shoes.

He worked, in the long run, she supposed, for power, and for the flush
of success. He did not trouble very much about ultimate aims, he found
happiness in the achievement of transient immediate ends that sprang up
in the course of events, and were accepted without question. Chance had
thrown him into a factory; being there, he made the best of it and
proceeded to think in terms of factories. He wanted a clean factory--an
efficient factory--a larger factory--then some tea-shops, some more
tea-shops, more and more, this site, that site, a distinctive
appearance, a reputation for the best tea--so it went on. Of course he
came to care about it, to depend on its success. Of course he came to
regard the human beings who worked with him as factors in its success.
He saw it as an end to be furthered for its own sake, not as a means to
the building up of happy lives--though he liked, of course, after
dinner, to dwell on its national usefulness.

It was all very obvious, she had known it all for years, but she had
not, until that moment, taken it into account. She had thought of the
business remotely as the source of their income, as a career for Trent,
and immediately as a source of worries, a disturber of James's meals.
She had never considered it as a great influence on James's mind,
teaching him to look away from the primitive things of life to which
women sit close, teaching him to think first of methods, of
institutions, of organisations, the moulds and forms into which human
emotion and energy are poured.

That was what Miss Percival must have meant when she talked of a man's
world. It was a world that cared more for things, for arrangements, than
for people. Women didn't come so easily to care for things. She thought
of women she knew who were restless, and whose husbands gave them
diamonds to keep them quiet. They had no children, or the world had
taken their children away from them, spoiled them perhaps--or, worst of
all, they had lost the gift of loving. There they were, unhappy--not
that it mattered much to anyone. They had no work, no broad enthusiasms,
to carry them over their personal failures. She had felt the poverty and
insecurity of that when she had given Laura and Rosemary a better
education than most girls of their class. She had trained their
intellects to give them a second, a firmer hold on life. And they,
having got it, were of opinion, that they should have more. They wanted,
through politics, to regain their hold on a world that the modern
craving for size and complexity had taken away from women. She had never
troubled to follow them there. She had said that she wanted a vote
because James believed that she ought to have one, and Trent believed
she ought not. Anyhow, that, for the moment, was a side issue. What she
was faced with now was this discovery that James and she held different
points of view. He wanted the business to be a success, and, to his
credit, an honest success; she wanted that too, but she wanted more that
it should make the people who worked for it happy. How were they--James
and she--going to surmount these opposing attitudes?

As she wondered she was overcome by her old timidity. The best thing to
do, probably, would be for her to drop the whole thing. Already she and
James had been more divided by it than she could remember their having
been by anything. They had differed before, but not in this fundamental
way. It wasn't worth it--better let all the girls in London be
overworked than lose the happiness of her love for James.

She might have acted on this impulse, so much was she afraid of her own
reflections, if she had not remembered that, as a matter of fact, half
of the business was hers. It had been given to her, and she had enjoyed
its profits for years. She had left it to James, and he had been willing
that she should leave it--to his eyes it was a man's, not a woman's
work--but then she had not realised that anything more than James's
brains were needed. Now it seemed to her quite probable that her brains
were needed too. She was responsible whether she washed her hands of it
or not. She wished with all her heart that her father had given James
the whole concern. Then she need have had nothing to do with it. But he
hadn't, he had given it to her; she would not gain anything worth
gaining by being selfish.

She differed from James; very well, then, she differed. She must accept
it. But she needn't differ irritatingly, ignorantly. As long as she had
meant to let her own ideas follow her husband's, she had refrained from
seeking information from other people. Now that she saw that she and
James might very well not agree she decided that she had better know
what she was talking about. When Rosemary came back she would find out
the names of some books. After all, something might come of this--if she
were forced to dispute with James she might find a closer relation to
Rosemary.

Meanwhile James was losing his temper with Trent. There was no
sensitiveness in Trent that need be considered, a little sarcasm did the
young man good, and James was ruffled at having to consult him. However,
he had said he would, and no use would be served by putting the matter
off. If Trent had wanted his father in a better humour he needn't have
entered the door at the moment when James was passing through the hall.

"Trent," he called, "come into the library for a moment!"

Trent came, lamblike but dignified.

"Your mother has unearthed a pretty condition of affairs at C. L." James
had his back to the fireplace and his chin in the air.

Trent was attentive. "Yes?"

"The manager--name of Black--there engaged a girl called Wilson, who
seems to have had no references but a bedridden mother without means,
and subsequently the girl tried to steal money out of the cash-box, says
she got herself tangled up with a man, pawned a bracelet he gave her, or
she stole from him, and wanted the money to redeem it because he
threatened to prosecute her. The girl wrote to your mother, who went
down to see her, and found her living in one room with an old woman and
almost starving. I suppose your mother is seeing after her now, but the
point is, what are we to do about Black?"

Trent did not understand why he had been brought into the matter. It was
not the sort of thing that would normally have needed any discussion.
"Why do you ask me?" he said.

"I told your mother I would."

That did not make things any clearer.

"My mother has some definite idea as to what should be done?"

"Your mother does not want anything done."

"About Black?"

James did not answer for a minute. Even if Mary had not been convinced
by his arguments she might have kept up a decent pretence of
agreement--she need not have sent him to Trent to explain that his
father and mother had fallen out. James couldn't imagine now why he had
been such an idiot as to undertake this unpleasant task. Mary was not,
as a rule, so careless of his dignity.

"I don't find you very intelligent this evening," he said.

Meanwhile Trent had had time to understand.

"When you said 'unearth' you meant 'unearth by accident'--I see--" he
began.

"What the devil does it matter how she found it out?--it certainly
wasn't by accident. The girl came to her and told her--you can't call
that an accident!"

Trent squared his shoulders with the priggish, dogmatic air that his
family disliked in him. "I can quite understand that my mother doesn't
want to get the woman into trouble," he said.

"Don't preach at me, sir!" would have relieved James's mind, but it
would also have been to admit himself in the wrong. He drove back the
tempting phrase.

"Your mother never wants to get anyone into trouble--that's not the
point," he retorted. "The point is"--he spoke with a vague, oppressive
sense of repetition--"that I am in possession of some valuable
information about one of the managers--and I am asked to become an
accessory to at least one crime, possibly to a number, by ignoring it!"

Trent laughed.

"Well, what should we be doing but acquiescing in deceit and
dishonesty?" James was furious.

Trent told himself that his father was showing signs of age. He was
behaving absurdly, a thing he did not often do. Trent was not offended
or frightened by this ridiculous conduct because he felt himself safe on
ground where his judgment could not be challenged. Trent had received an
education which enabled him to know when a thing was honourable and when
it wasn't. He felt perfectly sure of himself.

"Quite so!" he said. "But look at the other side of the thing for a
moment. If Wilson had been a lady you wouldn't have doubted that what
she said was said in confidence. We shouldn't have felt it possible to
act on it."

James said nothing.

"As a matter of fact," his son went on, "if it had been anyone but my
mother I shouldn't have thought much of that. We don't treat our work
people as our social equals for the best of reasons. They aren't. And
they wouldn't understand it if we did. I've very little doubt that
Wilson meant to get Black into trouble for dismissing her."

James stirred--why hadn't he thought of that?

"But as it is I think we had better do nothing. We don't want to make my
mother feel that she has been forced into an act she considers cruel, or
even dishonourable. After all she has no experience of these people; she
doesn't understand that the standards of cultured society don't apply to
them. And really, it won't make much practical difference. We've only
got to keep an eye on Black. If she's up to anything we shall soon catch
her out. After all, Wilson's story isn't to be relied on there more than
anywhere else!"

"But this isn't a question of Wilson's story, your mother saw the girl's
home for herself!"

"Oh, well, as I've said, it needn't make any difference. I'll tell
Forbes that he must give special attention to C. L. I don't think there
can be anything much wrong. The returns are all right!"

James conceded the point. "Very well, very well," he said in a tone of
dismissal, for he did not wish to prolong a disagreeable encounter. He
wanted to tell Trent that he despised him for his manners, his morals,
and his point of view, but his own manners would not let him. Moreover,
in a sort of way, Trent had got him out of a difficulty. What he had
said about Black was perfectly true, and it would be a relief, for once,
to give way to Mary. When Mary considered a matter a point of honour she
was as tenacious as he would have been himself.

Nevertheless it was an unpleasant business. As he sat thinking in his
chair, after Trent had left the room, he realised how very unpleasant it
was. Trent had lectured him in that damned superior way that roused all
James's worst feelings, James himself had lost his temper, and Mary was
probably sitting up there telling herself that her husband was a
monster. And the thing that was to solve it all was Trent's assumption
that the working classes weren't fit to lick his boots. James knew
better. When he first went to his factory he had known a good many of
his workmen intimately. They had their code of honour--James felt at
this moment that it was as good a code as young Master Trent's, any
day--and he had always flattered himself that they knew him for a man of
honour, too. But this wasn't a matter of dealing as one man to another.
For one thing Black was a woman, and though one does one's best to be
generous to women it is not possible always to be square with them. But
what was really the main point was that James was hardly, in this, a
private man. He represented the business, the prosperity of the
business. And the business had the right to demand honesty from all its
employees, and constant, unswerving efforts from him to secure their
honesty. Mary and Trent didn't seem to see that there was a principle
involved. Mary was unable to look beyond the softness of her own
heart--nobody expected Mary to understand business life, but she might
have trusted him--and Trent thought nothing mattered as long as Black
was found out before long. Meanwhile what of the impression in the minds
of all the people who knew that the firm was being hoodwinked? No, no,
what they ought to have had was a thorough inquiry, and then have shown
mercy to the culprits afterwards.

This was only one trouble, but for all he knew it might be the first of
a series. His faith in Mary's judgment was shaken. She ought to have
realised that this was a matter for him. Perhaps after all his hands
would be strengthened by following out a scheme that had been in his
mind for some time, and turning the business into a public company. One
is in a very satisfactory position when one represents not merely one's
own opinions but the all-powerful interests of one's shareholders.

He was considering this plan with a fresh interest when he was
interrupted by the dressing-bell.




CHAPTER VIII


ON Monday, after tea, Rosemary sat in her studio and knitted. Not long
ago her studio had been the schoolroom, and its name now was little more
than an attempt to make the best of its northern aspect. There was an
easel in a corner and in a drawer somewhere various sticks of charcoal
and tubes of paint, but the room was used chiefly, when she troubled to
think of it, as a field for Rosemary's decorative instinct. Just now its
walls were cream, its paint dark purple, its furniture very subtly
purple and blue. This was an arrangement which gave many opportunities.
When Rosemary was feeling brilliant and worldly and successful with life
she could put on a rose-coloured dress and dominate the colour scheme,
or, if she were restless, she could be ultra-modern and temperamental in
orange and dark green. This afternoon she was knitting in the coat and
skirt she had worn on her walking-tour and the room, undominated, looked
a trifle gloomy. Rosemary always carried knitting on a walking-tour.
Landladies who did not think well of young girls tramping about in
couples would grow friendly when they saw the knitting-needles. And
Rosemary was anxious now to finish what she was doing before she had
forgotten all about it.

Anthony, when he came in, found her pulling out a row of stitches. His
attention was drawn to this because she would not allow him within reach
until the affair of getting them back was safely finished. Then he
received his greeting, but Rosemary's mind was with her wool. After a
question or two she went back to her knitting. "Bother the thing," she
said a minute later, "I'm getting it wrong again!"

Anthony sat down on the hearth-rug and asked her, in a tone that did not
call for an answer, why, in that case, she troubled to do it at all. He
was slightly annoyed. If it had not been for her idiotic fancy-work he
could have sat on the arm of her chair.

Rosemary did not knit with the grace that comes of skill, and now, since
she was deeply preoccupied, her air was impersonal and unreceptive. She
might have been more glad to see him, Anthony thought. Nevertheless she
was lovely, and, he reminded himself, her lack of sentimental pretence
was one of the things he most admired in her. It was so unlike Gladys.
He had been in love with Gladys before he met Rosemary, and whenever he
had said that he felt anything Gladys had always felt it too, only
rather more intensely.

At this point Rosemary, the fresh difficulty surmounted, began to
amplify her grievance. "Why are one's hands so inadequate?" she said,
clicking off a plain easy row. "Why do they go on making mistakes after
you understand exactly what to do? It's awfully annoying being beaten by
a thing like this knitting--the pattern is perfectly simple." She
reached the end of the row and looked across to him, frowning a little.
"Why should I care about knitting?" she went on, "I believe being
engaged to you is making me womanly, old Tony!"

Anthony, hands round knees, imparted a little information. "You'd have
got womanly anyhow," he told her. "It's a way women have. But I don't
see why you should waste your time knitting. An intelligent being, say a
man, wouldn't be bothering about mistakes, he'd put in the time
inventing a knitting-machine. You can prove this if you go into any big
shop. The proper department is replete with knitting-machines. And how
many men knit? They smoke their pipes and think. But you go tangling up
wool with two clumsy needles--I withdraw that if you think it's unkind!"

This row was complicated, and Rosemary did not look up. "Knit two
together," he heard her say.

"Listen to me please," he urged. "As for your hands being silly, it's
you who are silly to put them to such uses when you might be letting me
hold them. Being held is one of the things hands were made for; knitting
is not. And having your hands held is one of the things you were made
for, and you know it."

Rosemary stood up and put her knitting aside. Then she held out her
hands. "All right," she said, "here they are. Only if I don't finish
that wretched thing quickly it will just lie about and get dusty."

Anthony pulled her down on to the rug beside him and then made himself
thoroughly comfortable.

"Put your head on my shoulder," he advised her, "if you're not feeling
affectionate. And kiss my chin once or twice. I want you to feel
affectionate because I've something to say to you, and a nice woman is
swayed by her emotions."

Rosemary straightened herself at once. "What ridiculous plan have you
got," she asked, "that you can't trust to my calm judgment?"

Anthony looked straight ahead of him, at the fire. "It's a very good
plan," he said, "it's an excellent plan, and I've given a good deal of
thought to it. I think it's time we got married."

He did not turn, but her shoulder was against his, and he felt her
stiffen. "Why--particularly?" she asked.

"Oh, general reasons. As a matter of fact it's your duty to be pining to
marry me, and I think it's rather giving in to you to tell you reasons,
but I will if you like."

Rosemary believed that life is a serious thing, and she could not now
help him to be flippant. "Yes, do!" she said, and Anthony honourably
tried.

"Wouldn't you agree," he began, "that the art of living is largely not
going on with things after you've had the best of them? When things
begin to shrink instead of expanding, you ought to change them--don't
you agree?"

Rosemary was looking down at the floor. "But why has our engagement
begun to shrink?" she asked. "I don't think it has."

Anthony put his arm round her and pulled her so close to him that she
could not see his face. "Do you really want to know--are you quite sure
you want to know--won't you just take it from me?" she heard him saying.

"No," she said, "I'd rather you told me!" She was not afraid of knowing
about life, she reminded herself, her cheek safely against his coat. She
hoped he would always tell her everything.

He was silent for a moment, and then he drew her closer still. "You
see," he said, "Rosemary darling, I want you so much. I used to be happy
just because I loved you and you loved me. I liked to be with you, and
talk to you, and argue about things and feel that we were great friends.
But now I seem to have lost all that--" He hesitated.

Rosemary did not speak, and he went on. "It isn't that I love you less,
only it's different. I love you more--I think about you all day, I can't
help it, I keep seeing you, and remembering how beautiful you are, and
how jolly your hair is--and all that sort of thing."

"The fact is, young woman," he went on, "you've become an obsession, do
you see? A poet would be delighted if he lay awake all night thinking of
your eyelids, but I'm not a poet. And if I can't do my work properly
what's to become of us?"

Rosemary still said nothing, and the lightness died out of his voice. "I
hate it," he told her, "it's perfectly beastly. Even when I'm with you
I'm wondering all the time whether you really love me, and when I'm away
from you I'm simply miserable. I know it's idiotic, but I can't help it.
And it's spoiling everything, it isn't the way you ought to be loved.
It's greedy and ugly. I suppose really you're too fine for me. But I
feel as if once we were married it would be all right again."

He turned, trying to see from her face what Rosemary thought, but the
room had grown dark, and the fire threw confusing shadows. She did not
move; he supposed she was thinking about it in her lucid, reasonable
way, when suddenly he heard her whisper, "Tony--darling--I can't! Don't
make me!"

His sense of disappointment was so immediate and so strong that he
jumped to his feet. He could not sit next her, touching her, when they
were so deeply divided. He picked up a bowl that stood on the
mantelpiece and pretended, in the dark, to examine it.

"It's all right," he reassured her, "it's quite all right, old darling.
Even if I could, I wouldn't make you do anything you didn't want to do."

But Rosemary was on her feet now, appealing to him. "Tony, let me
explain--you explained to me--of course I'll marry you if you feel we
must--it isn't that I don't love you. It's Laura. It's the change in
Laura that has made me afraid of getting married."

She put her hand gently on to his arm, but he moved in a way that was
meant to show that he had not noticed it. "Laura seems to me very
happy," he said, unable not to argue, "happier now than she was before
she married."

"Oh, I know she's happy--I'm not afraid of not being happy"--she could
not bear him to think that--"but she's grown so soft, Tony, and she used
to be so keen. It's just as if she were drunk with happiness--it has got
the better of her. She's not herself any more. I can't explain, because
I don't understand what it is has changed her, but it has made me feel
that marriage is dreadfully important. It does things to you. It alters
you. It's a terrible risk."

She paused, hoping that he would help her, that he would agree with her,
but he said nothing.

"I've always thought that however much I loved anyone I should love them
proudly, as a free person, as an equal. And I thought Laura was like
that too--and now she's horrible, she's abject--I've seen her looking up
at Harry like a dog!"

Another thought came to her, and she flushed. "That white thing I was
knitting is for Laura's baby. She was pleased when I told her I was
making it. But, Tony, if that were going to happen to me I'd die rather
than have people know, have all those women chattering about it and
fussing over me and bringing me cushions and telling me to keep my feet
up. If you didn't tell them they'd guess--it's indecent."

He looked up quickly. "We could go right away," he said, and stopped.
She had turned to the mantelpiece, and her face was hidden on her arm.

Anthony felt very much to blame. He turned up the electric light, as a
sign that the time for common-sense had come. "Darling," he told her,
"I've said so--you shall do just what you like! I oughtn't to have
bothered you--I ought to have remembered that you're so young! But it is
all right, isn't it? I mean, you do love me?" he went on, made anxious
by the heaviness of his heart.

"Aren't you sure?" he pressed, as she did not speak.

His tone had loosed a tumult of misgiving in Rosemary's mind. He was
hurt, she had hurt him--the idea brought with it a sense of intimacy.
Perhaps she had been wrong to be afraid--he was Tony, not Harry, not
just a man. She had not meant to hurt him. Perhaps she had been giving
words to thoughts that she ought to have left in their vague confusion,
indefinite, disregarded. She had let herself be afraid, but what she
owed him was love and belief, not fear. Perhaps this fear was one of the
hard things women have to conquer. Perhaps they all felt it, but they
were braver than she was. If she let him go now, his hopes bruised, his
desires rejected, wouldn't she be guilty of treachery, wouldn't she be
throwing away her great opportunity? If you love freely, proudly, she
told herself, you don't rule your love by your fear. If she was really
Tony's equal, his mate and his comrade, why was she afraid? She had
given herself to him, and she could not, because she was a coward, take
her gift back again.

She went up to him, and put her arms round his neck. "I love you better
than anything else in the world," she said, "and I want to marry you."

Anthony looked down miserably for a moment at her flushed face. He knew
that she was excited, exalted, moved by a sudden impulse. But why was he
to pay less attention to this impulse, this mood, than to the mood that
had gone before? The main thing was that she loved him. He put his arms
round her, unable for the moment to find speech. "Little Rose," he told
her at last, "I will be good to you, honestly I will. I do want you so
badly, and if you love me I can't feel that it's wrong!"

Rosemary, trembling and clinging close to him, found that she was
crying.

She dried her tears hastily, left him, and went back to her chair. She
took the knitting on to her lap, but forgot to go on with it. She was
glad she had done what she had, but she had not, all the same, left off
being afraid. It did make a difference being married--it must. It had
made, people said, "a woman" of Laura. She didn't want to be a woman,
she thought. Most women were cowardly creatures, lazy, ridden by
feeling, immersed in their own little pools of happiness or discontent.
She liked girls, she liked being a girl, ignorant and adventurous, with
nothing in her life about which she could not speak and be honest. When
you married the most important things in the world were private, secret
things, you shared them with one other person, you lost your sense of
the freedom, the spaciousness, of life. Laura had said that once, even
Laura hadn't lost what she'd lost without regretting it. It wasn't that
she didn't love Tony, she loved him so much that she was happy to be
giving up everything for him, but she regretted herself, the self that
was soon to be changed into a wife and a mother. She liked the world,
she liked adventures; a wife is shut away from adventure, a mother shuts
the world away from her children. She consoled herself by thinking that
every woman who marries young has had these thoughts.

Meanwhile Anthony fidgeted. He was never easy under prolonged
sentimental tension, and he did not want to think now of the scene they
had just been through. He wanted, leaving that as a background of
general exultation, to talk about a house he had seen that morning. It
was to let; he wasn't sure that it mightn't do. But he realised that
while Rosemary's expression remained what it was it would be
extraordinarily tactless to talk about the house. His nerves were a
little upset, and the house obsessed him, he could think of no other
topic. As he sat silent, looking a little gloomy, he tried to make out
from the front of it how many rooms the house would be likely to have.
The rent was £70. With the rates that would be £95.

They were both glad when the door opened and showed them Mrs. Heyham.
Mary had come, a little nervous, to find out from her daughter the names
of books that she would do well to read, without, at the same time,
discussing the subject or giving rise to any thoughts that were critical
of James. She greeted Anthony kindly, and would have kissed Rosemary,
but Rosemary's cheeks had flushed too lately under other kisses, and she
did not approach her mother in a way that made this possible. Mary
understood the refusal, and her own cheeks reddened. She had been hoping
that these new interests of hers would bring her nearer to Rosemary.

For a moment they all waited, then Mary sat down and asked whether the
walking-tour had been a success. She had forgotten, quite suddenly, the
careful arrangement she had made of what she was going to say. Two days
ago she had wondered whether she shouldn't tell Rosemary everything, but
finally she had decided that she would not. Florrie's story was not easy
to tell, and she found, besides, that she was shy of exposing her own
doubtful and troubled mind. The child, with her different ideas, might
dislike her mother's emotions, resent her confidences. She had clinched
the matter by recalling the loyalty she herself owed to James.

So at last, when she had gathered courage, she began very carefully, "Do
you remember, darling, six months ago, when we thought of my starting
this little investigation, you offered to lend me some books?"

Rosemary remembered. "Oh, yes--you didn't read them, did you?"

Mary was prepared for that. "No, I didn't. Your father and I thought
that as I hadn't time for studying the question seriously I had better
begin with an unprejudiced mind. But now I've seen a certain amount for
myself I should like to know what more competent people think." She
smiled.

Rosemary knew this tone of her mother's, knew it to mean that Mary was
reserving something, probably the most important thing. The tone chafed
her now as it had when she first understood it, as a child. Why had her
mother never spoken of what she was doing?--Rosemary supposed that she
must have given some promise to her husband, or to Trent. "How stuffy it
all is," she told herself, "never any honest discussion! Always secrets
and hiding things in corners!" When she answered it was in the slightly
stiff tone with which she always met what seemed to her a disingenuous
excess of tact.

"I don't know of any books on waitresses particularly, mother, only
books on women's work in general. I can get the facts for you if you
like. But what is wrong with the work is long hours, too much work,
consumption from going home in the cold after the hot shops, and bad
wages!"

Mary was taken aback. It had not occurred to her that there was a
definite body of opinion on the subject--hostile opinion. "Oh--how do
you know?" she asked.

Rosemary had been too much disturbed that afternoon to feel tolerant
now. "She has been six months looking at it," she said to herself, "and
she doesn't see yet what a rotten life it is. Shall I get like that,
shall I lose my wits and my senses when I've been married twenty years?"
"Oh, I don't know," she answered. "I know a woman who works among them,
and every now and then there are articles in the papers about it--"

"I've never seen any, dear!" Mary felt that in some way she was on her
defence.

"You wouldn't have, they'd not be in the _Times_. Of course, you can't
rely on them altogether, but they're fairly accurate, and about a year
ago I felt curious about it; I wanted to find out how our money was made
for us, so I went to one of those bureaus where they look things out for
you. I never said anything to you because you none of you take me
seriously." Her voice had become softer as she realised that her mother
was really distressed.

She finished, and Mary bent forward, eager with a point. She had not
meant to speak of the thing, much less argue about it, but when she saw
Rosemary seriously in error, she forgot that it might be imprudent to
open a discussion. "Why did you say bad wages?--I have always understood
that twelve shillings a week was good wages for a woman. My servants
would think it good."

"So it is," said Anthony, who had left the hearth-rug and was standing
behind Rosemary's chair.

"And you must remember that all these girls are provided for at home!
They're not really earning their livings!" She was not defending a mere
argument, she was defending James!

"That doesn't make twelve shillings fair pay for a whole week's work!
Suppose their fathers are earning two pounds a week, or even four--two
hundred pounds a year--couldn't they spend a little more with advantage?
Whether they'll let us or not, nothing gives us a moral right to feed
our girls on their fathers' money!" Rosemary's inner excitement was
turned now into this congenial channel. She had never had a chance of
talking about the matter with her father, and when she had turned on
Trent he had refused with contempt to discuss that or anything else of
importance with her. Laura had been vaguely sympathetic, with a mental
reservation that father couldn't possibly be cruel to anyone. Now at
last Rosemary could speak the truth. She would have said more if Anthony
had not pressed his hand heavily on her shoulder.

"But why do the girls go to it," cried poor Mary, "if it's so bad? There
are always girls waiting to be taken on! And how can your father pay his
people more if nobody else will?"

Anthony's hand pressed even more heavily. "Twelve shillings is a good
wage for women, Mrs. Heyham," he said. "I don't know what the average is
since the Trade Boards, but it's far below that."

Rosemary understood that she was behaving badly. "I don't suggest that
father could pay more than he does, mother darling, I haven't the least
idea of what he can afford. I don't suppose he can--that's the point of
a competitive system!"

Mary looked at them, young things with whom lay so much of her
happiness, and knew that they were trying to console her. She saw, too,
that she must stop the discussion at once. Hadn't they already dragged
into it him whose very existence made all discussion wrong? "At any
rate," she said, and she smiled, "you can lend me some books. Perhaps
when I've read them you won't feel that I'm so ignorant!"

Rosemary jumped up and went to the bookcase where she kept the works
that had inspired her own social wisdom. She pulled out a row of them,
easy ones, free from technical allusions, and brought them to her
mother, who took the "These aren't difficult" without wincing. As she
went towards the door Rosemary jumped up and kissed her. "Mother
darling," she began, and then she did not know what to say. It was her
duty, the duty of every decent human being, to tell another human being
the truth! But Mary was content with the affectionate gesture and went
away happier.

When the door was shut Anthony was able to show his disapprobation.
"Don't be detestable, Rosemary," he said, "you hurt the poor old lady!
Lend her books if she asks for them, but it's not your business to tell
her those particular things!"

"But, Anthony--I'm sorry if I was too hard--I was excited I'm
afraid--but isn't it everybody's business if she wants to know and can't
see them for herself?"

"Somebody's perhaps, not yours! Look here, Rosemary, you read
everything, and you've found out things in the last few years that it
hurt you to know, but aren't you glad you found them out for yourself?
Wouldn't you have hated your mother to tell you?"

Rosemary looked down. "But if I hadn't found out for myself I should
have felt that she ought to tell me!"

"That's not the point--she probably saw that you were finding out. What
I mean is, wouldn't you rather she arranged for you to know than that
she told you, intimately, herself?"

Rosemary was honest. "Very much, very much rather! I couldn't bear to
talk to her about--that sort of thing. I can't even talk to her honestly
about you----"

"Well then"--she ought to have seen his point before--"if your mother
observes the decency that should govern intercourse between different
generations, so should you. These things aren't facts to her. They're
deeply concerned with her emotional life!"

Rosemary left that. Possibly he was right on a basis of sentiment,
though she still felt that social facts were not things you ought to be
secret about. But her thoughts had gone back to their earlier
occupation. "Tony," she said, "when I'm married will there be things
people won't speak the truth to me about?"

He answered her frankly. "Plenty of things--but I don't know if there'll
be more of them than there are now!"

Rosemary turned to him as he sat, now on the edge of the table. He
looked very handsome and kind, and clever, and young, but she thought
too that he looked a shade too sure of his own knowledge, too contented
with his supremacy as a man.

"I'm not going to be that sort of wife, then," she warned him. "I'm not
going to make a little warm deep hole for our life together, like mice
making their nest in the dark. I'm going"--she pressed her hands
together--"to have none of these secrecies and loyalties that grow up
round people--like laurels in front of basement windows--and shut out
the air and the light. I shan't pretend to everyone that you're a little
god. I despise women who go on for years pretending they don't know that
their husband is a drunkard. I shan't feel that just because I'm married
to you I ought to admire things I should hate if I weren't. I'm not
going to be loyal to you, Tony, and worship your likes and dislikes. I'm
going to be loyal to what is beautiful and brave. I think marriage ought
to complete one's life, and make it wider and finer, not narrow it down
to mutton and dusters and one little particular set of people. It would,
if only most women weren't so lazy, and such cowards. Whenever anything
happens to them they make it a reason for slackening their hold and
shutting their eyes. They're growing up, or they're marrying, or they're
not as young as they used to be, so they leave off doing the things they
like, and they leave off being interested in anything that's a trouble.
Well, I'm not going to! I love you, Tony, more than I can tell you, and
I love, but one's life, one's soul, is the most important!"

Anthony saw that her face showed a slight anxiety. He slipped off his
table and knelt beside her, smiling. What a brave fine thing she was,
how charmingly pugnacious, and what a child! He would not have dared to
marry her if he had not felt sure that he could make her happy. It was
when she talked like that he was most pleased with the love he felt for
her. He knew then that it was not a young man's greedy passion for a
creature that is beautiful and untamed, but the noble enduring love of
one human being for another. His confidence showed in his eyes as he
looked up at her. "Little Rosemary," he said, "don't give up anything
you want to keep! You needn't be loyal to anything but yourself! You're
not like your mother, remember. She married without knowing she had a
mind, without wanting liberty. Marriage is different now, and if it
weren't, you and I would be different."

Rosemary let her hand close on his. "I suppose so," she conceded. But in
her heart she wondered whether Laura hadn't told herself the same.

Meanwhile Mary, in her room, Rosemary's books before her, was setting
out to conquer an understanding of the social system. It was exciting,
this search for knowledge, it was wonderful to think that there was
something she desired ardently, and she had but to read a few books, to
think a little, and she would find it. All her life she had been
ignorant, and content to be ignorant. She had never thought that she
might, herself, go seeking after truth. But now in the confusion of
received opinion she had resolved, splendidly, that she would form an
opinion of her own, form it not by comparing the facts that were brought
to her but by thinking based on facts she had discovered for herself.
She couldn't pit James against Rosemary, or Rosemary against James. If
the responsibility was hers she must use such brains as she had to cope
with it. After all, were not wisdom and learning there for her as well
as for another?

She sat down to _Women's Work and Wages_ with the enthusiasm of a girl
of fifteen who is allowed, at last, to begin learning Greek.




CHAPTER IX


DURING the next few months Mary renewed her youth. She had never known
before that it is delightful to possess, specifically, an intellect. It
was not that she had altogether neglected this faculty, but its use had
generally come in the form of worrying over something. Now she found an
instinctive pleasure in addressing it to the understanding of abstract
problems.

She had been looking forward to this autumn for other reasons, because
at the end of it she was to become a grandmother, but a little to her
surprise she found that it was not the new dignity, profoundly as it
stirred her, that took the chief place in her thoughts. She had expected
to be carried backward by Laura's motherhood to what she had felt to be
the flowering-time of her own life. This should have been a season of
memories, of echoes, of a faint, pleasant sadness. She had thought
therefore that she could watch the withering of her own present with
resignation now that her daughter's happiness had come, she had believed
that she could relinquish the future without sorrow now that a little
new inheritor was waiting to enter upon it. Perhaps when she looked at
Laura's child she would see again the youth of her own eyes, or her own
smile.

But as the autumn went by she found that respond as she might to the
past her hold on the present had never been more eager. It was a matter
for relief, not for the melancholy she had imagined that the nursery of
her line had passed from hers into Laura's keeping. She felt free as she
had never felt free before to come into contact with life, to try
experiments with it. There were no children to guard from misery, from
ugliness, from dangerous ideas.

A long forgotten curiosity woke in Mary and urged her to see for herself
what the world was like.

One after another, simply, she read Rosemary's books, finding in them
not so much facts and arguments as symbols of new freedom and a new
exultation. She realised from them, for the first time, that there are
passions in life other than personal love and personal ambition. She
recognised a passion for knowledge, for adventure, she experienced a
passion of sympathy for the poor.

She was not aware that she was reading the books for their emotional
effects. It did not occur to her that she was not approaching the
sources of wisdom in the most detached, intellectual spirit possible.
She was anxious to be thorough and she applied herself, like a clever
child, to tomes culled from the London library on account of the
correctness of the titles printed soberly across their backs, the
"Principles" or "Elements of Economics." She accepted the methods of
these volumes with engaging good faith and watched eagerly for their
smallest lapses from a rigid consistency. She made copious notes on the
theory of money, which she found evasive, for it had no bearing that she
could see on the problems in which she felt genuine interest. She
struggled with what seemed at first sight the needlessly complex and
technical procedure of banks. She prepared herself to pounce instantly,
when she found it in pamphlets and newspapers and other lax vehicles of
popular thought, on the least whisking tip of the tail of the wages fund
theory. But in her heart, if not consciously, her attitude towards such
accumulations of learning was tinged with a kindly toleration. It was
characteristic of men, she thought, to spend such an amount of energy on
what were often verbal differences, to pursue their points, through a
wealth of subdivided nomenclature, to a distance from concrete
usefulness that would have made any practical person slacken. Men did
become excited in that fashion over purely unimportant things; one knew
that when once they started arguing a wise woman bowed to the storm and
escaped if she could. She had realised this in early youth, on an
occasion when James and her father and Julius had argued for hours about
the month in which one particular fish became seasonable. They had
exhausted their knowledge of geography, of biology, and of travellers'
tales, they had ransacked their memories for the dates and the menus of
dinners, they had discovered in the recesses of the past hitherto
unproclaimed intimacies and conversations with fish merchants and with
sailors. And when her mother, in a naive belief that what they required
was wisdom, had laid before them the agreement of cookery books and even
fresh evidence brought by the maid from the fishmonger's round the
corner, they had not shown gratitude but had embarked on a fresh
discussion as to the modifications, if any, imposed by these cold facts
on their various previous statements and theories. Mary had felt then
that her kinsfolk were dears, if a little noisy, and she felt now that
the professors were wonderfully clever, if a little verbose. After all,
if you are a professor, and paid for it, you must fill in your time. So
she did not trammel her soul, even if she burdened her memory, with the
strict rigour of their conclusions.

She tried once or twice, when some work dealing in more concrete fashion
with the conditions of the poor had moved her beyond silence, to talk
about her reading with Rosemary. But Rosemary shrank a little from her
mother's enthusiasm, from the exhibition of her intimate emotion. Her
mother--she couldn't help recognising the fact--was very crude, and
though she regarded this crudity, solemnly, as a necessary stage in poor
Mary's development, she did not enjoy contact with it any the more for
that. It made her impatient, it disturbed the slightly romantic element
in her affection for her mother. She herself had read the books a year
ago, glowed over them, shuddered at the condition they revealed, and
inspired herself with a definite belief in Socialism. That being so, it
was useless to go on feeling idle emotion when one might be persuading
one's friends to join the Fabian Society. Rosemary imagined that she
disliked emotion that was not serving some definite useful end. If Mrs.
Heyham had come to her and said, "I too am a Socialist, what would the
committee of the Fabian Society like me to do?" Rosemary would have
hidden sincere delight beneath a great show of cool common-sense, have
taken her mother to meetings, and introduced people to her who would
undertake her future education. But Mary had not become a Socialist, the
Socialism in Rosemary's books had slipped unheeded from her mind. She
had been accustomed all her life to dwell upon the importance of
individual action, and she had no experience of any need for collective
effort that might emerge in a world of great affairs. She had governed
her family, for over twenty successful years, by such appeals as she
could make to their ideals and their better natures. It did not occur to
her now to criticise this attitude, and the principal conviction she
gathered from her studies was a heavy sense of personal responsibility.
If things were bad then employers must sacrifice themselves to make
things better. She couldn't doubt that they would, if they only
understood how bad things were. And then when the men saw the masters
really striving for their good they would learn to co-operate with those
set over them and gradually the world would improve. Everybody nowadays,
professors and Socialists alike, united to praise Trade Unions, so Mary
was sure that they must be excellent things though at times she felt a
little anxious about them. But, after all, clever men like Trade Union
officials would soon see when an employer was doing his best--Mary
imagined the labour leaders of England with their eyes turned constantly
to James.

Poor James, the fact was that he was so busy with his work that he
hadn't time to read these books; he didn't really understand what the
lives of the poor were like. He had practically admitted that when he
asked her not to read for herself. He hadn't, as Mary had by now, spent
day after day visiting the homes of working-people. He had heard about
it, of course, but that isn't the same as seeing it for yourself. Mary
pictured a quickened, a glorified James, urging on a great employers'
movement for raising the standard of national life. She felt sure that
even James did not know how magnificent he could be. She had not formed
any clear plans of what she would say to James or even of what she
wanted him to do. Those would come later, when she had read more, and
when she had gathered more experience. She would like, she thought, to
work for a little on one of the great organisations that study and
benefit the poor. One ought to see the poor as a whole and not only in
the glimpses she obtained from the visits she paid with Miss Percival.
But after all the chief thing was a change of attitude. James would
think of the plans--that she could safely leave to him. Her task was to
lead him to realise for himself that the people really needed his help.
She had no doubt that he would begin with his own workers, but it was
very probable, all questions being so fearfully tangled together, that
it would be more complicated than she supposed.

There were bad employers, and the fact must be faced. Mary had known
people who were unkind and people who were untruthful and
dishonest--though it was generally because they had been badly brought
up--but everybody had good in them somewhere. She could hardly conceive
an employer so bad that he wouldn't respond to James at the head of an
army of enlightenment. They didn't know; if only they knew, they would
be different.

It was this optimism that Rosemary found hard to bear. It did not seem
credible to her that a woman of forty-five could be so simple. Naturally
Mary said nothing to Rosemary about her plans for James, and it seemed
to the girl that her mother was going to do nothing. She felt thwarted,
because she had been forming hopes. She herself was nobody, but if Mary,
the wife of a well-known employer, would join the Fabian Society, or
even the Independent Labour Party, it might do some good.

Meanwhile Mary was a little worried about Laura. She had found Laura
crying one Saturday about nothing at all. Harry had gone off for the day
to play golf with some friends. Golf was good for Harry, who worked hard
in the week; Laura herself had suggested that he should go. But Mary
felt that Harry was perhaps taking things a little too much for granted.
She had always been afraid that he was a selfish man. Everybody
couldn't, of course, be as unselfish as James, who would have gone off
with a shower of protestations that left Mary comforted. She had always
considered herself lucky, erected James in her mind as a shining
exception, and admitted that a certain amount of selfishness was natural
to other men. Now, seeing Laura unhappy, she wondered if it was. It
seemed proper that she should venerate James, but she hadn't brought up
her clever, beautiful daughters merely to please ordinary men like
Harry.

James, when she mentioned her fears to him, took them lightly. It was
natural that Laura should cry just now, Mary didn't remember perhaps,
but she used to be fanciful herself, though he didn't think he'd treated
her badly--he paused for his hand to be squeezed.

Of course, Moorhouse was a man of the world, not a very sensitive
fellow, perhaps it didn't occur to him to adapt himself to women's ways
at these times. After all, every woman, so to speak, has children, it's
nothing unusual. He didn't suppose that Moorhouse was unkind, but he
wasn't the sort of person who makes a fuss. Probably he felt that he was
in the way, thought it would be kinder to clear out. Mary might make a
point of seeing a good deal of Laura, who, anyway, had chosen her own
husband for herself and must make what she could of him. James had
never, in his life, seen a young woman more in love. He preferred the
old style, on the whole, Mary's style. He had thought that perhaps Laura
was giving herself away. "If a woman lies down at a man's feet," he
finished, "she's likely to get trodden on when he's thinking of
something else. Laura can't expect Moorhouse to be ill too, whenever she
can't play golf. I've been afraid sometimes that she's given to making
her own unhappiness!"

It hurt Mary for a moment that James should talk of Laura like this,
then she was ashamed of feeling a little secret glow. How much James
loved her, how much more he loved her than he loved anybody else! Her
splendid James! She let her head fall, with a sigh, to its accustomed
place on his shoulder. Poor Laura, quite possibly James was right, and
it was all fancy. In any case she would feel differently when she had
the baby.

Meanwhile, however, it was clearly Mary's duty to see her, and if
possible to cheer her up.

Laura, when seen, was not easy to cheer up, if only because she refused
for some time to admit that anything of the sort was necessary. She lay
on a sofa and told Mary, in careful detail, what she thought of the
works of Dostoevsky. She did not blame Harry because he did not care
for Russian novelists, but merely stated the fact. There was a shade
more feeling, perhaps, in her subsequent declaration that he did not
seem to care for babies either.

Mary chose hastily between, "He will when he has one of his own," "I
expect he is too shy to admit it," and "Most men don't, they only like
them when they begin to talk." The last seemed most likely to be true;
she could not imagine Harry either shy or a baby-lover. So sorry did she
feel for Laura that she added, "You'll be glad enough presently, you
know, that he isn't always up in the nursery upsetting the nurses and
trying the most appalling experiments on the poor mite. Men have no
instinct about babies. Either they think that because they grew up the
baby will grow up and the more it eats the faster it will grow, and want
you to feed it whenever it cries, or they insist on having its toys
sterilised every time they touch the floor. I always think one should be
thankful when a man keeps to his own department."

Laura, who was moving restlessly, did not seem in a mood to profit by
these reassurances. When she spoke it was in a grudging voice. "I gather
that men think it all rather unpleasant," she said. "They're brought up,
aren't they, to have rather horrid minds in some ways. It's funny--we
don't find it unpleasant when they get wounded in battle. But then I
suppose we're trained to sympathise with their experiences, and they're
not trained to be interested in ours."

Mary, though she felt more sorry than ever for Laura, was a little
shocked at this. It was bitter and it was unjust. It certainly looked as
though Harry's mind might be rather horrid, but as for men--James had
been extraordinarily sympathetic, and so, Mary felt sure, had been the
husbands of most of her friends. Of course they were not interested in
the minutiæ of these affairs. Mary herself had realised instinctively
that a decent woman keeps the great experiences of her life to herself.
If she feels them deeply she expresses it in her altered outlook and in
her character. She does not talk about her emotions, nor exhibit their
details. Unless, poor thing, she is terribly unhappy, and then one
wishes she wouldn't. "That gives us the advantage," she told her
daughter, "of knowing men better than they know us."

Laura did not, in her heart, wish to discuss her uneasiness with her
mother. She wanted her mother to think--what was, after all, the
truth--that Harry and she loved each other very much, and were perfectly
happy together. She did not like Harry's attitude towards women, but
then he seemed to have known so few women who were worthy of anything
better. She turned the issue of the conversation. "Oh, do you think we
do?" she said. "Look at the women in men's books and the men in
women's!" There was no need to develop this ancient argument.

Mary thought it over. There was no doubt in her mind that most of the
wives she knew understood their husbands thoroughly, thus sparing them
the trouble of understanding their wives. It was obvious; one took it
for granted. But one did not put one's husband in a book--not as he was.
It would be treacherous. If Mary had written a book its hero would have
been not James, but the glorified creature that lay hidden in James.
What a hero he would make! "Of course," she said to Laura, "I suppose it
is difficult for women to know what men are like when they are
together."

Laura was busy accusing herself of having grumbled about Harry, and she
said nothing.

"It's very nice that men are so talkative," Mary went on, to break the
silence. "Their lives are exciting, and, I suppose, as they're not
forced back upon subtleties, they find ours dull." Mary was not at her
ease talking in this fashion about men. When she thought of them as a
sex it was kindly, with a mingling of forbearance and admiration. They
were not to be criticised, but gently influenced in the right direction.
Nor could she be candid upon a subject that led her constantly to
consideration of James.

She left Laura with a feeling of misgiving. It wasn't right or natural
that Laura should be thinking of such things. It must, in some way, be
Harry's fault--Laura was such a fine creature. Even if she loved Harry
too much, too passionately, as James seemed to think, so that she was
defenceless against him, there shouldn't have been any need for her to
defend herself. Perhaps she was a little undisciplined, with more
discipline she might have borne it better--whatever it was. But after
all one came back to this, it was not right that she should have
anything to bear.

Mary was glad now of the element of serenity, of detachment, that she
had sometimes regretted in her love for James. She respected love too
much to lose herself in it. It had never been for her a new vision, a
mystical flame, but a safe shelter and a tranquil happiness. When she
thought again of Laura her heart sank.

She arrived home to find that Miss Percival was waiting for her. Miss
Percival had been to see how Florrie was getting on at her new work, and
she reported that Florrie was doing well and being a good girl, but that
there was a man sending notes to her of whom Miss Percival's friend
didn't quite like the looks. He might be all right, but then on the
other hand he might be up to no good.

Miss Percival's demeanour seemed to indicate that good was the last
thing any such man would be up to.

A flicker of protesting thoughts rose in Mary's mind. Why did men exist?
Why couldn't they be trusted? Why couldn't they keep away from girls?
Why did girls ever want to have anything to do with them? Always these
troubles on account of men! She told herself, with necessary sternness,
that it was all perfectly natural, and it was to be hoped that some day
Florrie would marry some nice man and settle down happily. Not that a
workingman's wife has much chance, after a bit, of doing anything
happily. Perhaps Florrie would marry above her--but to do that the poor
child must run such terrible risks. She might get fond of one of these
men--Mary wouldn't have answered for Florrie if once her emotions were
thoroughly roused. Not that one wanted her to marry without being fond
of her husband--why was it that life was so difficult for poor girls?

She forced her thoughts back to the conversation, for she noticed
suddenly that Miss Percival seemed to be waiting for her to speak. "Is
there anything to be done? What can we do?" she asked.

Miss Percival shook her head. "There's nothing to be done. Of course,"
she went on, "it ought to be as safe for Florrie to have men friends as
it is for your daughters. Only men, especially rich men, don't want it
to be."

Mary looked at her with some surprise. Miss Percival did not usually
produce opinions of this sort; something must have upset her. Here was
this attitude of resentment again! First her daughter and then her
secretary! Really, the poor puzzled lady felt, it almost looked as if
men must be dreadful people.

In the meanwhile she turned her attention to Miss Percival, who was
reporting on two girls whom Mary had sent to the seaside because they
showed a tendency to consumption. They were getting along very nicely at
the seaside, but the doctor did not think they ought to go back to the
tea-shop.

"Not even if we provided them with thicker things to go home in?"

Miss Percival allowed that it might make a difference, but one would
have to go on supplying the thicker things for the rest of their lives.
And meanwhile more and more girls would be wanting them.

It looked a little as if Miss Percival were in a bad temper that day.

Nevertheless her argument was sound, and Mary knew it. The girls
couldn't have afforded proper clothes even if they had kept all their
wages for themselves, and most of them didn't. Not what Mary would call
proper clothes--women's garments are apt to be so shoddy nowadays.

The truth was, they ought to have higher wages. But then it was quite
possible that the business couldn't afford it. Those pretty tea-shops
were expensive to decorate, and expensive to keep up. Of course, it paid
to have them pretty, because customers preferred them to other
tea-shops. Mary supposed that it wouldn't be possible to get the whole
trade to agree not to spend so much on decoration. Probably some of the
employers didn't care two pins about their girls' wages. They were men,
they didn't understand. And now the big drapers were all starting
tea-rooms, and taking away custom.

If James could have afforded higher wages he would probably have given
them. But--she felt her way to it slowly--that didn't relieve her from
the duty of finding out. James had admitted that he didn't know as much
about the girls as he would have liked when he set her to make
inquiries. After all, even James was a man.




CHAPTER X


EVEN when she had made up her mind to speak to James, Mary did not find
it easy to do so. She believed that she had long ago put aside,
estimating it at its right trivial value, James's reception of her last
efforts to discuss the subject. It would be ridiculous, unkind, to store
up such slight evidence. But she found now that the incident seemed to
have left behind it a permanent unwillingness to run any risk of its
repetition--an inclination to let sleeping dogs lie. It was as if she
feared something, like a ghost, in which she did not believe.

What kept her back, she tried to persuade herself, was not this
intangible fancy but the robuster growth of her own vanity. She was
afraid, very much afraid, of appearing stupid, clumsy, ridiculous,
before James. James had always treated her as something precious and
charming and delicate, he had respected her feelings, her instincts, her
intuitions, and she had always tried very hard to enable him to do so.
But now she was bringing him not a quick feeling but a position
laboriously built by reasoning. How could he respect it when he knew how
slender, how untried its foundations were?

This thought haunted her. She tried to dismiss it by reminding herself
that it was selfish. Half the business was hers, in the last resort the
responsibility was hers. These girls had a right, if it was true that
they weren't being justly treated, to everything of hers that might help
them--her brains as well as her kind intentions, even, if necessary, her
costly dignity. She believed that they were not receiving an adequate
return for their work. She did not believe it simply because she had
been reading books about poverty; she believed it because she had seen
for herself that their wages would not secure their health and their
well-being. The books had only given her the use of her mind with which
to consider the facts she knew, the right words, the right outlook, the
right appliances.

Nevertheless it was a fortnight before she could force herself to
interview James.

He saw that she was nervous as she sat down opposite him and expressed
her wish for a talk, and in his heart he was a little pleased at this
proof of her admiration. But he remembered, too, that he hadn't been
very kind to her the last time they talked together, and he resolved not
to hurry over his answers but to give her pathetic little ideas every
chance of impressing him favourably.

"Well, the old lady!" he said, in a very kind voice, "is this the great
outburst?"

Mary shivered a little and smoothed out a fold in the lilac satin that
lay across her knees. As a matter of fact it was the great outburst, but
she wished he had not spoken of it like that.

"Yes, I suppose so," she said. "I've wondered a good deal whether I'd
trouble you, but there really is something I want to know, and I felt
that you would wish me, as it's serious, to ask you about it." She
looked up at him. James's face was bent to hers with grave attention.

"Of course I wish it," he assured her. "I hope you will never shut me
out from your perplexities. What is it, my dear?"

She kept her eyes on his, though it was difficult, because she wanted
him to feel that she was facing him squarely. "Would it be possible,
with the business as it is now, to pay the waitresses higher wages?" she
asked.

James lay back in his chair and stroked his beard. He considered her
question not because he was in any doubt as to the purport of his
answer, but because he wished her to have a full and satisfactory
explanation.

"No, I don't think it would," he told her at last. "That is to say, I
should not feel justified in running the risk that such a course would
entail. I don't mean that it would be actually impossible, at this
moment, to raise their wages by a shilling, or even two shillings, a
week. But you must remember, it would not be like parting with a capital
sum, it would be a constant drain on our resources. The business is, I
think, efficiently organised, and the girls already do a fair day's
work. We can't do with less of them. There's no way, so far as I can
see, in which we could extract a return for the extra money."

"The girls' health would be better, they would stay with you longer--be
more attached to you," Mary put in, as he had paused.

He answered her with the same weighty deliberation. "I can't think so,
my dear--not to any great extent. They are earning as good wages with us
as they could at any other unskilled trade, better in fact. The majority
of them leave us to marry. An employer of unmarried female labour cannot
expect to keep his workers for long, and of course there's no possible
doubt that they would spend most of the extra money on feathers and
evenings out. But I want you to consider this for a minute. At any
moment the price of our raw materials may go up. Or the union may get
hold of our cooks and persuade them to strike. More than half our people
are not waitresses you know, and I don't see how you'd explain to them
why they shouldn't get more wages too! Or one of our confidential
employees may embezzle a large sum of money. It's a sound business
principle to be prepared for any disaster that might occur. Then when it
does occur you need not exhaust your powers by worrying about it."

Mary moved uneasily in her chair. "I felt sure that this must be the
case," she said presently, "because you would give as good wages as you
could afford. But, James, I've been looking through my accounts, and I
find that in the last twelve months you've invested for me over
£10,000."

James nodded.

"And then there's the amount that goes to Laura and what you keep back
for this house and Kings Leigh, and Julius's allowance."

James agreed. "Yes, of course." He did not know what she was driving at.

"Well, wouldn't that be enough, even if we didn't touch Laura's and
Julius's money, to make a substantial increase in their wages? I would
willingly give it for that!" She bent forward, her hands tightly
clasped, her eyes fixed appealingly on him.

James succeeded in avoiding any display of emotion. "You understand, of
course," he said slowly, "that this would mean a change in our way of
living. I don't know that I could keep up both houses on my income
alone." This was not true, but Mary hastened to assent. "Oh, yes, I
quite understand that it would be as much your gift as mine,
James,--more in fact, because, you know, these big houses are a nuisance
to run. It would really be a holiday for me. I hope you don't mind my
proposing it--I have been seeing a good deal of the girls lately, and I
am certain that the money is really needed."

James still wished to gain time. "My dear," he told her, "of course I
don't mind--on the contrary I'm glad to understand how much you have the
matter at heart."

Mary looked at him gratefully. He was not angry. How kind he was! How
easy he had made her avowal! Of course she didn't expect him to consent
at once, but if he gave himself time to consider the matter fairly she
knew that his generous heart would respond to her appeal. How
interesting it would be, how delightful, if she and James could join
together in brightening the lives of those poor girls! She looked round
her in the ease of her relief at the polished surfaces of the great
room--the morocco, the mahogany, the glass doors of the bookshelves, the
silver and brass on James's desk--and noticed how they reflected the
light of the fire. What an amount of servants' work there was in this
room alone! She would be happier in some smaller place.

Meanwhile James was assuring himself in vain that it would be far the
best plan to postpone his answer for a day so as to give it an added
solemnity when it came. His instinct for quick speech, for decided
action, overbore his unaccustomed prudence. It was James's habit to
disconcert his opponent by a rush of talk while he himself made certain
of his next move. Nothing flusters a man more, James considered, than to
brush aside his attempts to explain himself. But now the arguments, the
things he could say to Mary, were springing up, were marshalling
themselves in his mind, demanding expression. His endeavour to treat her
as a comrade failed before the essential need that her foolish ideas
should be crushed. He fidgeted for a moment, and then broke out into
words.

"My dear," he said, in a kind and soothing voice, "I hope you won't
think me prejudiced or ungenerous if I don't agree to your plan straight
off, without considering it." Here he looked across at his wife. The
fixed, bright regard of her eyes changed, as they met his, to painful
appeal. If he had given himself time to think the evident depth of her
anxiety would have checked him. But his mind was not free, at the
moment, to consider her point of view, and he went on. "Of course I am
prepared to give the matter every possible consideration--I've the
greatest respect, as you know, for any idea of yours, little
mother,--but I've no doubt that it has already occurred to you that if
such a very simple measure could solve modern industrial difficulties
someone else would have hit on it!" He smiled indulgently.

Mary clasped her hands and her lips moved, but she did not speak, nor
take her eyes from his face. She wished he would not answer now, she was
afraid of his words and of their effect on him. James did not like going
back from what he had said. But she knew that it would be no use trying
to interrupt him.

"You see," he explained, "a business is not just a process of making
money. It's more than that, it's a thing in itself, an organisation, an
entity. You won't misunderstand me I'm sure, if I put it a little
fancifully and say that it has a life of its own, almost an
individuality. It's a thing that we shape to our own ends I'll admit,
and that we make use of, but we can only do that by respecting the
essential laws that govern its working. We can't interfere with it
suddenly from the outside and expect it to make no difference. Now
consider your plan, my dear. You want to take about ten thousand a year
from the profits of the business and use it to increase wages. You say
that the money is yours, and that the whole thing is purely a private
affair. But it isn't,"--his hand came down heavily on the arm of his
chair--"it's nothing of the sort! You understand, of course, that if you
once adopted such a procedure you would have to stick to it--"

"Oh, yes, indeed--" She was so anxious to reassure him that she even
broke in on his sentence.

"Very well, that would mean that a business that used to make, let us
say, £30,000 a year suddenly becomes a business that is only making
£20,000 a year. Now you know such a change as that can't take place
without its affecting more people than just you and me. We'll put aside
the few shares held by your relations, and we'll put aside the girls.
I've no doubt Rosemary would like nothing better than to live in a
garden suburb and be a heroine to all her Socialist friends. Though of
course there are Hastings's people to be considered. Still we could
manage to give Rosemary enough to live on. And Laura is a comparatively
wealthy woman. She could do just as well without the allowance you make
her. It never did your mother any harm, my dear, having to go to your
father for money, and it wouldn't do Laura any harm to go to her
husband. But I want you for a moment to think of Trent. He has his
faults, but all the same he is a son we can be proud of. And I don't
suppose it has occurred to you that if we do as you suggest we shall
make it absolutely impossible for Trent to marry the woman he's in love
with."

He paused, and Mary felt that he expected her to say something.

"I don't--" she began. "Why--" but she could not frame a coherent
thought.

"I'm sure you must see," her husband went on, "that it makes all the
difference to Trent. He has told old Lady Iredale what his position is,
and what his expectations are. Even so, she doesn't think he's a good
enough match. Well, it won't increase her approval if she's suddenly
told that he's worth potentially £10,000 a year less!"

Mary said nothing. She had thought of this money as their private
income--hers and James's--not as so much prospective importance and
eligibility for Trent. "How horrible money is," she thought, "how it
crushes you!" Then with nervous quickness she turned her thoughts back
to James, who had more to say.

"There's another aspect of the matter as well," he was telling her--it
seemed to him that there were twenty other aspects, all equally
conclusive. "I think I've seen you reading some Political Economy
lately. In that case you will understand"--his glance bore down on her
as though defying her to doubt that the very essence of Political
Economy was distilling itself through his lips--"that there comes a
period in the growth of every private company when its directors have to
consider carefully the question of calling in more capital. You cannot
say in modern commerce, 'we are big enough, let us stop here.' Nowadays,
with the present commercial system, a business must grow or die. But if
it is to grow, we who are responsible for it must be able to seize every
opportunity, occupy every vacant position, leave nothing to chance or to
our rivals. The fact is, my dear, I have been meaning to tell you, if
ever you did speak to me on the subject, that in my judgment the moment
has come when the Imperial should be turned into a public company. I am
quite ready to discuss the matter with you in detail and of course the
whole thing is still in the air. But sooner or later some such step will
have to be taken. And then don't you see the difference it will make if
we go to the public with a £20,000 profit instead of £30,000? This
money that we draw is not simply profit, Mary, it's credit, it's
reputation, it's success! 'Why,' people ask, 'does the Imperial show a
much smaller profit than other companies with the same number of
branches?' You say, 'They pay higher wages,' and people throw back at
you 'bad management.' I'm not a sweating employer. I pay my hands as
well as anyone. I don't give them charity, I don't give them higher
wages than they're worth, because I don't believe in money doled out in
that fashion. I don't mind paying higher wages if my competitors will do
the same. But no man can carry on his business with a millstone of
unnecessary expenditure round his neck--" He pulled himself up with an
effort. "Do you see, my dear?"

Mary longed to be able to say that she saw, that she took his word for
it and was satisfied. She knew that if she still stood out it would make
James angry, it would make him feel that she was unreasonable. But she
had not yet stated her case--it was her duty to the girls to do her
best!

"Of course," she said, "I hadn't thought of all that; you see, I'm not
fond of the business in the way you are, James dear. I'm afraid it has
been only a process of making money to me. But there is--you will, won't
you, think of the other side? I don't blame you in any way, please don't
think I have any idea of that sort!" She paused for an instant--a fear
born of nothing she had consciously realised was rising to the surface
of her mind, breaking it, blurring its images, throwing her back on
herself. Then the disturbance passed, and with an added hesitation she
went on, "Those girls do need the money, James! They work very hard, and
I can't feel that they are getting a proper return. They often go home
exhausted, and they don't have good enough clothes to go home in, or
good enough food when they get there----"

James, whose disinclination to hear Mary arguing was hardening to
impatience, found it impossible not to interrupt her, for by this time
his own stock of arguments had replenished itself.

"My dear," he said, "I know how good your intentions are, and believe me
I feel for the girls, though perhaps not as deeply as a sympathetic
woman does. It isn't really there that we differ, that is why I said
nothing about it. Everyone admits, nowadays, that the condition of
society is far from perfect, I'm with you there; but when it comes to a
concrete remedy I can't help feeling that I understand the position
better than you do. What good would it do those girls if we gave them
more wages and Harris got all our trade away, by undercutting us? That
is just what he'd do when he heard we had raised wages. The girls
wouldn't thank you for depriving them of their livelihood. No, no, my
dear,"--his voice by this time had become falsely good-humoured,--"what
you're up against is not the sins of the Imperial, it's poverty in
general. If those girls' fathers were better paid--and for that they'd
have to be worth more wages--the girls would have happier lives. You're
overlooking the fact, you know, that we don't pretend to support them
entirely. And yet in spite of that we pay better wages than many other
trades. You're trying to use your money the wrong way. You can't remedy
poverty by stopping up little holes here and there in a sieve. You must
go to the root of the matter, you must extend the principle of
insurance, and then you want trade schools and that sort of thing. If
these girls want better wages they should go into service, then there
would be fewer of them to compete for other posts. This question of
women in industry is very serious!"

He could have gone on for some time, but Mary felt that she could bear
it no longer. "James!" she said, "let me speak for a moment. I can't
argue with you, I can't explain, I never could, but in spite of all that
you've said, I still feel that it is wicked and unjust to live as we do
while we are paying these girls so badly. I'll think it over again if
you like, but if I don't change my mind will you let me give the money
back to them? I beg you to--I make no reserves, James, this is the most
important thing I have ever asked you. If you refuse me I believe that
it will make a serious difference in my feelings towards you." She
ended, trembling and breathless, on a sob.

James stared at her, a mask of severe disapproval. "I can't think," he
said, "that you realise what you are asking. You want me to give up my
private judgment, to place myself entirely in your hands! I have no
choice but to refuse." He got up from his chair and walked to the
mantelpiece, turning his back to her. "And when you think it over more
calmly," he went on after a minute, "I am sure you will see that I am
only doing my duty in putting the welfare of the business before this
very-suddenly-arrived-at conclusion of yours!"

Mary got up too and went to him. "You're angry with me," she said, and
was about to lay her hand on his arm when she checked herself. She did
not want to appeal to his instinctive affection.

James turned round at once when he heard her voice, brisk again now that
she showed signs of yielding. "My dear little woman," he said, "I'm not
angry with you in the least, I haven't the slightest doubt that you are
perfectly sincere in your opinion. And you'll remember that when we
first discussed this matter we agreed to differ. Well, I agree, and all
I ask of you is that you shall agree too."

Mary felt as though she were a sheep and James a very large and
efficient sheep-dog. "I can't!" she brought out at last. "I feel too
deeply about it."

James turned back to his mantelpiece with a jerk. "Then we must differ
without agreeing!" He wished to see the matter disposed of.

Mary moved back a step, and then, as his eyes were still turned away,
she stood silently looking at him. This was James, this man in front of
her, bending over an ash-tray. That face was the face that she knew best
in the world. When he was younger she had often smoothed out that
wrinkle on his forehead, and told him that if he frowned so deeply it
would make his look cross. He had worn his hair differently then, too,
in the past that they shared together. This was James--the man that she
loved--the only man that she had ever loved. She loved him--she told
herself again--wasn't that enough--wasn't that the only thing that
mattered in spite of all this froth of disagreement and discussion?
Wasn't she being a fool to endanger her love by irrelevant outside
things? She longed suddenly to kiss his face again, to throw her arms
round his neck as she had thrown them when she was young and beautiful,
to feel, if she couldn't know it, that James loved her better than
anything else in the world.

She moved forward and lifted her hands, and then she remembered that
however closely she held him that would not be true. She knew now that
James did not care first of all for her. He cared first for his work,
for the business. It was natural that he should put first what had cost
him such great and such continuing effort. He loved her, he felt certain
of her, but when she interfered with the business she was a nuisance....
Here again she pulled herself up. It was not time yet to give way to
such thoughts as these. She must still think not of herself but of the
girls--how could James be expected to listen to a woman who pleaded her
cause so badly!

"Of course," she said presently, "it must be very difficult for you to
think that a woman can understand anything about such matters."

James interrupted her at once. "My dear Mary, it's just because you are
a woman that your ideas interest me. I assure you that if this scheme
had come from a man, I shouldn't have considered it for a moment. I
should simply have said, 'My dear fellow, you're talking nonsense!'"

Mary did not feel able to determine whether this was true or not. She
was feeling tired and very cold. "Then you have settled absolutely?" she
asked him.

He hesitated for a moment, and decided to laugh. "Yes, my dear, I have,"
he told her, and then, with one finger, he stroked her cheek.

"You needn't have done that!" she said, and burst into tears.

James found himself, for the moment, very much at a loss. What had he
done to make her behave like this? He had been extraordinarily patient
with her, it couldn't be that. She wasn't a person who usually cried
because she had made a mistake! Then light came. The fact was that like
a good, dear, tender-hearted little goose she had planned a great
sacrifice, and she was disappointed because she couldn't carry it out.
Women were like that, and in her chagrin she didn't quite know what she
was saying. Poor little mother!

Without any more ado he went up to her and drew her into his arms. "My
little darling," he told her, "listen to me! Try now to put all this
perplexing thing right out of your mind. Lift up your poor worried
head--yes--like that--and look at me. How can you look at me when you're
crying? Yes, that's better! I'm not as handsome as I was, little woman,
nor as young, but I love you more then ever. I want you to forget
everything else now, and just to remember that I love you. Is that all
right, little silly thing? Have you remembered it yet?"

In the warm circle of his arms, too tired to resist him, Mary smiled.

"Then say after me, 'James, I love you!'" She said it, and then,
defeated, let her head sink on his shoulder.

James bent over her. This unexpected uprising of hers, her daring, her
provocation, seemed to have coloured and intensified his impression of
her. He saw her more clearly, he thought, than he had ever seen her
before--funny brave little thing. He tightened the clasp of his arms.
"Twenty years ago," he said, "I would have picked you up and carried you
off without mercy--but now--" He paused. A sudden regret rose in him for
the brutal strength, the boldness, the imperious desires of youth.
"Well," he went on, "now I'm an old man, and Mr. Trent might meet us on
the stairs, so you must run along by yourself, little sweetheart." He
pushed her away from him gently, and held her for a moment at arm's
length.

Mary collected herself as best she could to face his glance, but when he
saw her he was shocked into solicitude. "My dear, you're white--I can
feel you trembling--this has been too much for you, you'd better go to
bed at once!" He led her to the door. "Shall I come up with
you?--No?--then kiss me first--just affectionately--and show me brighter
cheeks in the morning."

He shut the door behind her with a sigh.

Mary went slowly upstairs to her room and there sat down. She did not
even remember that James had told her to go to bed. She was tired and
shaken, but she knew that she must do her best to think.

It would have been easy not to think but merely to feel, to be unhappy
without understanding why, and to find comfort in tears. This quiet
resignation, this acceptance of failure, would have been for her a
natural and a familiar notion. Only by a violent contraction of her
consciousness could she turn from it.

Even then long minutes passed by before the desire for mental life, for
action, came back to her. She sat in a heavy stupor, unable to check or
to consider the images that formed themselves in her mind. To one idea,
she told herself, she was holding fast--the idea of some hard, yet
undiscovered duty that lay before her. "I must," she said presently, "I
must." The spoken words recalled her to a sense of the present.

She moved to put some more coal on to her sinking fire. Then, with an
effort, she made herself face the question of facts. What had happened?
Where was she? What had she got to do?

To begin with, she had failed in her interview--not only in the
achievement of her object but in the manner of her attempt. She had
imagined herself watching James very carefully, suiting her speech and
her behaviour to the mood she discerned in him. She had not done that.
She had not even been able to watch herself, she did not know now what
she had said or left unsaid, except that she had felt at the time that
everything she said was wrong. As for James, his mood was a blank to
her, it had baffled her, repulsed her, thrown her into confusion, but
she had no key to it. She had hoped for a clear, close argument, for a
fair interchange of opinion, for a new understanding of James's point of
view, a sharing with him of that harvest of thought and emotion which
she had been gathering together in her soul. Instead their intercourse
had been a muddle, a hostile muddle. Then James had kissed her--how
horrible it was!

She knew now that she had not expected James to accept her actual
scheme. She would have been content if he had thought kindly of its
spirit. Then, his sympathy engaged, she had hoped that he would bring
forward a plan of his own, as much more just and wise than hers as James
was greater and wiser than she. She would have received it joyfully,
they would have worked at it together.

But James had not shown kindness or sympathy, except on the outside, in
his manner. He had left her to struggle with her difficulties alone. He
had thrown her back again on her own poor resources, her single wit, her
feeble perseverance, the strength she valued so low. With these she must
make shift--in spite of James.

For a moment, here, her thoughts scattered in confusion. She could not
bring herself to think coolly of defying James. She got up from her
chair and went over to the window. Behind the curtains, for a moment, it
was dark, then her sight cleared, and she could see the branches of the
trees in the square moving slowly across the lamplight.

Tired as she was she longed suddenly to change her dress, to be rid of
her satin and lace and to go out into the echoing streets. She would
walk quickly along in the night, a shadow passing unnoticed under the
lamps, until she came to the country, to some great open space where
only a passing cloud could shut her out from the black sky and the
stars. The wind would blow round her, blowing clean air from the uplands
and the sea. There in the cold and the loneliness her soul would be
free; it would not be the soul of a rich woman, or of an ageing woman,
nor the soul of James's wife. All these weary things would have slipped
from it, discarded, put aside, and she would rejoice in her nakedness, a
voice crying out to God.

For a moment she stood there, hands clasped and eyes straining through
the darkness, then, with a shiver of fatigue, she went back to the fire.
Who was she to speak with God?--she had never loved Him! She had loved
James, served James, and now she knew that the love of James's life was
not for her.

She set herself, angry with her own exaltation, to realise this. There
was nothing monstrous about it, she told herself, nothing more strange,
nothing more unbelievable, than that she had been a fool. James cared
for the thing he had created, for his achievement, his title to respect
in the eyes of the world. Any man can marry a wife, any man can beget
children, but James had built up this business with the strength of his
manhood, and now the business made James a powerful man. She kept him
happy at home--he was kind and not very critical, any gentle honest
woman could have done that. And now, when she was trying, with what
ability she possessed, to be more, to think, to feel, to respond to the
world in an individual way, James had no welcome for this new
personality. He left her either to deny it or to find its scope and its
place for herself. Why shouldn't he?--what right had she to expect
more?--to suffer?

The poor lady found herself unable now not to cry.

Presently a footstep on the stairs made her remember that she must go to
bed. She sponged her smarting eyes and rang for her maid. With the
woman, coming quietly and confidently into the room, Mary discerned the
spirit of everyday life. After all, she felt, while Penn was taking the
little black velvet ribbon from her hair, after all she was not left to
the dulness of empty sorrow. She had work to do, an object for her
desires. Somehow she must get the money back to those girls. She fell
asleep at last revolving her philanthropic plans.




CHAPTER XI


JAMES dressed next morning in an atmosphere of doubt. As soon as he
recognised this he disliked it extremely; doubt of any kind was
uncongenial to his simple, impetuous mind. He could not, looking quickly
back over what had happened, find any particular reason for blaming
himself, but as the unhappy little mother had been upset he was ready to
admit that somewhere, on some delicate point of sentiment, he had erred.
It was a confounded nuisance; he didn't quite see, what was more, what
line he ought to adopt to put it right. When women get ideas into their
heads they are often--a wise man will recognise the fact--as obstinate
as men. Mercifully this seldom happens. Most women's minds move with
certainty only among the small values of social life where one can give
way to them with a shrug of the shoulders. Here, however, the unusual
had happened and something would have to be done. In the intervals of
dressing he pictured to himself, with a smile, poor Mary perched
precariously on the back of her great high horse of Utopian justice,
imagining, brave little soul, that she could control such an ancient
deceiver of man. It was a pathetic conception, and a trifle disquieting,
for if he knew Mary she'd be thrown off before she came off of her own
accord.

He sighed as he caught sight in the glass of the curious ungraceful
gesture of a man who is tightening the knot of his tie.

These ideas were in the air--even one's womenfolk weren't free from
them. Mary had certainly caught this excitement from Rosemary--he had
been, perhaps, rather blind not to foresee it. Trent had foreseen it all
right, for what that was worth. Well, Rosemary would be marrying before
long, and then her influence over her mother would be interrupted--James
could not conceive of Mary's defying him without somebody's sustaining
influence. In another year Rosemary would be busy with her natural
duties and Mary would have settled down to happy evenings for the girls
or something equally harmless. His line--that quick way out of a
difficulty which he always sought--was to hang the idea of a public
company over Mary's head, and suggest to Rosemary that it was time she
made her Hastings happy--James didn't believe in long engagements. He
might, too, turn Mary on to some sort of convalescent affair by the
seaside--she had suggested one herself, he remembered. He wished he had
thought of referring to that last night--then she would not have found
him unsympathetic.

It was Tuesday, his early day, when he went to East London, and he did
not expect to find anyone down to breakfast. Mary, after an illness she
had had two years before, had been forbidden to shorten her sleep.
However, Rosemary, for purposes of her own, was also up early, looking
as delightful as she was accustomed to look in the morning.

James kissed her with the pleasure which this act always inspired in
him, and told her that he was glad to have somebody to pour out his
coffee. "Though I imagine it won't be for very much longer," he added.

Rosemary did not allow this attack to ruffle her pleasing tranquillity.
She considered that emotion is wasted on the ordinary commerce of life.
"I wanted to speak to you about that, father," she told James. "Anthony
and I think we would like to get married soon, but of course it depends
upon you. Tony is making £400 a year now, and he doesn't think you will
think that sufficient. I know nothing about it, I'm afraid."

James accepted this challenge. "Oh, no, you wouldn't. You modern young
ladies take an interest in everything except your own business. Do you
intend, may I ask, to go on knowing nothing about it after you are
married?"

Rosemary turned calm eyes upon her father, who was helping himself to
some kidneys in his most brisk and efficient manner. "Oh, no," she told
him. "I expect when one's got to do it, it will be quite interesting,
only I don't think--do you?--that it's worth giving very much time to
beforehand. As a matter of fact I am having cooking lessons. I could
grill your kidneys for you better than this."

James was delighted to hear it, and assured her that he would be glad to
know of any definite amount that she and her Anthony would consider
sufficient.

Rosemary didn't know, but in any case she would prefer not to take more
than Anthony was earning.

This conflicted with James's common-sense. "If I may advise you," he
told her, "take what you can get. You know that we are giving Laura
£1000."

Rosemary considered a moment. "After all, Tony will soon be earning
more," she conceded, "and we could always do good with it."

"Tip our waitresses with it," suggested James.

Rosemary looked up. There had been something brutal in her father's
voice. She had long ago decided that he could be a brute if he liked,
though he seldom was.

"No," she said, and waited for him to say more.

James could not easily resist a quiet concentrated attitude of
attention. "That's how your mother wants to spend her income," he went
on, "as I daresay you know."

Rosemary flushed with interest. "Does she?--I didn't know--how perfectly
splendid of her! Do you think she really will?"

James grunted, evading the question. "Oh, then it wasn't you who
suggested it?"

His daughter shook her head. "No, mother never--hardly ever--talks to me
about that sort of thing. And it isn't what I should have suggested if
she had. I should have advised her to give it to the Women's Trade Union
League, and tell them to spend it on forming a waitresses' union. Then
she would benefit all the girls in the trade. I don't think it's much
good tinkering with a business here and a business there. But what is so
splendid is that mother should want to give up the money, that she
should have thought of it all by herself!"

"I'm not going to discuss your mother with you," said James, whose
memory, in discussions, was short. "And I'm not going to give you a
thousand a year to spend in fomenting discontent among my employees, if
that's what you mean by doing good with it. But if you'll send Hastings
to me, I'll discuss the matter with him. It seems to me, my dear
daughter, that the sooner you're safely married the better."

He grunted again and went back to his breakfast. For some minutes they
continued to eat their food in silence. Rosemary never argued with her
father if she could help it. They were generally on excellent terms, for
she found him amusing, indulgent, and on the whole much more enlightened
and civilised than one had any right to expect from a father. She was
fond of him, and she enjoyed his stories, his quick superficial accounts
of his impressions. But he wasn't a person with whom she would ever have
become intimate, she had decided, if she had met him casually in the
world. He lacked, she felt, the detachment and reserve she admired in
her mother. She did not mean to judge him priggishly. She sometimes
reminded herself, if she thought she had been harsh, that before very
long some other young person would contemplate her failures as a parent
with equal detachment. But she did not realise the pitiful nakedness,
the defencelessness, of a parent's position. There was no wonder in her
mind even as to what poor James was thinking now. It seemed natural to
her that life should present itself to her and to her mother under
aspects that James could not approve. She knew that he did not like her
own ideas, he never had, although he had been charming about them. There
was no essential reason, that she could see, why he should like the
ideas of her mother. She was busy now planning an interview with Mary.
Whatever small support she could give would be at her mother's service.
Rosemary admired courage, and she admired all action dictated by
principle--she was stirred to find her mother so admirable.

Meanwhile James was thinking no less intently. The whole thing was a
nuisance which, lest it should worry him, must be dealt with as speedily
as possible. The public company idea was the thing. He would see his
solicitors and he would speak to Trent. As a matter of fact a little
extra capital would come in very well just now. It had seemed to him for
some time that a great deal could be done with picture palaces. Trent
was perfectly capable of running the present business by himself, and
he, James, was getting a little bored with the monotony of it. The time
had come for a new development. Why not cinema shows with your tea and a
biscuit free, as that was the custom, but cakes and pastries charged
for? There could be intervals when dainty little cakes would be handed
round. People who were taking other people out would be certain to buy
them. In the evening there could be sandwiches. He'd run the cinema part
under another name, and only announce that the Imperial had the contract
for the catering. The tea they gave you at most of these places, he'd
been told, was undrinkable; he'd look in some afternoon and try for
himself. Naturally these odd and end companies wouldn't do the thing as
well as the Imperial. If he decided that this was a good idea there'd be
no sort of difficulty about raising the capital. Their finances were
more than sound. He could practically float the thing at any figure he
liked--as long, that was, as Mary didn't land him with a strike on his
hands. What an extraordinary world it was--James didn't know what was
coming over women!

However, this plan would fix Mary right enough, as far as interfering
with wages went. Of course he couldn't prevent her from giving away her
own money, though he could discourage it. But they had always lived far
below their income--to spend less than he had was for James a matter of
pride--she could give away a good deal before it really mattered.

The idea of action, of taking risks, of starting something new, restored
his normal good humour. He wasn't a fossil yet--they needn't think it.
His picture palaces--if he decided to have them--should be as up-to-date
and as characteristic as his tea-shops. They should be really
dignified--to begin with--in the way of architecture--no tawdry stucco
and white paint. It was worth getting in a good architect for a uniform
elevation. Their own young men could fix it up for each particular site.
There is something about a good architect's work that you don't get in
any other way. Besides, there is patriotism. It would be pleasant to
feel that his fronts were well thought of, say at the club, whose
members talked a good deal about architecture. He was a poor man when he
started the tea-shops, but even then his taste had been good. One secret
of it--given good taste--was to see to the whole thing personally. He'd
run over to Paris and choose his own films--no agents for him. And he'd
look at those new American patents for coloured pictures.

He finished his breakfast and said good-bye to Rosemary without any
ill-feeling. Poor child--he could afford to be good-natured. He could
not seriously doubt his ability to manage a couple of women. Most men
would have harangued them, lectured them, put their backs up. James
preferred to preserve the amenities of life while out-manœuvring his
opponents. Scolding was a woman's game, a fool's game, it never paid. If
a man couldn't be the head of his own house without making a fuss about
it he deserved what ignominy came his way. James went upstairs in
excellent spirits to kiss Mary good-bye.

He found her still in bed, and he kissed her with the decision of an
affectionate husband and the caution of a man who does not want to get
fluff from the blankets on to his clothes. He was glad to see her
looking better, she mustn't do too much to-day, and he hoped she felt as
fond of him as he did of her. She was a vain old thing with her mob
cap--personally he liked to see her hair even if it did look untidy.
Nonsense--who minded if it was a little grey! He stroked her cheek with
his finger and was off. The room seemed to echo with his voice after he
had gone.

Mary did not get up for some time. She was feeling tired, and on
Tuesdays she generally had breakfast in bed. Besides, she had still to
take stock of what she was going to do. She knew that through the long
hours of the night, as she lay awake, she had pondered defiant plans of
incredible daring and yet so simple, so just, that only tyranny itself
could refuse consent to them. But now in the morning it was different.
It struck her, now, as monstrous that she should have thought of
flouting James. His authority, for her, appeared as an ultimate fact. If
he refused to increase the girls' wages the matter was settled. But her
own perception of justice and injustice--she saw that clearly--was also
an ultimate fact. The money belonged to the girls and it must be used
for them. Her task was now to think of ways and means. She had even come
to feel that she might do more with the money by controlling it herself
than by doling it out in shillings to ignorant girls. As for James,
whatever happened she must preserve her personal relation with him. It
could never again perhaps be quite what it had been, its foundation of
confident ignorance was gone. But what he was prepared to give her still
was all that he had ever given her. He had not changed. She could still,
if she chose, be as much to him as she had ever been. And she felt this
sunny morning an extraordinary thirst and hunger for his love, for his
tenderness and his esteem. When he had come just now into her quiet room
she had realised suddenly how strong he was, how much his strength and
his buoyancy meant to her; how precise, how small, how rigid her life
would have been without them. She had found, too, she thought, in the
pain of their recent intercourse, a new sense of the intimacy of
marriage. She lay, after all, very much at James's mercy, and he at
hers. It was no small thing, the affection that urged them to ease the
strain for one another. As she went through the day she touched at a
thousand points little whims of James's, little trivial extensions of
his personality. She met them with sympathy, with tolerance at worst,
because they were his. Under her care, in her hands, he moved freely, he
grew as he pleased; his delicacy, his sensitiveness, were safe. This
favouring atmosphere she had provided consciously--it would have been
her duty to do so, even if it had not been her pride--but she understood
now for the first time that James, whether consciously or not, must have
performed the same offices for her. If her growth had been pruned and
trained, her character disciplined, it was by her own set purpose, in
accordance with her own conscience, not by any harshness or cruelty of
outside pressure. She could see, she told herself, the sort of repressed
little woman she might have been, the narrow, dragging, timid creature a
dearth of kindness might have made of her. She had had full measure of
kindness all her life, it was only this kindness, this, impunity from
attack that made her able now to consult her own nature and believe in
what it told her. She did believe in it, she could not but be loyal to
that, but she could--she must--in addition be scrupulously loyal to
James. James's wisdom, his deliberate decisions, must come first; her
own little vanities and disappointments, her unrestrained longings, fell
naturally into a second place. As to the practical question, she would
tell Miss Percival that this money was at her disposal and they would
soon think of something to do with it. It was clear that a hundred
things needed doing--they had only to choose. Then she could throw
herself heart and soul into whatever it was. She told herself that she
would probably cease to worry when she was back at her familiar business
of organising and had left this difficult region of decision behind.

It was a day on which Miss Percival did not come until the afternoon,
and Mary, after she had dressed, spent the morning pretending to read a
pamphlet on the dangers of street trading. She agreed with the pamphlet,
and for the moment she found agreement a relief. Soon after twelve
Rosemary came into her room. She had, she informed her mother when she
had kissed her, been out with Tony trying his electric motor-bicycle. It
was quite different from all other motor-bicycles and very much better,
because Tony had invented a new kind of accumulator that was very small
and light. If it worked it was going to revolutionise all sorts of
things, not merely motor-bicycles, but it wasn't really quite finished
yet, so it couldn't be a matter for wonder that something had broken
down. Tony had had to come back by train in order not to be too
appallingly late at the office, and she had had to get an old farmer to
shelter the motor-bicycle, and then come back by herself. He had been a
dear old farmer, and he had produced a charming daughter, a little
person with pink cheeks and black hair. She and Rosemary had smiled at
each other with the friendly pleasure young women feel in one another's
beauty. Rosemary wished she knew more about engineering, it was the
subject of all others that she found most difficult. She never could
carry three dimensional ideas in her head.

Rosemary had thrown down her hat, and was sitting now on a stool at
Mary's feet, looking up at her while she chattered. It was not often
that she talked like this to her mother, freely and childishly, without
any thought of effect or consequences, and Mary's heart grew light as
she listened. This wise young Rosemary was a child still, a dear, happy
child; love-making and lovers' vows had not checked the development of
her mind or impaired its freshness. Her mother could laugh without a
second thought at the old farmer's astonishment, at his scorn of a woman
left in charge of a motor-bicycle, and at the sad plight of that
distinguished and ingenious machine stowed away between a harrow and a
dilapidated cart.

"I know all the little boys in the place will be trying to make it go,"
Rosemary was saying, "and Tony will be dreadfully cross, but it was the
best that I could do." She did not seem afraid of Tony's crossness.

After she had finished neither of them said anything for a moment or
two. Then Rosemary, overcoming a sudden unusual shyness, put her hand on
Mary's arm.

"Mother, father says you think you feel we're taking too much money from
the business. Tony and I think so, too; I mean, we'll willingly take
less allowance than father has offered us, if it'll make things any
easier for you." Her glowing face, upturned, wore a look of passionate
sincerity. "It's so splendid of you, mother--don't think me horrid--you
know that anyhow I couldn't love you more than I do, but it is so--so
jolly to feel we're on the same side." She dropped her eyes hastily.

An impulse surged through Mary to stoop and take the child in her arms,
to press her cheek against her daughter's cheek, to tell her, now that
she could, what a world of unsatisfied love had been satisfied by her
words. But she was afraid of Rosemary's shyness, of her own shyness, she
was afraid of this Tony who might ask what "your mother" had said, and
how she had taken it. The impulse was checked--she could find no words
detached or restrained enough, and when she did speak she only brought
out a little absurd denial.

"My darling, I'm afraid I'm still a conservative old thing, you young
socialists are too revolutionary for me, but I certainly do feel that
something must be done."

She paused, and Rosemary, with a gleam in the eyes her mother thought so
beautiful, broke in on her. "Don't talk like father, mother, you're not
an old thing, you're young and you're brave, and you're a darling!" She
came closer and laid her head against her mother's knee.

Mary could say nothing, but her hand trembled with tenderness as she
laid it on her daughter's hair.

Rosemary spoke first. It was pleasant to her to find herself in such
intimate, such affectionate accord with her mother, but she was not
accustomed to accept or enjoy an emotional state without analysis and a
following out of its implications.

"I don't suppose we should agree about the exact thing that ought to be
done," she began presently, "but after all it isn't that that matters.
Tony says I'm hopelessly dogmatic, and I do feel that I know the best
thing to do, and I can't really see why other people shouldn't agree
with me. Of course I know I've got to refrain from trying to make them,
but still"--she sighed, and arranged herself more comfortably on the
stool--"I can't help feeling I'm right and they're wrong. But after all,
I tell myself, it's the feeling that's important. If enough people want
to alter a thing badly enough it will be altered in the long run." She
ended on a somewhat doubtful note.

"What is it you want me to do, little daughter?" Mary smoothed back a
tress of fine brown hair as she spoke.

The light touch on her forehead seemed to soften Rosemary's desire to
impose her conclusions on the world. "Honestly, mother," she said after
a moment's thought, "I don't want you to do anything. I want lots of
people to give money for starting a waitresses' union, but I want you to
do what you feel you ought to do. You see, I didn't suggest the whole
thing to father simply because I wanted you to be free, to see for
yourself and trust yourself--do you mind my talking like this?" She
broke off suddenly.

Mary was conscious of confused emotions, but not, so far as she could
tell, of minding. She laughed.

"I suppose it was partly just my curiosity," her daughter went on
relentlessly, "but mostly it was because I loved you, and because I had
a feeling, that day when I told you about Tony, that you were much
stronger, much more important--I don't know how to put it--than anybody
knew. And I think too that I wanted to prove to myself that marriage
isn't a grave--that one can come up out of it." She ended, and sat
quietly looking down at the carpet.

Mary did not answer her, no answer seemed necessary. She had been
conscious all that morning of some queer disturbance in her mind, a
check to her reasoning, a deepening and strengthening of her emotion.
Now when the moment came for speaking to Rosemary she felt suddenly
detached from herself, lifted above the thoughts that troubled her. Down
there James's Mary, Rosemary's Mary, struggled with plans and decisions,
with things that were good or bad, and kind or cruel. Here, where she
was, these values fell away. She had drawn back into some state of her
being too simple, too fundamental, for the labels and measurements of
experience. "They are names," she thought, "love and pain, sorrow and
happiness--tricks of thinking, empty, arbitrary...."

Presently she noticed Rosemary's voice, a quivering sound that came
towards her from a long way off.

"Mother, it's time I told you, Tony thinks that he and I ought to get
married--do you mind very much?--will it hurt you?"

Mary felt Rosemary's warm skin now against her hand. A moment later she
heard herself speaking. "My dear, why should it hurt me? Be happy. If it
will make you happy, why should I mind? After all--" She did not finish
her thought, she had not the strength or the will, she felt, to go on
speaking.

A moment later she became conscious of a confusion of noises. A bell
rang--she was certain of that--then someone was touching her. She roused
herself to take in what her maid was saying. "Fetch Dr. Tanner at once,
I should say, Miss, and shall I telephone to the master? Her hands are
like ice----"

Mary could not quite make out whether she was succeeding in speaking or
not. She was perfectly all right, she wanted to tell them, there was no
need to worry James. She only felt a little giddy. She must have said
something, for she realised later that Rosemary was reassuring her. They
would see first what the doctor said--now they were going to carry her
on to the sofa. She felt a vague pleasure, after a period of extreme
discomfort, at finding herself on the sofa.

By the time the doctor came Mary was feeling better, and the doctor
himself did not think there was anything serious the matter. He had
always suspected Mrs. Heyham, he told her, of being one of your nervous
high-strung people who will not listen to advice. She must go to bed for
the rest of the day, and she must be careful. We have all of us to be
careful when we aren't as young as we were--she mustn't excite herself,
and she must eat more, she was thin; he would tell Mr. Heyham, when he
saw him, to keep her quiet.

"Careful--careful--careful"--with a hundred voices whispering the word
in her ears, Mary, when she had been put to bed and fed on beef tea and
toast, fell asleep.

She woke, later on, with a sense that something was happening in the
house. She did not remember that she was ill, or stop to inquire why she
found herself in bed, but rang the bell to discover what this disturbing
thing could be. A moment later the door opened cautiously, and James
appeared. At the sight of his face she understood at once. Of
course--she hadn't been well, and James was upset about it.

"My darling," she told him, "I assure you I'm perfectly well--come and
kiss me----"

James came to kiss her, guarding an unusual silence. He had so much to
say, that if he had spoken at all he would have spoken too much. He had
all his fears to tell her--his regrets, the remorse with which he
remembered that he had had to be firm with her the night before. He did
not blame himself--what he had said had been necessary, and he knew that
he had not said it unkindly. Nevertheless he felt remorse. Poor little
thing, wasn't it his duty to keep her well and happy, and wasn't she, on
the contrary, lying here ill? Very well then--James's heart was full as
he sat down on the bed by her side and took her hand in his.

Mary, whose sudden moment of lucidity had left her feeling giddy again,
was nevertheless impressed by his silence. Poor James--he must be
suffering! She touched his arm with her free hand and looked up at him
anxiously. "James," she implored him, "please, please don't think this
has anything to do with you. I'm not ill at all really. I was just
feeling rather tired!"

James, who had been staring across the room, turned round to her.
"You're not to talk, little thing, and you're not to think either. Hold
my hand, and be still and go to sleep!" He spoke with a new, a
compelling authority. Mary willingly laid aside the burden of speech and
lay looking peacefully at the ceiling. The light on the ceiling was
mellow, it must be late in the afternoon. She wanted to know the time,
but she did not want it enough to turn her head towards the clock. With
James so close to her there was really no need to know anything.

James, who had seen her face relax at his words, was prepared to sit by
her all night. She could not have appealed more directly to his love and
tenderness than by showing him, as she had done with her eager grasp on
his fingers, that she found rest and comfort in his presence. As he
waited there with his wife, debarred from talking to her, James thought
her over, and among his thoughts, though he did not know it, was a new
conception of her. She was a queer little thing, and brave, he
recognised that there was a fine element in her obstinacy. She would do
what she thought right, follow out her dreams and her foolish big ideas
and not care if she suffered for them. He saw her suddenly under the
type--familiar to him in obituary notices--of a lofty, restless spirit
wearing through its frail envelope of flesh. James was not often
mistaken in a man whom he had decided to be capable and honest, and he
thought himself therefore a good judge of character. This description of
Mary pleased him. He must take great care, he told himself, of his
little idealist. He must see that she didn't break her bright wings over
the hard facts of life. He must teach her that she wasn't just her own
to wear out and throw away if she pleased.

He'd already spoken seriously to Rosemary, when he came home and found
out what had happened. He'd speak to that secretary too--he never could
remember the woman's name--and tell her that she wasn't to let Mrs.
Heyham get tired or excited. Perhaps Mary would take the doctor's
warning to heart of her own accord, take it to heart somehow she must
and should. He'd think it over before he decided, and he wasn't sure
that it wouldn't be better to stop this philanthropic business
altogether.

At this point, before he could tell himself that he had thought it over,
the maid came in with a cupful of something on a tray. Mary, roused from
her comfortable indifference, regarded it with dislike. It was some sort
of thick white stuff which had been carefully prepared by the cook
according to the directions on the tin, and Mary felt certain, as soon
as she saw it, that she would not be hungry again for several days, and
that meanwhile there was nothing in the world so difficult and
disagreeable as the task of swallowing this pasty, ignominious
preparation. Every inch of her quivered under the impulse of resistance.
"No, James, I can't," she told him as he took the cup.

James, bending towards her, was confirmed in his fears that she was
really ill. As a rule she ate with indifference any dish that the rest
of the household liked, though she sometimes expressed in private, as
though she were ashamed of them, faint likings for muscatel grapes and
for some little dry biscuits James used to bring her home from an
Austrian café. He could see now that she was working herself up. "Now,
my dear," he said to her, in the tone that he judged would be the most
effective, "we've got to feed you up, you know. I don't know what this
is, but it's what the doctor ordered, and I expect it contains as much
nourishment as a pound of beef-steak. Will you drink it, or shall I feed
you with the spoon?"

Mary's anxiety for her sheets reinforced her recognition that James
meant to have his own way. She held out her hand for the cup, though she
was nearly crying, and drank as much as she could. Then with a little
sob she put the cup back again. James examined it doubtfully, the
beverage was not finished, and he did not feel certain that she oughtn't
to finish it. But something in her face made him merciful. "Well, I'll
let you off this time," he told her, "but I'm going to see that you eat
every scrap of your dinner. If you're not good I shall telegraph for a
nurse. Now, shall I have my tea brought up here, or would you rather not
watch me eating?"

So it was only tea time--and they had sent for him. She turned puzzled
eyes towards him, the problem seemed too complicated for her single
solution. Then a way out presented itself. "I think I'll go to sleep,"
she told him, "if you don't mind."

He said something, but she did not remember what.

Next morning, when she woke, Mary's brain had cleared. The doctor came
and went, and after his visit everyone else appeared with smiling face
and told her that she was all right, that she had simply been run down,
and that all she had to do was to stay in bed for a day or two, and take
great care of herself. "At Mrs. Heyham's age," the doctor had said to
James, "she can't be too careful," and James had taken precious
possession of the phrase, though he would have been the first to scout
its importance if the doctor had used it of himself or of Mary's
charwoman.

"Now mind, no worrying," he told his wife, "and I've wired to that
secretary of yours that she's not to show her face here for a week."

He nodded cheerfully and hurried away, for he had stayed late at home in
order to hear the doctor's verdict.

Mary let him go without showing him the indignation that she felt. She
was forty-six, at an age when a man is considered in the prime of his
life, and they wanted to treat her as though she were delicate like a
child or a bent old woman. It was quite natural, a great many wealthy
women let themselves be treated like that. She herself had been far too
apt to talk of herself as old, to behave as though her faculties were
decaying. As she lay in bed with a bell under her hand and her maid in
the next room attentive to her slightest signal, Mary realised that her
attitude to life had changed. A year ago she would hardly have struggled
when they tried to rivet upon her these chains of infirmity. She would
have given up, gracefully, what they told her to give up, she would have
avoided worry and avoided excitement and remembered to be careful. She
would have begun to feel the weather, and soon have found herself with a
regular system of good days and bad days and indifferent days. Her
friends would have pitied James, and told one another how well she bore
her failing health. She could see herself, simply, without hypocrisy,
slipping into such a state. She was not strong with the robust and hardy
strength of some fortunate people, she was easily made to feel tired,
and to look a little pale. She had only to think about that and to be
alarmed about it, to get Dr. Tanner to give it a name, and mention it
with an air of resignation to James, and the walls of invalid habits
would build themselves round her.

But she wasn't an invalid, she told herself, she was strong, she had
more force than ten of these flourishing women. She was forty-six, but
her intellectual life was only beginning. She felt, as she looked at the
magazines provided by James's forethought, that she could not spare an
hour of it to illness. She did not shrink even from the task of making
James agree with her. She was feeling very fond of James this
morning--who could help it who had seen the cheer on his face after the
doctor's visit?--but she was not feeling emotional about him. As a
concession, to avoid fuss, she stayed in bed, but she rang for Penn, and
told her to find the pamphlet on street trading. It was not until she
had finished the pamphlet--without, it is true, gaining any very clear
understanding of its contents--that she recalled, as one recalls what
has happened in a dream, Rosemary's voice announcing that she was going
to be married.




CHAPTER XII


MARY soon realised that she had never before made so serious a mistake
as the mistake she made on the day when she fell ill. James was now
armed at every point against her. Whenever she showed any sign of
restlessness, he replied, with perfect honesty, that she looked tired,
or that she was too thin. Until this moment James had not cavilled at
his wife's lack of amplitude. She was one of the thin sort, and that was
all about it. But now visions presented themselves to his mind of Mary
looking really plump and fit, and he began to fed that she was not doing
her duty when she did not live up to these delightful fancies. He scanned
her anxiously every evening when he came home, and if she did not look
fatter than she had when he kissed her good-bye in the morning, he shook
his head. "This won't do, little woman," he would say, "you've been
tiring yourself!" It was no use assuring him that she did not feel tired
in the least. He only looked at her critically and shook his head again.
If he did not make more of such a serious offence it was because he felt
sorry for her. When he thought about it he could see that it must be
very galling for a woman to lack an essential feminine charm, and he did
not want to hurt the poor little thing's feelings. It was tiresome and
obstinate of her, all the same, not to take more care of herself. He
decided once, as he looked down on her from his station in front of the
fire, that some motive of delicacy had made her accept her leanness, as
a nice woman accepts her age, without a struggle. On the whole though he
was glad that she had had this little attack of nerves. She hadn't been
well, poor little thing--that explained her somewhat hysterical
behaviour about the business. He understood now, and he would know if
ever she mentioned the matter again that she must not be taken too
seriously.

Under these circumstances the amelioration of the waitresses' lives
proceeded slowly. James had suggested that when Mary was well enough to
attend to it she should start a seaside home. It would receive
convalescents all the year round, and in the summer those girls who for
some reason or other did not wish to spend their holidays with their
excellent respectable families. It was a good suggestion, there was no
objection to it, but it did not, for some reason, release Mary's
enthusiasm. The idea of curing convalescents was not as stimulating as
the idea of improving the conditions that made them ill. Miss Percival
too, usually so skilfully indefatigable, did not seem to be giving the
best of herself to the new scheme.

Mary had grown, from force of being well served, to like Miss Percival,
whom she identified moreover with her own impulse towards a more
interesting life. She had gone so far as to say, in Miss Percival's
presence, that she thought some plan might be found for giving the
waitresses higher wages. And now that James's attitude forced her to
switch her activities into another direction she felt that she owed her
secretary some explanation of the change. It couldn't of course be a
perfectly truthful explanation--one is not expected to be truthful about
one's husband. But it would prevent Miss Percival from feeling that her
employer regarded her as a mere hireling who obeys orders she is not
expected to understand. The explanation, skirting the edge of the truth
with a nervous deference, had stated that Mary had asked Mr. Heyham if
it would be possible to raise the girls' wages, and had been convinced
after going into the matter with him that it would not be possible. But
in order to show that the firm did not grudge the money Mr. Heyham had
himself suggested that they should spend it on the girls in another
way--he did not bind them, but the way he thought the best would
be--Mary had drawn for Miss Percival as glowing a picture of the poor
convalescents recovering their rosy cheeks as her imagination and her
command over words could supply.

Miss Percival, who was seated at her desk, had not answered at once.
Instead she had drawn a beautiful lady with curling hair on her pad of
blotting-paper. Then, in a startled tone, as if she had just awaked, she
said, "Very well, Mrs. Heyham, just as you wish of course. Have you
decided yet where the home is to be?"

Mary had not decided, but she thought it must be somewhere bracing with
a pier and a band, and plenty of nigger minstrels. "It won't do to
choose a place where they would feel lonely," she conceded.

Miss Percival pushed her chair back from the desk and sighed, then,
swinging round sharply, she stared straight at Mrs. Heyham.

"She is very much disappointed," Mary thought, as Miss Percival did not
speak. "It's natural of course, she is young, probably she hasn't
learned how seldom one can do what one wants in this life." She started,
for Miss Percival was speaking. "Just as you think right, Mrs. Heyham,"
she was saying slowly.

Mary, who knew that she was doing what she thought right, nevertheless
felt uneasy. Miss Percival obviously considered her wrong, and Miss
Percival was a clever young woman, entitled to respect. One of the
suspicions to which she was prone crept into Mary's mind. Suppose the
thing she wanted most was not to help the girls, but to keep on
affectionate terms with James? Suppose, after all, that she were only
following her inclinations--Miss Percival's voice, severe and scornful,
interrupted these accusations.

"After all, the great thing is to decide on something and do it," she
said.

Mary acquiesced. That was as good a way of putting the matter as any
other.

"I don't suppose we shall be able to do very much for a week or two,"
she told her assistant, "because Mrs. Moorhouse--my married daughter,
you know--will be needing me. But you might find out what you can about
places not too far from London, and you might get information about
other homes, and see whether it would be best to build for ourselves, or
buy some houses and alter them. And we must find out, too, what
accommodation we are likely to need."

She did not speak with her usual brightness, and Miss Percival did not
reply with her usual alacrity. For a moment the two women looked at one
another. Then Mary, rising hastily from her chair, said that she did not
think she need keep Miss Percival any later that day.

After that the secretary maintained an attitude of superior kindliness.
She was sorry for Mary, she seemed to say, for Mary was an amiable
person, if a trifle faint of heart. She understood Mary's difficulties
and she meant to stand by her. But not even her affection and her
loyalty to her employer could make her play the part of a hypocrite. She
did not approve of this holiday home, she thought it a base surrender
and a waste of money as well. She was not going to pretend, by words or
by a delighted energy, that she did approve of it.

This was not as bad as it might have been, and Mary, since Miss
Percival, after all, was ignorant of her true reasons, felt grateful for
even so much tolerance. But she could not, any more than Miss Percival,
throw herself heart and soul into the carrying out of James's scheme.
She had meant to do this; she had not planned any grudging acceptance,
but she was not able, with Miss Percival there to remind her of them, to
ignore her own convictions. The home was, and she knew it, a miserable
compromise. She turned with relief from discussions about its site to
the business of collecting Rosemary's trousseau.

Here again she was in the position of having to force her emotions. She
did not, in her heart, believe that Rosemary was old enough to marry,
experienced enough to know or to value the freedom she was losing. She
would not need age or experience, unhappily, to make her regret it. But
Mary could not very well assert herself to make Rosemary unhappy by
postponing the marriage while she herself was guarding her own happiness
by giving way in so cowardly a fashion to James. She told herself,
therefore, that her feelings were the feelings natural to every woman
who sees her youngest daughter leaving her; they were selfish feelings,
and she, like every other mother, must put them aside. If they had any
value it was their private value, as emotion, for her--she would not
have wished at such a moment to feel nothing or only to feel what was
pleasurable.

She bought Rosemary's garments then to the accompaniment of an emotional
conflict that tired her, but was at least interesting, whereas the
holiday home, a wearisome affair, reminded her only of her failure to
convince James.

Moreover, buying Rosemary's clothes had an interest of its own. Mary had
not felt really happy about Laura's trousseau. Laura, whose intelligence
was always admirable, had known exactly where she wanted to go and what
she wanted to buy. Laura could see at once, when clothes were displayed
before her, which of them would make her look charming and which would
not. This was all very well for dresses, Mary had always respected
Laura's taste, but when the same principle was pushed further it had
seemed to her a little alarming. That underclothes should be becoming
was the last service she would have asked of them. Mary liked linen that
was finely woven, voluminous, and carefully sewn. When she had bought it
she took a pride in it and hoped that it would last her for years. Of
lace and such transparencies she disapproved, except for the narrowest
edgings. She explained to Laura that they would not wash, but however
well they had washed she would not have liked them better. It seemed to
her unnatural and distressing that a young woman should look, as Laura
looked, more delightful without her full complement of clothes than with
them. If she had not feared, by doing so, to put ideas into Laura's
head, she would have protested. But it is not easy to discuss these
things with a young girl, especially in front of shop-assistants. When
Mary had said, in a lowered voice, "Don't you think, my dear, that that
lawn is a little too fine--I shouldn't think it would wear very well,
would you?" Laura had replied, calmly and frankly, "Oh, don't you,
mother?--I think it will look rather nice!" Such innocence--or on the
other hand, such command of one's information--intimidated Mary. On one
occasion only had she protested and carried her way. It was when Laura,
who must have been unaware, poor child, of what she was contemplating,
praised and asked the price of a black crêpe-de-chine nightgown. Even
then Mary might not have risen to a veto if the deplorable garment had
not been labelled "enhancing."

With Rosemary it was a very different matter. Rosemary's shopping was
guided by principles, and so long as she was determining what these
principles should be Rosemary was very much interested in it. In the
first place she determined to buy none but hand-made linen, partly
because weaving linen by hand provides a fuller and more fruitful life
for the worker than weaving it by machine, partly because it is cheaper
in the end to buy what is more expensive in the beginning. And as a poor
man's wife--she reminded her mother--she must think of these things. In
the second place she would buy æsthetic dresses, because what has never
been in the fashion cannot easily drop behind it. This would be a great
economy. In the third place she would not buy her clothes haphazard,
guided merely by fancy, but would choose just one or two colours and
stick to them.

All this was excellent and Mary was cheered to find Rosemary displaying
such practical common-sense. It was true that the hand-woven linen was
extremely expensive--but then it was stout, and Mary had the pleasure of
seeing it made up into garments that would last Rosemary until she grew
old. No lace, only the most charming and costly hand embroidery. It was
true that there are so many occasions on which one cannot wear æsthetic
dresses that Mary found herself, when Rosemary was not there, ordering a
considerable number of tailor-mades. Rosemary was generally not there.
When she had made a comprehensive survey of the enterprise and delivered
her instructions to Mary she preferred to leave the dressmakers to fit
her as best they could--she liked her clothes loose--and to wander
forth, alone or with Anthony, searching in unlikely places for antique
furniture. It was true, also, that the one or two colours began to
multiply.

Anthony had read somewhere that a woman's clothes should match her eyes
or her hair. That meant greeny-brown tweeds, and possibly liberty
satins. White and cream and navy blue do not count. Then Rosemary always
liked one dress of a particular green in the summer and another dress of
a particular purple in the winter. And Laura thought that the child was
at her best in lilac, while Mary thought that she never looked so fresh
or so young as in a certain shade--rather difficult to obtain--of
gentian blue. But Mary liked to think that the dear child, while she was
learning the limits of her income, would not at least have to bother
about clothes, and on the whole she welcomed these unexacting cares. She
did not wish to contemplate, more than she could help, a situation which
had already exhausted her powers of self-deception. She had struggled
for some time to persuade herself that she was not a coward, that the
holiday home was not a waste of her money and energy, and moreover
deliberately intended by James to be such a waste. Miss Percival's eye,
bent constantly on her with an expression of weary tolerance, had been
too much for her. She had taken next the desperate step of avowing to
herself that she was a coward, and excusing herself on that ground from
the display of any vigorous qualities.

She was a coward, and it wasn't any use pretending that she could ever
be anything else. She might have settled down comfortably enough to this
conviction if only she could have been certain that it was true. She had
undoubtedly behaved like a coward, but what disturbed her, what sent her
running to shops and sempstresses, was the insistent dread that
somewhere at the bottom of her heart there was still a remainder of
courage. There might even be, she feared, sufficient courage to enable
her to reopen the whole affair. Perhaps the future would find her brave,
after all. Perhaps she was not going to settle quietly down to the base
abandonment of her waitresses--the thought sent the blood to her heart
and set her trembling. It could not be possible that all her long misery
of decision had decided on nothing, that the travail of thinking must be
begun again. She exhorted herself to stand steadfast, to harden her
heart in selfish docility, and she was able to believe that she had
succeeded when she found herself thrilling with the tenderness, love,
and joy which are proper to a woman who finds herself a happy
grandmother.

Laura's baby provided her with a real respite, a happiness that needed
no analysis and provoked no doubts. He was a marvellous boy, extremely
handsome and positively the very image of James. He might so easily have
been like Harry--it would have been distinctly a waste, because there
were already several Moorhouse grandchildren--and he had chosen to
resemble James. It was clear that he meant to develop into a child of
exceptional intelligence.

James, who had cast one hasty glance at the infant's cot, said that
women always see these likenesses, and was very much flattered by it. He
bought his grandson--who was to be called, when Laura could decide
between them, either Jakes or Giles--a collection of silverware, and
told himself that an era of feminine peace and contentment would now set
in. Harry, who was handsome and vain, said that he was glad the poor
little beggar had the sense not to look like his father, and added that
he had never pretended to feel any interest in babies. But Laura was far
too ill and too happy to mind what Harry said.

For two or three weeks Mary's thoughts were completely engaged with
Laura; she could give her mind to nothing away from Laura's room. It was
as a matter of fact a delightful room--Laura loved beautiful fabrics and
graceful furniture. Mary had thought how pretty it was when she sat
waiting outside its door on the night the baby was born. She had come
there, although she knew it was foolish, because she had already waited
so long downstairs. She had heard the baby cry, but no one had come out
of the room to tell her about it. She had tried to picture the struggle
that must be going on inside, to remind herself of the tasks that were
imprisoning, for hours, the doctor and the nurses. She had tried to turn
her thoughts to the new love that she was to feel for Laura's child. But
her tired mind had failed her. She could not keep it fastened on her
future happiness, or on the busy figures that she knew to be near her on
the other side of the dark, shining door. Try as she would they had
slipped away, and then the room had been empty, warm and green and
quiet, with its curtains moving softly in the wind. Even while dread
stirred in her mind it had seemed impossible that a beautiful woman
should suffer in such a room.

It was late in the night, and she had left her chair and propped herself
in a corner to alter her position, when the door had opened on a long
panel of light, on a wave of sound, and one of the nurses had come out.
She had not looked round at Mary, but had run quickly downstairs. There
was a bright stain on her apron.

The nurse had disappeared; Mary, pressed against the wall, had neither
moved nor spoken. She could not see, she could not even think; her mind,
her will, seemed to have dissolved in fear. The sound of the hurrying
feet had died away. There was no noise now in the room.

Then, before thoughts had come back to her, the nurse had returned. This
time she had noticed Mary in the corner and thrown her a hasty
reassurance. "It's all right now--there's no need to be anxious--a
beautiful boy!" The door had closed behind her.

After the first confusion of her relief, the first disorder of her joy,
Mary's mind had moved swiftly. This, she had told herself, was the weft
on which women's lives were woven, moments like these of terror, of
suffering, of ecstasy! Beside what Laura was feeling now the best that
the world could give women must seem dim. What did it matter then if
they turned away from the great problems of life, if they were content
with narrow ambitions, with timid thoughts, with foolish dreams? All
that was nothing--under it there lay this savage splendour of pain, this
sacrifice that was their justification. By pain--helpless, ignorant,
idle though they might be--they paid for the joy that life had given
them.

Presently, towards morning, Mary had been called into the dressing-room
where the nurse had been tending the baby. The little creature had lain
on her knee, grave, motionless, dignified, in the clothes of his nation
and his century. Mary had lifted him with anxious care. Here in her arms
she held the strength, the desires, the ambitions, of a man. This light
burden was born a master of the world, heir of the world's experience.
He was born a master of women; all through his life women would minister
to him and obey him, and he would accept their service as his right. She
herself, as he grew to the power of his youth, would be to him a mere
waste product, a body that had outlived its usefulness. As she bent to
kiss him she had wished, for an instant, that he had been a girl.

She was not allowed to see Laura until next day, when she was told that
she might sit by her bed, but must not excite her. It was enough for
both of them; she did not want to excite her--she had never been on
exciting terms with Laura. Their attitudes to the surface of life were
too different. But here in the pretty room differences passed them by,
they were content to be near one another, to exchange insignificant
words, to see one another's faces light up when their boy was brought
into the room. Mary knew that this pleasure in her presence, this need
of her, must pass, and that then she would come no nearer than she had
come before to touching the problems and interests of Laura's life. Her
own mind, too, would answer the call of other duties. But for these few
weeks she was happy. James, watching her, felt perfectly satisfied.




CHAPTER XIII


TIME drew on towards the wedding, and James's contentment increased. He
felt very well that autumn--his summer holiday had agreed with him--and
he was vain of his vigour at an age when many men are already a little
wearied by life. Fate, too, was treating him kindly. Mary had settled
down, Laura's child was a boy, and a very fine boy, and here was
Rosemary marrying an exceedingly decent young fellow who was bound to
get on. Moreover business was booming. James went down to his office
every morning in an excellent temper. He had made up his mind now that
he would carry his cinema project through. He had consulted the various
people in whose advice he had confidence and matters seemed to be
shaping very well. He was not looking to the new company for enormous
profits--if it succeeded he would make his money through its effect on
the Imperial. He meant to keep all the Imperial's ordinary shares in the
family. If he was excited about the new company it was because he had
always had a liking for neat and amusing inventions, and he saw himself
now with two or three interesting years ahead of him, years during which
he could complain that he was being worked to death, and astonish his
admirers by the unclouded brilliance of his business capacity. Of course
the changes he proposed would bring him in two or three thousand a year,
but this did not mean so much to James--who, at bottom, had a sense of
the values of life--as the fact of success itself, the fact that his
influence would be extended, that his name and the name of his business
would be spoken and heard with more respect.

As for Mary, he would distribute her money between various classes of
shares in the two undertakings, and once she had grasped the
powerlessness of a shareholder he could rearrange her holdings if he
wished. Not that he anticipated any more trouble from Mary. The last few
weeks had shown her where her heart lay, dear little thing--as if
anybody who knew her could have doubted which she would choose when it
came to an issue between babies and Socialism--and James saw happy years
ahead for Mary as well, with two daughters to counsel and two families
of grandchildren to adore. She would need, of course, to be petted for a
week or so after the wedding. It might be a good thing, if he could
manage it, to take her away for a little trip somewhere. Why not? Why
shouldn't the old people have their honeymoon as well as the youngsters?

The days passed pleasantly and rapidly--he felt too good-natured even to
make a fuss about Rosemary's absurd arrangements for the wedding.
Rosemary said that she was going to be married by a registrar, and that
she did not wish to have anybody there when it happened. She regarded
the marriage ceremony, she informed her father, as the ratifying by the
State of a private contract. One did not invite all one's friends to
come and cry when one had a document stamped at Somerset House. But if
she and Anthony were allowed to go out in the morning by themselves and
be married with crossing-sweepers for witnesses, she did not object to a
party in the afternoon to say good-bye to her friends.

"Very kind of you!" said James, but he refrained from saying more.

To this programme Mary wanted to add a family lunch--she did not feel
that she could sit idle in the house all day, waiting for afternoon tea,
and as James would be at home she would be debarred from tiring herself
by helping with the preparations or the packing. But the idea of the
lunch pleased no one but Mary's aunts. Even James said that if they were
not to have the regulation affair they might as well get off as lightly
as possible.

As a matter of fact, when the morning came, James did not care to sit
idle about the house either. Rosemary had slipped away after an early
breakfast, and there seemed no reason why he should not run up to the
office for an hour or two. Mary took advantage of his absence to tire
herself a good deal altering the arrangement of the wedding presents.
She had insisted on displaying the presents because when people have
been kind it is only right that they should have the pleasure of seeing
what they have given.

In the middle of her unnecessary alterations a dreadful idea occurred to
her. Suppose Rosemary and Anthony had refused to have witnesses because
they did not mean to get married at all! Suppose they had decided that
marriage was contrary to their principles, and were only pretending to
marry in order to save their parents' feelings? It was the sort of
thing, she had heard, that Socialists did. She tried to dismiss the idea
from her mind, and for a time she succeeded, but when neither Rosemary,
Anthony, nor James appeared for lunch, her fears returned. It seemed
incredible that she actually did not know whether Rosemary was Mrs.
Hastings or not. She could not eat, and she returned to the presents,
where she made herself miserable for another hour. She had already
imagined Anthony lured away from the unhappy girl who was not his wife
by a tall dark woman with green eyes when, to her joy, she heard James's
voice in the hall.

"Hullo, you two, married?"

Rosemary's voice answered him, clear and excited, "Yes, I suppose
so--but I don't feel married a bit! The old man was perfectly charming.
He shook our hands and told us he always tried to give the young people
a good send-off. Here are my marriage lines--Tony said that as you
weren't there he must have a certificate to protect his reputation."

Mary sat down suddenly, overcome by ridiculous relief. They were still
talking and laughing outside, but she did not hear what they said. A
moment later James came into the library. He saw at once that she was
looking pale.

"Really, Mary," he scolded, almost vexed, "you are not to be trusted,
are you? You promised that you would not do anything to tire yourself,
and here you are as white as a sheet. Come upstairs at once, little
mother, and rest on the sofa, and I'll sit by you and keep you amused
until it's time to dress."

"But, Rosemary--" said Mary.

"She's gone out to give Giles a kiss from his married aunt. I hoped you
were lying down, and I told her not to disturb you."

He took her hand to lead her from the room, but Mary, moved by a sudden
impulse, threw her arms round his neck. "James--my dear--I do love you
so!" she told him.

James, surprised and pleased, stroked back her soft hair very tenderly.
"Little thing," he said, "we've not done badly, have we, to love one
another like this for so many years? If the young people are as happy as
we are they won't have much to complain of." He would have liked to say
more, but he never felt in the mood for making love so soon after lunch.

Mary, quite satisfied, let him take her upstairs and put her on the
sofa. She made him sit down on it too, where she could play with his
fingers, telling him that he ought to be glad, really, that she wasn't a
fine big strapping wife who would want all the room on the sofa for
herself.

James looked down on her affectionately. "I'm glad," he said, "that
you're just exactly what you are! I wouldn't change a scrap of you."
They both laughed.

Then Mary told him how silly she had been before he came in, how she had
pictured Anthony led to destruction by sinuous ladies with raven locks.
"They would have to be red-haired to tempt you, James," she added. "I
don't believe you'd look at a temptress unless she had red hair!"

James bent towards her, his handsome face bright with affection. "Since
I met you, little mother," he said, "I don't believe I've looked at
another woman. Your hair is the only hair in the world for me!"

Then, as he gazed at her, Mary saw a change come over his face. His
mouth fell open a little, his eyes left hers, he lifted his head. She
could see that in that moment James had remembered something.

Tired and overstrung as she was she could not control the fantastic
terror that shook her. "James," she cried, "tell me quickly--why did you
look like that?"

James turned back to her. His face expressed nothing now but surprise.
"Look like what? I don't understand you, my dear." Then he got up from
the sofa and walked across to the window. "They've got a fine day for
their wedding-day," he added.

As he left her Mary's bodily strength seemed to go with him. She sank
backwards against her cushions trembling. "Don't speak! don't speak!"
she whispered to herself, but she had lost control over the forces of
her mind. Fear, too strong for her, spoke through her lips. She called
him, "James!"

James swung round sharply at the unfamiliar ring of her voice. "My dear,
what is the matter? I----"

She interrupted him. "If I ask you a question, will you tell me the
truth?"

James came back to the sofa and stood beside it, strong and
authoritative. "Listen to me," he said, "you are working yourself up,
about nothing at all, into a state of hysteria. You must remember that
in another hour your guests will be here. Shut your eyes and try to calm
yourself. I am not going to answer any questions at all."

But Mary still stared at him, his words had not reached her. "James,"
she said, "you must tell me! Have you ever been unfaithful to me?"

Her question, though he had been expecting it, came to James as a shock.
But he answered her steadily, "I have never loved anyone but you."

Mary clasped her hands. "No," she said, "I don't-- James, you haven't
answered my question!"

James, standing by her, thought rapidly. He had been a fool to give any
answer at all. He had not meant to, but the words had come to his lips,
and for an instant he had thought they would fulfil his purpose. Now he
must tell her a lie. But he knew in his heart that a lie would be no
use--his folly had answered her. He looked at Mary. Her terrified eyes,
wide open, were searching his face. After all, she had a right to ask
her question--he turned away from her without speaking.

Then it was true--Mary pressed her hands over her mouth as if she were
preventing herself from screaming. For a moment her mind seemed a mere
confusion of struggling passions, then, from life-long habit, she made
an effort to command it. "I must be brave," she told herself, "and
just--it must not be more dreadful than it need----"

But she could not find any courage or any justice in her heart, she
could find nothing but horror. It was impossible--it was unbearable. She
tried to think calmly, but James's tread as he walked about the room
seemed to break down her attempts to reason, to excuse, to lift herself
above mere bitterness and suffering. She closed her eyes, but a moment
later she opened them again, because the sound of his feet had stopped.

James, as he walked, could only abuse himself. Fool!--he'd been worse
than a fool! He could not imagine now what had kept him from speaking,
what had made him drag out all this. It was only a chance that he had
remembered it--red hair. Now he would have to explain, to tell her about
it, or God knows what infamy she would be imagining! But what good would
his explanation be--how could he make her understand? When a woman knows
as little of evil as Mary....

His heart sank, he felt a sudden fear of the unknown. By his minutes of
hesitation, of silence, he asked himself, what had he done? He turned
suddenly, and glanced across at the sofa. As he saw Mary lying there,
her eyes shut and her face contorted, he was shaken by a wave of nervous
anger. Why was she carrying on like that? he thought, in the phrase of
his boyhood--she had insisted on asking her question, why couldn't she
take the answer like a man? An instant later he was horrified with
himself for his brutality. How could he be thinking of anything now but
of how to make it easier for her? What had he better do? He went to the
sofa, and as he looked down on her, she opened her eyes. For a moment
they faced one another, but their gaze meant nothing--each was too
tormented to find access to the other's thought. Then James spoke. "I
think, if you don't mind, it would be better if I told you," he said; "I
don't want you to imagine----"

Mary still looked at him without knowing why. "Yes, I think so," she
agreed.

James did not find it possible to stand there, staring like that. He
started again on his restless walk. "It was a woman I'd known--before I
knew you--she wasn't a bad sort, I always felt kindly towards her. She
came to me years afterwards because she was in trouble, hadn't any
money, and asked me to help her. She was very unhappy because she felt
that she was getting old, and that she wasn't as beautiful as before,
and I--really--she seemed to expect it--I didn't want to hurt her
feelings--" He had been going to add, "It seemed so natural," but he
pulled himself up. A sudden horror had seized him of himself, of what he
was saying, of the conversation. It was appalling that he should be
speaking to Mary of things like this! It was indecent.

The story, the simple facts, restored some of Mary's self-control. She
could realise, as a definite event, what in the abstract had seemed
incredible. She drew a deep breath and tried to face the position. "Then
you never cared for her?" she asked him. James turned round again. "Of
course I never cared for her, I never dreamed of caring. Didn't I tell
you that I have never cared for anyone but you!" It seemed to him just
then that his not having cared for her was of vital importance. Whatever
else Mary did not realise she must realise that. "I'd forgotten all
about her, until you reminded me." Good God! that he should be standing
there, in front of Mary, justifying himself!

Mary shivered. She did not disbelieve James, but what he said seemed to
her incredible. How was it possible to do what James had done and not
care? It did not occur to her to feel sorry for James, for his
discomfort and his humiliation, but she found herself for a moment
pitying the woman who dwelt in so monstrous a world. To be a woman of
whom a man could say, "I never dreamed of caring!"

Then a new doubt assailed her. "When was it?" she cried. "Oh, James, was
it anybody I know?"

But James could bear it no longer. Every instinct of self-preservation
urged him to stop her questions. And he did not want her to know when it
had happened. She would not understand. "I don't think I need tell you,"
he said. "She wasn't much of a woman, but who she is, is her affair, and
the other is mine."

Mary did not understand him. "How do you mean, yours?"

James did not answer at once. The whole discussion still seemed to him
unnatural and disgusting. But since she insisted on probing into the
thing he might just as well, he told himself, state his case. "Look
here, Mary," he said, "I don't think we shall do any good by talking
about this just now. I don't think it will help either of us. But the
reason I won't tell you more about it, is this. That whole side of my
life is a side that you have never wished to think of or to know
anything about. You have had your own standards, and you have simply
taken it for granted that I should live up to them. You have never even
doubted, I imagine, that I found it easy to live up to them. Well, I
respected your delicacy, I never obtruded anything on you that you did
not care to know. Don't you see, Mary, you can't, now, simply because I
am at a disadvantage, expect me to break down a barrier which we have
chosen to keep up all our lives. You may say that I deceived you, and
that you have a right to know the truth. Well, I did conceal it from
you, but my concealment was the price I paid for your immunity from
contact with evil." As he spoke, the theme developed in his rapid mind.
He went on--"Those untroubled ideals of yours, your moral sensitiveness,
they're not things that survive a knowledge of the ugly, cruel side of
life. Well, we agreed, it seemed to me, that you should enjoy them, that
I should prevent them from being taken from you. In some ways they are a
luxury, luxuries have to be paid for--" He stopped, because he could see
that Mary was not following what he said.

She had tried to follow, she had tried, as a mere matter of fairness, to
consider what he had to say. But she had not grasped, in the beginning,
what he was talking about, and she had soon lost the thread of his words
from mere weariness. The last thing that she wanted was to argue with
him. She could not argue--she would only say things that she did not
mean--they would squabble--it would all be vulgar and horrible! She
wished he would go away now so that she could cry--give way--not have to
think. She could not think about it----

She started, for someone was knocking at the door. A moment later her
maid came in, discreetly radiant. "I've put out the lilac dress, ma'am,"
she said, "and it's close on half-past three."

Mary stared at the woman until she heard James say, in his usual
pleasant voice, "Well, my dear, I'll leave you to dress. If I see
Rosemary I will send her to you." Then, with an effort, she smiled too,
but she thought to herself as she rose slowly from the sofa that it was
easy for James--he was accustomed to lying.

When Rosemary came in ten minutes later she found her mother completely
absorbed, to all appearances, in the process of putting on the lilac
dress. For a moment she did not turn round to greet her daughter; when
she did Rosemary was shocked by her white face. "How she minds!" she
thought, and then she felt a sudden shyness and embarrassment at the
idea that her mother should mind. They kissed one another then and
Rosemary disengaged herself and stroked the satin of her mother's
sleeve.

"I love you in fine clothes, mother," she said, "you are one of the
people who can wear them. You ought to have big flounced skirts and a
stiff stomacher embroidered with pearls."

Mary did not answer. She had seen Rosemary's hesitation and she could
not trust herself with speech.

A few hours ago she might have spoken to some purpose--she might have
warned the child, have told her what men are like, what marriage is. But
now it was too late. Rosemary was married. Beautiful, fresh, untouched
as she was, she belonged to a man, and in an hour he would take her away
into his cruel man's world. This lovely child whose body Mary had made,
who only a few years ago had lain, a little soft laughing thing, on
Mary's lap, was to be at the mercy of a man--she was to see the whole of
life through his love--her children were to be his children. She would
give herself to him, and in return, if he chose to sin, he would lie to
her. One of James's sentences, distorted, came back to Mary's mind,--a
woman's purity of thought, her serenity of soul, is her husband's
luxury--he likes to have that sort of woman about his house----

The tumult of her mind was stilled for a moment by Rosemary's voice.
"Won't you sit down, mother darling--you've been standing too much,
you're trembling. You'll have to stand presently----"

But Mary would not sit. She preferred instead to go downstairs and see
whether everything was ready for her guests. Rosemary followed her,
feeling a little indifferent and detached. One ought, she told herself,
to get married without telling people, then one would not have a
tiresome day like this, all odds and ends and fussing. She wished she
had not let all these people come to stare at her--even the hired
footmen looked her over as though she were a horse at a show. Regarded
reasonably, it was a disgusting idea. If one were to imagine a country
where all weddings were private, what would the inhabitants think of our
barbarous customs? One ought to get married on a mountain, or a cliff by
the sea, and smell the fresh wind instead of pink roses from a florist's
shop--though even pink roses were better than the millinery that was
coming.

When they went into the dining-room they found Anthony. He was standing
by the buffet, eating an enormous ice, while the maid who had served him
looked on in an attitude of romantic adoration. At the sight of him
Rosemary's dissatisfaction sank away. His absorption in his ice seemed
to her, suddenly, the most charming, touching thing she had ever seen.
What a baby he was--coming into the dining-room to eat ices before
anyone had arrived! What a ridiculous boy he looked with his bright fair
hair!--As she walked towards him she felt that there were tears in her
eyes.

Mary saw their friendly greeting and turned away, swept by a bitter
anger and jealousy. It seemed to her horrible that Anthony, the man, the
pursuer, the captor, should be eating ices. He might at least have had
the decency to exult over his prey. To Mary at that moment the whole
world was a vast sacrificial altar raised to the lust and the cruelty of
men. She did not remember that only yesterday she too had thought
Anthony a friendly and delightful creature.

A few minutes later cousins began to arrive, and Mary, found herself
standing by the drawing-room door, talking. "Well, Mary," all her old
friends began, "to think--" and to one after another of them she
answered, "We're all so fond of him!" "Yes, I'm sure they'll be very
happy."

The pretty room, Mary's room, was filling with people, people who had
come there to laugh and look animated and say stupid things because
Rosemary was married. It did not matter much now what anybody said, one
could not hear it. It seemed to Mary that she was screaming, but as
nobody noticed her she supposed that she could not be talking louder
than anyone else.

Behind her left shoulder she could hear James's laugh. He was talking
too, everyone was telling him how well he looked. She heard him say,
"Yes--both gone now--it makes a man feel old--" and a sudden wave of
misery made her tremble. What did it matter to James--what were
daughters to a man! It was she who was old, she who was left lonely and
desolate, left to James who stroked her hair and lied to her.

There were fewer people coming now, and she crossed the room to speak to
Anthony's mother. Anthony's mother was sitting on a sofa, calm,
superior, but triumphant. Her eye travelled slowly over the chattering
crowd with an air of august approval. "See what a fuss these people
make," she seemed to say, "how they dress up, rejoice, invite their
friends, because their girl has succeeded in catching my son! See how
they have decked out the fortunate creature herself so that she may seem
beautiful and pleasing!" Mrs. Hastings was a tall lady with a dignified
nose, and she bent over Mary when she had made room for her on the sofa.
"How charming dear Rosemary looks!" she began. "Her frock suits her so
well"--the garment in question had been chosen by Laura--"everyone is
saying how ridiculously young they both are----"

Mary followed the lady's imposing eye to where, between groups of
people, she could see Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Hastings. It was true that
they both of them looked absurdly young. Something in Rosemary's flushed
laughing face sent the blood to Mary's heart. She was a child, only a
child, and here in this hot, noisy room she was saying good-bye to her
freedom. And there was nothing, nothing that anyone in the world could
do--Rosemary was married!

Mrs. Hastings, having received no answer to a further remark, turned
round again to survey her hostess. "Hysterical, poor woman," she
thought. "She has never struck me as a person with much strength of
will--one of your clinging little women." "I am sure they will be very
happy," she said, in a voice that was certain to arrest attention, "for
I have always thought that Tony would make an excellent husband."

An excellent husband--of course! What more could any woman want--an
excellent husband like James! Mary smiled faintly. "Oh, yes, I'm sure,
and they are so very fond of each other," she answered.

At this point someone else came up to Mrs. Hastings and Mary was able to
rise and to go in search of Anthony's principal uncle. Rosemary's future
depended on him too, for he was the head of Anthony's firm. As she
looked about the room Mary caught words and sentences from the roar of
conversation that echoed back from the walls and the ceiling. All these
people were busy over their own affairs, their clothes, their
engagements, their gossip. They did not care--Mary wished suddenly that
there had been a wedding in church. That, at least, would have been
serious, she could have prayed for her daughter. Then she laughed at
herself. What good would praying have been? Her own mother, who believed
in God, had prayed for her every day, and yet she could not spare her
this----.

The important uncle, who called Mary, "My dear lady," told her that she
looked thoroughly worn out.

At last the moment came when she was to bid Rosemary good-bye. As she
kissed her, Mary felt an impulse to throw her arms round Rosemary, to
hold her fast, to defy them all--it seemed impossible that she should go
away like this, while everybody laughed and looked curious and pleased.
But even while the thought was in her mind she found that she had let
the child go, that Rosemary was kissing James. "Of course--he's her
father," Mary said to herself.--A moment later Rosemary was gone.

Then Mary had to say good-bye to her guests, to thank them for having
put on their best clothes and made their well-meant noises. They all
decided, and told her so, that she needed a rest and a change--weddings
are trying affairs. Finally, last of all, Harry and Laura said they must
get back to Giles.

"Do lie down, mother dear," Laura said, "and we'll see you and father at
dinner later."

Mary had forgotten that they were dining with Laura--it seemed now a
very good opportunity for separating herself from James. She didn't
think that she would come after all, she told them, she would probably
go to bed early. But James would come.

James assented. It seemed to him, too, an excellent idea.

For a moment they all stood at the door, looking at the disordered room.
The floor was littered with the pink petals of the florist's roses, and
on a chair lay a white fur scarf that some woman had forgotten.

"I'll come round to-morrow and help you cut up the cake," Laura told
Mary, kissing her.

Harry shrugged his shoulders. "What we want in weddings," he said, "is a
little decent grossness!"

Laura turned to him. "Come, Harry, I can see that mother is exhausted--"
As they went, James on their heels, Mary laughed. Harry knew that he was
the captor, right enough.




CHAPTER XIV


MARY'S household were relieved when they learned next morning that she
did not feel well enough to see anyone or to leave her bed. James hoped
that she was thinking things over and growing to see them in a more
reasonable light. Trent thought that all women are always the better for
a rest. The servants welcomed an interval between the excitements of the
wedding and the discipline of their mistress's eye. Mary herself was not
so pleased. To feel ill is in itself unpleasant, and though she was glad
that she need not yet resume the routine of her life she would have
liked to have something to think about. She tried to read books and
then, as books seemed uninteresting and were troublesome to hold, she
endeavoured to fix her mind on cheerful subjects. Giles was a splendid
boy--big for his age already and growing finely. Dear Laura was very
happy, and everybody said that her looks were improved. Rosemary had
looked lovely and was having beautiful weather--Mary's prejudice against
Anthony had lessened in the night. But these dutiful attempts did not
succeed. Her carefully chosen thoughts seemed to have no cohesion, no
persistence; they melted away, even when she repeated them aloud to make
them impressive, and left her with the nervous sense of fear that
heralded--she soon learned to recognise it--a return to the problem of
her relations with James. She did not want to consider them yet; it was
not fair, she told herself, to give scope to the pessimism that comes of
lying in bed, but even when she had made every allowance she could the
more she considered them the less hopeful they seemed. There was left to
her, now, no ground at all on which she and James could take a common
stand. There was no aspect of his life of which she could think with
pride or from which she could take comfort. James, however she looked at
him, was a failure, a sham.

She did not wish to pass judgment on James, to be unkind and
unforgiving. She would forgive as soon as she could, she would do her
best to make herself forgive. But it wasn't easy, she told herself, as
she moved uneasily under the bed-clothes, to forgive such a deception as
James had practised on her. It was not so much the actual lies he must
have told, the smiles, the affection, the attitude of candour he must
have assumed--what she resented was the false conception of himself that
he had forced on her. She realised now that she had not, in her heart,
forgiven him for the surrender she had already made. Believing herself
bound by the fact that she was James's wife she had put aside her
judgment and her conscience, she had renounced her wonderful adventure
into the world of fact, of knowledge, of ordered thought. She had shut
herself again into the narrow circle of her emotional life, she had
tried to live again, at second-hand, through Laura's feelings, James's
feelings, Rosemary's feelings. That James as a husband might remain
unblemished in goodness and wisdom she had resolved to know nothing of
James the public employer.

James for his part had not so much accepted her sacrifice as not noticed
it, and now it was wasted. She knew now what her husband's goodness and
wisdom were. He was neither honest, nor loyal, nor pure--he was a loose
man, stained, unscrupulous; a man--she told herself this because it made
her suffer--a man no better than the men who preyed on Florrie Wilson.
He had dishonoured the most sacred and intimate thing in her life. He
had given a strange woman the right to jeer at her, to despise her as a
wife who was not able to keep her husband. Even now, though she wasn't
likely to be a person who lived in her memories, James's mistress might
sometimes remember and laugh to herself. "He fell so easily," the
red-haired woman could say, "I hardly needed to hold out my hand!"
Perhaps she had felt sorry for Mary.

For a moment Mrs. Heyham lay rigid, holding this picture in her mind.
Then a dread of her own thoughts came so strongly upon her that she knew
she must get up, ill or well, and find a way to banish them. She would
send for Miss Percival, she told herself, and talk to her. She would
tell her that she did not mean to go on with the Holiday Home. Perhaps
Miss Percival would have something to talk about. She might have been
reading an interesting book. She would not tell Mary, at least, that she
looked as if she needed a change, or ask her whether she wasn't feeling
lonely.

After making her resolve Mary lay for a moment or two longer without
moving. She was certainly feeling tired, though she told herself now
that the matter went no deeper than feeling, and she wanted, before she
left the subject, to make one more effort to think kindly of James. But
the nearest that she could come to kindness was an absence of hatred, a
cold instead of a passionate disgust. She was not angry with him, she
shrank from the intimacy of anger, but she told herself that his
personality, his presence, must not affect her again. She would think of
him as an indifferent person, far from her life. There was a certain
relief in the conviction which came to her that this was possible. She
felt herself, in a queer, cold fashion, free of him.

She did get up after lunch, and just as she had finished dressing she
became aware of pleasing wails in her sitting-room. She opened the door
quickly and saw, before she was noticed, Miss Percival holding Giles
while Giles's nurse condescended to stand by. The secretary's face was
not as a rule expressive of passing emotions, but now for the second
time Mary saw it transfigured. Any girl can feel a sudden tenderness for
a kitten or a pretty baby, but it was not tenderness that had broken
down Miss Percival's smooth reserve. Mary could see that, but before she
could decide what emotion it was that had made this profound disturbance
the nurse had turned to her.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am, I didn't see you!" Mary smiled at her. "How
well baby looks, nurse! He is a credit to you. And how happy he seems
with Miss Percival. She must have had plenty of practice in holding
babies."

Miss Percival started, and while the nurse acknowledged with the air of
one who confers a favour that he did look happy, she came forward and
held the baby out to his grandmother. "He is a beautiful boy," she said,
in what Mary believed was not quite her normal voice.

Mary was glad to take Giles into her arms. He at least stood for the
future, for promise, for hope. There was no more blemish yet on his life
than on his charming little body. She bent over him and kissed the
sweet-smelling shawl that sheltered his ridiculous head. Giles seemed to
share her contentment, for when he had blinked at her once or twice he
went quietly and confidently to sleep.

The three women stood for a little looking down at him while the nurse
talked in a whisper of his strength, his beauty, and his
accomplishments. "I'm certain he knows his mother already," she said,
and Mary answered, "And you too, nurse, I expect he knows you, too!"

The nurse saw fit to confirm this expectation. "There have been times
when I've thought so," she assured them. "I've never seen a more
intelligent baby, and a boy too, girls are generally sharper than boys!"

"Yes," said Miss Percival, "one of life's false beginnings, a tragedy we
don't mind because it's always there."

Mary and the nurse both looked at her, Mary with surprise and the nurse
with disapproval. There was something, to the nurse's mind, very betwixt
and between about a secretary.

Mary, as there was nothing else that she wished to say, asked carelessly
what Miss Percival had meant. The nurse looked down at her cloak. She
would not, in Mary's place, have encouraged any future expression of
what might well turn out a deplorable opinion.

Miss Percival put her hands on the table behind her and leaned back on
them a little before she spoke. "Oh, I don't know," she said then, "but
most young women seem to me such spoiled thwarted things. Girls, if
they've had any sort of chance, are fine creatures. I think they may
seem hard from the outside, but in their hearts they long to be noble
and pure and spiritual, only, poor things, they don't know what nobility
and purity are."

She paused, but Mary, holding Giles a little closer, gave her a smile
that encouraged her to go on. "Well, we don't exactly tell them, do we?"
There was a freedom, a recklessness, about Miss Percival's choice of
words that struck Mary as unusual. "Because after all, they're here in
the world to please men, and most men wouldn't know what to do with a
really noble wife. So we lie to them, and tell them to mind their
manners, and our clear bright eager little girls learn to chatter at
tea-parties. I've watched it again and again. As they grow up something
seems to go out of them. The pressure is too strong I suppose. They
can't stand up against what's wanted of them." She stopped suddenly,
though the pitch of her voice had not suggested an ending.

This time Mary did not look up. Miss Percival's words had taken Mary
back, to the youth of her own daughters. Surely Rosemary had not been
spoiled! To-day Rosemary was Tony's wife--She stared at the baby without
seeing him.

Meanwhile the nurse too was considering the problem of girls. It was one
of the wise arrangements of Providence, the nurse felt, that most girls
did want to be good, else who'd help their mothers look after the house
and mind the younger children? If they turned, later on, into giggling
gawks whose thoughts ran on nothing but the men, Providence had surely
designed that too, or no girl with a good place and her self-respect
would be fool enough to marry. Still, in one way, now that it was put to
her, the muse could see that it was a pity. Life was very different when
you came to it from what you had thought it would be. The nurse could
have married where she pleased herself, for she was a kindly,
good-looking woman and she had saved. But she had not wished to run the
risk--a man might seem steady enough while he was courting, and when you
were married he'd take to drink or waste your money, or run after other
women. There wasn't, if you looked at it squarely, much good to be got
out of men, forever misbehaving themselves or pestering you for
something.

Then her thoughts went back to the great day of her life, the day on
which she had been confirmed. She had come home and knelt down by the
bed she shared with her sister in a passion of gratitude and devotion to
God. And when her mother had called her for tea, she had found that the
boys had drawn a vulgar picture on the back of the beautiful card she
had been given by the lady from the Church. Her mother had given the
boys a clout on the head, but they had called her a sneak and a dirty
mean beast and her day had been spoiled, and after that she had gone
into service.

At this point she remembered suddenly where she was. It was startling to
find that she had been so carried away, and the sense of surprise made
her feel a need for action. She stepped forward and told Mary,
decidedly, that she ought to be taking Baby home. As she went out she
looked curiously again at Miss Percival. Miss Percival was quite
right--women in this world have a poor time of it, especially when you
consider that men will be just as well off as their wives in the next,
but it wasn't for a paid dependant to say so.

Left alone, Mary and the paid dependant did not speak for a little. Then
Miss Percival turned to her employer with a movement of decision. "Mrs.
Heyham," she said, "I've been meaning for some time to tell you that I
think I ought to resign my position."

Mary was very much taken aback, "Oh, why, Miss Percival?"

Miss Percival did not seem to find a ready answer, and when at last she
spoke, it was with an unusual effect of hesitation. "I don't feel as if
I am serving any useful purpose," she brought out.

Mary sat down and asked her companion to take a seat. She did not feel
convinced, from Miss Percival's tone, that this was her real reason, and
she wanted to know what the real reason was. "I can't agree to lose you
in this light fashion," she said, "we must talk it over. As to a
purpose, you are earning your living!"

"Oh, but, Mrs. Heyham, I don't feel that I am," she was told. "I do
nothing."

"You do more than you think--in any case, won't you let me decide how
much you do?"

Miss Percival shook her head. "It's true," she admitted, "that I have to
earn my living, but I've always determined to earn it, if I possibly
could, by doing something useful. I came to you because I thought I
should hear about tea-shops and things from a new point of view, and
because Miss Heyham--Mrs. Hastings--said it was possible you might wish
to carry out some reforms. And now I think I have learned all that I
shall learn."

"And the reforms have come to nothing!" Mary finished for her.

"Well, there are plenty of people who could do the work for the Holiday
Home better than I should. You really need someone who is thoroughly
keen about it." Miss Percival spoke with a tinge of reluctance, as
though she were trying, by her frankness, to urge herself on.

Mary was aware by this time that she would be exceedingly sorry to lose
Miss Percival. She had grown fond of the capable young woman, and she
felt that at this moment she was more than ever in need of unromantic
capacity. Moreover--it had not occurred to her before--there was now no
reason why the question of the waitresses should not be treated on its
merits. It would be as well, she told herself bitterly, if somebody
gained something from the ruin of her happiness.

"As a matter of fact," she said, "I was going to tell you, when you
sprang this mine upon me, that you must prepare yourself for being
worked very hard. I am not going on with the Holiday Home, and I haven't
given up, though I know it looked as if I had, the matter of wages. If
you desert me now, Miss Percival, you will be deserting on the eve of a
serious engagement. I never wanted you more."

But Miss Percival still seemed doubtful. "There is another difficulty,"
she said, "but it's personal. I can't very well explain--" She looked at
Mary anxiously, as if she would like to say something but was afraid of
its reception.

Mary gathered that Miss Percival's mind was troubled. She leaned forward
kindly. "Tell me anything you care to if it's a difficulty," she said;
"we have worked together for more than a year now, and you ought to know
whether it's likely that I can help you!"

Miss Percival laughed, and Mary thought the laugh was strained.
"There'll be no question of your wanting to keep me when you've heard
what I've got to say," she said. Then she looked Mary in the face. "The
fact is, I came here for a definite purpose, and I'm going because I can
see that I have made you very unhappy. I came here to make you unhappy,
really, but not in this way. When your daughter told me what you wanted
me for I thought that here at last was a chance of getting something
done. I meant to open your eyes, to make you understand the connection
between your luxury and the sweating of those underpaid exhausted girls.
Of course, you might have been a fool or a coward, or a painted lady,
but I thought that if you were a decent woman you couldn't see these
girls suffer and fold your hands again and do nothing for them. So I
came, and when I saw you I knew it would be all right, so I stayed. But
now I can see you are ill, and terribly unhappy. I don't feel that I've
done wrong in edging you on. There was a chance that those girls of
yours might gain by it, and of course, so far as that goes, you rich
people deserve to be unhappy, but I can't stay and watch you!" She
jumped up from her chair, and went to the mantelpiece, where Mary could
not see her face. "Of course, I don't pretend that you wouldn't have
found out a good deal for yourself," she went on, as Mary said nothing,
"but I feel that I've stood at your elbow the whole time, underlining it
all and rubbing it in, never letting you miss things, and now I think
that perhaps I was the wrong person, and I've done it the wrong way. I
ought to have helped you more, and tried to think out with you what
ought to be done and how we could best set about it. But I left all that
to you. I haven't helped you at all. I told myself that I didn't want to
bias you, only to show you the truth. But it wasn't that really. I was
angry and I gave way to my feelings. I expect we could have persuaded
Mr. Heyham if I had made you take me into your confidence. But I
couldn't bear that you should manipulate him and be tactful with him. I
hated him, I wanted you to fight him, and hurt him, and get the better
of him. And of course he has won, and the person who has been hurt is
you."

Mary stared at her painfully, but she could only see the back of Miss
Percival's head. "Why do you hate my husband?" she asked.

Miss Percival's reply came slowly. "I don't hate him particularly. I
hate all men when they're powerful and using their power to be cruel to
women. And that's most of them--nearly always, whether they mean to or
not." She turned abruptly. Her face was white, and to Mary, attending to
her closely, it seemed strange. It must have owed its look of firm
intelligence, Mary felt, to some trick of self-control, for now that
this was broken by emotion Miss Percival looked crudely, pitiably young.
"I have tried not to feel like that," she was saying, "I don't want to
hate them. I know--I've told myself over and over again that hate is
ugly, and clumsy, and sterile! I've tried my best to tear myself free of
it, but I haven't ever succeeded. It only comes back again. I hate
them--I hate them from the bottom of my soul."

Mary looked at her almost with respect. There never had been in her own
muddled life, she felt, a passion as compelling as this. It was wrong,
it was deplorable, but it had the dignity of defiance and revolt. She
became conscious of a sympathetic excitement that was dispelling her
weariness, filling her again with the warmth of life. In the face of
Miss Percival's rebellion she could not be afraid any more that she
herself would lack courage to protest.

"You must have some reason," she suggested, "this sort of feeling does
not come of itself!"

Miss Percival shook her head. "I don't know how it came," she said,
"though I could find a hundred reasons--I can see a fresh reason in
every man I meet! When I look at their faces in the street, in a 'bus,
anywhere, their mean stupid faces--men who get their ideals out of the
halfpenny papers, men who think about money on an office stool all day,
and then go home and treat some woman as an inferior--I wonder that any
woman has ever loved a man. They're ugly, they're greedy, they're
coarse-minded!" She shuddered, and crossed her hands across the front of
her throat. "I hate them for everything," she said, "for their cruelty,
for their insolence--look what they've done! They've taken the whole
world and made it theirs; everything we have in it is only ours, now,
because they choose to give it to us. We haven't even a right to our own
children. And if we don't like what they give, if we loathe it, if we're
in anguish, they don't care. They're not interested in us, they don't
want to know what we are in ourselves, or what we think of our lives, it
saves them trouble to call us mysteries. They're our masters, and
they're strangers to us; they're our masters, and if we show that we are
unhappy, they're bored! To one another they're civilised people, but to
us to whom they've denied their civilisation they're savages,--arrogant,
intolerant, vain, angry with anything that disturbs their comfort."

She paused for a moment and let her hands fall to her sides. When she
spoke again, she spoke more slowly. "But what I hate them most for isn't
that--I despise them for what they are. I hate them most for what
they've made of us. We love them and their children, so we are at their
mercy. We have always tried to fulfil their plans for us, to be the kind
of women who would please them. And see what has pleased them--see what
they've praised in us! I don't mean working-women, but women whose
husbands can afford to have the kind of wife they like. Look at most of
us, narrow, uneducated, barbarous, trivial, content to let life go by
while we humour from day to day a man who looks down on women. If we've
an instinct for order and organisation we use it to see that the cook
keeps the kitchen clean, if we love beauty we embroider tea-cosies or
hunt in shops for pretty dresses, if we've more emotion in us than our
man has an appetite for we're allowed to work it off, sensibly and with
moderation, in a religion he doesn't take seriously. If we were like
that in our hearts it wouldn't matter, but we're not; in our hearts we
have pity and love and understanding. But men are more cunning than we
are, and stronger, and they've all the money--and they use the best that
is in us, our religion, our love, to degrade us-- Indeed it's time that
some of us hated men!" She stood trembling for a moment, then she turned
and laid her face against the cool marble of the mantelpiece.

Mary had meant, when the secretary stopped, to say something in protest.
What Miss Percival had said was exciting and courageous, but it wasn't
fair and it wasn't true. It is one's duty to be fair. But the tired
gesture with which so much anger came to an end, the droop of Miss
Percival's defiant head, made Mary forget her protest in compassion.
"Poor child," she said, "poor child!" and crossing the room she put her
arm round the secretary's shoulders.

The young woman did not move for a moment, then she yielded, and Mary
found herself soothing a passion of tears. She was surprised, but after
a minute she was not puzzled. If Miss Percival's emotional nature had
been so stirred by holding Giles it was because, in the past, she had
loved a baby. If she hated men it was because, in the past, some man had
been cruel to her. Probably her lover, the baby's father, had deserted
her. For some reason it did not occur to Mary that Miss Percival had
been more than essentially married.

She was wrong. When presently Miss Percival recovered her self-control
and moved back a little from the shelter of Mary's shoulder, she
explained. "I beg your pardon," she said first. "I have behaved
disgracefully. It was baby, I'm afraid. He seemed such a jolly little
creature on my arm--I have wanted one so, and I never had one. I am
married really, you know, only I don't live with my husband."

Mary did not feel angry with Miss Percival for having deceived her.
Instead she moved forward as if to comfort her again, but the secretary,
who was wiping her eyes, pretended not to see the outstretched hand.

"That was what made me bitter in the beginning, I suppose," she said.
"If men cared for anything but their own pleasure and freedom they would
not let people like my husband marry girls of eighteen." She checked a
final sob and crossed the room to the table where she had left her
gloves and her leather despatch case. Then she came back to Mary. "I
know of a very good secretary who wants a place, Mrs. Heyham," she said.
"She is a most capable woman, with every qualification."

Mary broke in on her. "But, Miss Percival, are you really sure that you
need go? I really meant it when I said that I never had needed you more.
And now that I know your real opinions it makes things so much simpler."

Miss Percival shook her head. "I'm afraid it's no use, Mrs. Heyham.
After what I've said to-day you wouldn't be able to trust me. You see, I
know myself that what I feel isn't just. I'm twisted--I can't be fair--I
take things too hardly. I'm afraid I'm no good really except for finding
out abuses and stirring people up. I hate shifts and compromises. No, I
must go back to investigation. Besides I've never worked for a private
employer before, and I don't like it. I can't go on taking wages from
Mr. Heyham that he wouldn't pay if he knew what I feel about him. Most
people can accommodate themselves to any abuse as soon as they know the
doer in private life. I can't--to me a big employer who sweats his
workers is just that. When one of the girls is ill and gets into trouble
I feel that he is directly responsible. I can't shrug my shoulders and
put it all on to the system. Please, will you let me go now? I'm sorry
I've made such an idiot of myself. Of course, I know I owe you a month's
wages in lieu of notice."

This brought Mary to her feet. "My dear Miss Percival--of course not!"
she said, and then she paused. What the secretary had said was true.
Mary could not feel comfortably sure of her again. One does not want a
secretary who indulges in outbursts of undisciplined hatred, however
sorrowful may be the past that has given rise to them. Besides, what
Miss Percival had said of James applied also, in some measure, to Mary.
Even if she had handed over her judgment to James she was still
responsible. "I'm afraid you're right," she said at last, "I suppose I
must let you go. I'm exceedingly sorry to lose you--I shall miss you
very much. You'll tell me, won't you, how you are getting on, and if I
want to engage a fresh secretary, I'll write for your friend's address."
She held out her hand.

Miss Percival shook it. "I'm sorry to go," she said. "You have been very
kind to me," then she turned away and went quickly out of the room.

Mary drew her chair nearer to the fire. She felt cold again now, and
confused and disappointed. She had hoped to find strength and support
from Miss Percival, and now Miss Percival was gone. She was gone, and
she had left Mary nothing but another picture of suffering and evil.
Mary did not know what Miss Percival's story had been, but to change her
as it had clearly changed her, it must, Mary felt, have been abominable.
There was something wrong about this question of men and women,
something twisted and wrong underneath the comforting appearance of
everyday social life. She had always known that there are wicked men and
terribly wicked women, but she had always thought of them as outside,
exceptional, far away. Now, everywhere she looked, she saw ugliness and
suffering and sin. She did not know why it was so, she was ignorant, and
she felt suddenly that she did not want, she could not bear, to know the
truth. It was morbid, horrible, far removed from the decency, the
kindliness, the order, of an honourable life. Why should she fill her
mind with thoughts like these, with suspicions, with guesses at vice and
ugliness?--it was only now, it seemed to her, that she realised how
odious, how degrading such thoughts were. She would never be able to get
back, she felt, to her normal dignity and sanity. Suddenly, though she
had not been thinking of him, she was swept by a wave of anger against
James. It was James, while he pretended to love her, who had dragged her
into all this!

At this moment her maid came into the room. "It's the master on the
telephone, ma'am," she said, "and he wants to know how you are. He rang
up this morning, ma'am, but I thought you were asleep."

Mary waited for a little before she answered. James was parading this
affection, she supposed, either to impress the servants, or because,
after all these years of deceit, he had grown into a mechanical habit of
gallantry. She told Penn to thank Mr. Heyham for his message and to say
that she was up and feeling better.

The door shut behind the woman and Mary was alone with her injury. That
very evening, she reminded herself, she would have to meet James. If he
was bent on maintaining a show of smooth appearances he would certainly
come to her even if she stopped in her room. But she had not decided
what she would say when she saw him or how she would behave. She had
changed--she knew that--and with this change they would both have to
reckon. The sum of her pain and grief was not merely an anger or a
disappointment, something had grown hard in her, she thought, which
before had been facile. But how, she wondered, was she to put her
feeling into words that would make it clear to James? To make James hear
she would have to say something in set terms, something definite,
something that she could repeat in the same words when he had finished
talking--she would have to stand up, she could see, to flood after flood
of talk. And she had nothing prepared and definite, nothing but her
sense of outrage, of detachment and loss. She could not face James and
say to him, "I see you with different eyes. My compliance towards you,
my happy acceptance of you, have gone!" That would mean nothing to a man
like James. And yet if she did not speak, if she let him even for one
evening impose his own attitude and take hers for granted, he would run
away with his advantage and refuse her, ever afterwards, a chance of
meeting him fairly. Now, he did not know what he had to expect from
her--to a certain extent he was open to what she might say--but once he
had made his assumptions no words of hers would ever penetrate them, and
something must penetrate. They could not live any more as they had
lived. She had given herself up to the old James, hidden herself in him
from her own conscience and from the world; now they were separate.

The clock struck, and its four strokes reminded her that Julius Trent,
her vagabond brother, was coming to see her. He had been in town for the
wedding, and had said that he would look her up early that afternoon. A
talk with Julius meant probably a talk about money, but Mary felt to-day
that to be in the presence of his affection was worth more than a little
money. She had always believed that Julius was fond of her, although he
was so very unlucky. Julius's work in life was to show other people how
they might manage their business more efficiently than they did, and as
far as his profession went, he told Mary, he didn't do so badly--it
wasn't that. Unfortunately his instinct, so just and true where the
affairs of others were concerned, could not be trusted to an equal
extent in his own. Whenever Julius backed a horse the horse
lost--pulled, Julius said--and whenever he promoted a company it went
bankrupt before his genius for efficiency had had a fair chance of
coming into play. In these circumstances he came to see Mary two or
three times a year, generally with some scheme in his pocket for
reorganising the Imperial which he offered her free, gratis, and for
nothing from her affectionate brother. In her heart Mary was deeply
attached to Julius.

He did not come, this afternoon, as early as she expected him, and when
he did come he seemed subdued and did not produce any scheme. "How are
you, my dear?" he said. "You're not looking up to much." And then,
having settled himself in a comfortable chair, he stared thoughtfully
into the fire.

"How is Milly?" Mary asked him. Milly was the lady to whom, Julius said,
he was engaged to be married. She acted in provincial companies and
while they were trying to save enough money to marry decently Julius in
the intervals of business followed her about the country. Mary had
offered once to call upon her when she was near London but Milly, it
appeared, was proud. She wasn't going to be called upon until she could
receive Mrs. Heyham in a house of her own--being a lady, really, the
conditions of provincial touring galled her.

Julius nodded. "Ah, yes, poor old Milly!" He looked, Mary thought, a
little nervous.

"I hope there's nothing the matter with Milly?" Mary asked. "I thought
she was getting on so well!"

Julius coughed and fidgeted in his chair. "Fact is," he said, "I've
something to ask you! Now, don't you start thinking it's money this
time, it isn't! No, poor old Milly and me are going to do it at last.
She's come into a little money and we're going to be married next
month!" He looked anxiously at his sister.

Mary hastened to congratulate him. "My dear Julius, what delightful
news! I am so pleased! What is it you want to ask me? Do you want to
marry her from here, perhaps? You know I'll be only too glad to do
anything I can!" It would not matter a bit now the girls were both
married, and James had decided long ago that any marriage would be
better for Julius than this trailing about. They both believed that
responsibility sobers a man.

He shook his head. "Thanks, old girl!" he said. "It isn't that. It's
rather difficult to explain. You see--well--now she's going to get
married Milly wants to make a break with it all. She doesn't want
everyone to know that she's been on the stage and we've been engaged all
these years. She says it makes it look as if we weren't getting on, and
it makes her feel old, do you see? So the idea is that we've only been
engaged since the spring, and her name isn't Milly, it's Esther. She's
dropping her old name; you see, it was sort of half a stage name. Well,
what I wanted to know was, could you play up to that? You can't think
how it would please her! She's rather a sensitive little woman you see,
and she can't bear being crossed. Just to call her Esther and to talk as
if we'd only met this spring--she'll tell you all about her father and
all that-- Of course I know it sounds ridiculous, but actresses you
know, well they have their whims and there you are!" His anxiety, by
this time, was unconcealed.

Mary laughed. "Why shouldn't I if it will make her happy? Of course I
will!" She felt herself very tolerant, very sympathetic towards people
who were hoping to be happy. Poor old Julius! If after all these years
he still wanted his Milly why shouldn't she help to make things easy for
him?

Julius breathed deeply, leaned back, and crossed his legs. "You always
were a bit of a brick, Mary!" he told her. "You can't think what a load
that's taken off my mind! Not that you're likely to meet Esther for a
bit; we're going to be married in Liverpool, and then we're off south
for the honeymoon. But I just thought I'd put it to you at once!" His
look was now as cheerful as his smile. It had been as a matter of fact
an awkward moment. Since he had first told his sister of his romantic
engagement to Milly Milns that lady's name had come in useful for
several young women who had replaced her in his affections although he
had never been engaged to them. Running up north or down west to see
Milly had been a delightful reason for not being always where one was
expected to be. Now that he was engaged again, this time in a
business-like fashion, to Miss Esther Moss, he would have dropped the
legend of Milly, if he had not, only six weeks before when there had
seemed no chance of the excellent Esther's yielding to him, accepted a
cheque from Mary to give poor little Milly a rest by the sea after a
serious illness. It was only fair to Mary, he thought, that she should
believe she was getting something for her money. Otherwise she might
feel that the rest by the sea had been wasted. That would be a pity, for
though Esther besides her charms had a satisfying income he had found
her, so far, the sort of woman who manages her own affairs. For that
matter he wasn't a man who would care to depend altogether on his wife.

"How is James getting on with the reconstruction of the business?" he
asked now. "He seems pretty cheery about it. I offered him my help--for
nothing, too--but he said he had got it all practically arranged!"

"The reconstruction?" Mary asked, puzzled by his change of subject.
Julius stared at her. "The reconstruction of the business--turning it
into a public company. You can't mean to say that he hasn't told you
yet."

Mary interrupted him. She didn't want Julius to think that James kept
her in the dark. "Oh, yes, of course he told me--I'm rather stupid about
these things--what does a reconstruction of that sort exactly mean,
Julius? What is it? What effect does it have?"

Julius grinned. "Well, it's a way of making money, that's what it is.
Suppose I have a business that's making twenty thousand a year and is
worth £250,000 and I want to make a little money out of it! Well, I
have articles written about it to say how good it is and puff it up a
bit, and I explain that if only I had £100,000 or so to extend it a
little it would soon be making forty thousand a year and it would be
worth £500,000. And with luck I get a lot of people to buy it from me
at that valuation, and give me a salary as well as managing director and
off I go and put the money into gilt-edged securities. And there I am
you see, very comfortable, nothing to do but keep the shareholders quiet
for a year or two until something turns up trumps. Not that James is the
sort of man to take them in," he added, determined to do the handsome
thing even though James had refused to make him a director of the new
company.

Mary thought this over for a moment. "You sell it for more than it's
worth," she said.

Her brother demurred. "For what I can get--perfectly square and
above-board--legitimate business. Of course it depends a lot on how the
shares are placed on the market. That's what I said to James when I saw
him the other day--" His face clouded a little at the memory of his
interview with James.

Mary hesitated, and then decided to get what information she could.
"What happens to the staff?" she asked, "to the employees, the people
like our waitresses?"

Julius shrugged his shoulders. "Out of the frying-pan into the fire,
poor devils. Must get dividends somehow. Depends a bit on whether the
shareholders are patient or not. Interests of the shareholders come
first, of course." He sighed. Nobody could hold sounder views than he.
James had been unreasonable about the directorship considering where the
money came from. There ought to have been one of the Trents on the
Board.

Mary considered this slowly. "If the capital is larger and the profits
are the same the dividends will be smaller," she said. "I see. So there
is a temptation to get it back out of the wages."

"You may call it a temptation if you like. There's nothing else to get
it out of, in a properly run business," her brother agreed. "Mind you,
those girls only spend their money on finery. If they were to save it
now for when they get married it would be another matter. Well, well,
it's a hard world!"

Mary turned the subject to Julius's plans for his wedding and for his
subsequent life with Esther.




CHAPTER XV


WHEN her brother had gone Mary sat for some time trying to adjust her
ideas to the new situation. She had not, until now, taken James's plans
very seriously. James had so many plans. But if Julius was right these
particular plans were plans no longer, they were arrangements.

She did not trust Julius, when it occurred to her to call his word in
question, but his phrase "the interests of the shareholders" struck her
as familiar and significant. There was very little in the way of long
hours and low wages and bad conditions that the interests of the
shareholders would not cover. She could see too that a managing director
whose pockets were well lined with the shareholders' money might feel
himself under an almost quixotic obligation to restore the prosperity
which he had endangered. "The interests of the shareholders"--how
smoothly, how easily, it would come from James's lips, and how conscious
he would be, as he said it, of his virtue and honesty!

If she was right and if Julius was right he must not be given a chance
of saying it. She would have to find courage and strength enough to stop
him. But first, before she spoke to him about it, she must collect some
reliable information. She could not go to James and defy his wishes on
the strength of some casual remarks made by Julius. She would go to the
London Library, when her head was not aching so badly, and find out
there if there was anything written upon the subject. She could not
remember anything to the point in the books that she had read. It was a
pity that Miss Percival had gone; even Rosemary and Anthony might have
helped her.

She was leaning back in her chair, tired and in pain, when she was again
interrupted by her maid, half hidden this time by an elaborate basket of
flowers. A young man from the office had brought them, she said, and a
message from the master that he was sorry he would be kept late.

Mary could see that the young man had chosen the basket himself, guided
probably by the florist's assistant. It was wreathed with pink satin
ribbon elegantly fringed, and over the edge of it fell trails of smilax
enriched with gardenias. Mary told Penn to put it down on a table in the
corner. How tactless James was, she thought, to treat her like this!
What good did he think he would do, except to his messenger? She could
imagine the pride of the young man from the office as he chose the
flowers with the strongest scent. Perhaps some day, when his salary was
raised, he would go to a suburban shop and buy a basket of flowers as
like it as he could for a little girl at the Hammersmith Alhambra. She
called her maid back from the door--she would go to bed now, and think
about dinner in bed.

James, meanwhile, was getting through his work as fast as he could in
order to see Mary before she went to sleep. He felt extraordinarily
sorry for Mary. He couldn't bear to think of the bad time the poor
little thing must be having. The night before, and that morning, he had
been angry with himself and therefore a little inclined to be annoyed
with her. He had been a fool to tell her the truth, and she had behaved
in a melodramatic and hysterical manner. But his anger with himself,
under the pressure of business, diminished to an occasional uneasy pang,
and his kind heart filled instead with solicitude for Mary. Women are
hysterical creatures--one must take it and leave it at that. The thing
had been a nasty shock for Mary, a very nasty shock indeed. He must be
patient with her poor little attempts at scolding and make things up to
her in every way he could. She had convinced herself, probably, that he
didn't love her. Well, he had got to show her that he did. Women, he
told himself, respond to affectionate violence. His policy then was to
overwhelm her with love. He had neither the time nor the inclination to
search his heart in any thorough manner, but he accepted easily enough
the standpoint that he had been to blame. Of course he had been to
blame. There could be no doubt about it, but that was no reason for
worrying himself. A little patience, a little tact, and it would all
come right. It was not for him to take things too seriously--poor little
Mary, bless her, would do that for both of them.

He could say this the more cheerfully because to his honest belief he
had not been to blame in the least. He had felt himself at the time to
be behaving in a perfectly natural manner. He and Greta had been good
friends once, he couldn't have snubbed her and wounded her pride. He was
a kind man, he could not keep all his kindness for Mary. Afterwards he
had known no protest of conscience that had not been settled by the
necklace which was now Mary's favourite. Men are men, and Mary, if she
only knew it, was a damned lucky woman. He had obeyed the promptings of
his good nature in being decent to poor old Greta, nobody had been hurt
by it, certainly not Mary--in fact for some time afterwards he had felt
particularly fond of her. Her horror when she had heard of it, he saw
now, was of a piece with her reluctant, fastidious approach to the
sensual side of life and of human nature. As far as life and human
nature went he regarded her views as altogether unsound, but he approved
of them as the views of his wife and indeed of the wives and daughters
of all decent men. It was this ignorance on the part of women that made
decent men feel tender and chivalrous--he had always tried to be
chivalrous towards Mary. Now, unhappy little creature, she was
suffering, actually ill, because of his blundering tongue. She was
paying now for her years of comfortable blindness. Well, that was wrong.
There was a great deal of sin and misery in this world, but Mary was one
of the women who, by common agreement, are relieved from suffering their
share.

He was unable to imagine now why he had hesitated to lie to Mary. It had
been a shocking lack of self-control. His real remorse for having made
Mary suffer he mistook for an admission that he had been to blame in the
beginning.

In his lunch hour, and when he paused for a belated tea, he wondered
what he could do to comfort her. He particularly wanted her comforted
because in a day or two he would have to ask for her consent to the
reconstruction of the Imperial. It was an appalling nuisance that the
two matters ran together like this. He decided finally, supposing she
were in bed, to have dinner before he saw her, for he was aware as a
general principle that one is never at one's tenderest and most
persuasive between one's dinner and a hard day's work.

When he was cleaned and comfortable, fed and soothed, he went lightly up
the stairs to Mary's room. At the door he paused for a moment. "Poor
little thing!" he thought. "Now, you brute, be kind to her!"

Mary had heard his footstep, and had quickly turned out the light. He
could not see, as he leaned over the bed, the anxiety on her face.

He felt for her hand. "Little mother," he said when he held it, "have
you forgiven me?"

The sound of his voice, though she was waiting for it, made Mary start.
When he had spoken she lay still for a moment confused and surprised.
Why did he speak like this, what was going on in his mind? She could not
tell in the least, she felt, what feelings were prompting him. She
wished he would let go of her hand, the insistence of his touch was
unpleasant. "I don't know, James," she said at last, "I have tried to!"

He sat down on the bed beside her and with his other hand stroked her
cheek. "If you were to try a little harder," he asked, "couldn't you
forgive me? Even although I don't deserve it?"

Mary moved her aching head further from his hand. She could not think,
she felt, with these cigar-scented fingers against her face. "Yes,--I
can forgive you, at least I think so," she told him, her whole mind bent
on an effort to be honest, "but even if I forgive you, it will still be
different."

James bent nearer her. "What will be different, little wife of mine? My
love for you has never been different!" Then, as she did not answer, he
slipped one arm under her shoulders and lifted her until her head lay
against his neck. "Do you remember the last time you were ill?" he asked
her, "how you said that I could take the pain away? The things that
matter will never be different, Mary,--this isn't different!" and he
kissed her softly.

For a moment Mary lay still. After the jar of pain which his movement
had caused, it seemed so simple, so natural, to lie in the circle of
James's familiar arm, to feel his kisses on her tired face, that for a
moment she accepted it; then as his clasp grew tighter she realised what
she was doing. She was accepting the warmth and comfort of his caresses
exactly as he himself had accepted the kisses of the other woman. James
felt her body stiffen. "Please don't kiss me," she said, "I had rather
you didn't."

Her words shocked him, and he put her down. From her cold tired voice he
realised that something was different. He got up from the bed and
without thinking, mechanically, since the darkness oppressed him, he
switched on the lamp of the bed.

Mary gave a little cry and covered her face with her hands, but not
before James had seen it, white and ravaged, surrounded untidily by her
ageing hair. A deep discouragement came over him. He felt as if the tie
which had held her to him had slipped from his hand. The figure which
lay quivering in the bright circle thrown by the lamp was unfamiliar and
repellent, he could not imagine it as the body of his friend and his
lover. "I beg your pardon," he said, "is the light too much for you?
Shall I turn it down again?"

Mary moved her hands; he could see her dark eyes between them, and their
puckered lids. "Yes, if you don't mind," she said, "my eyes are aching!"

James pressed the switch again and she was hidden. He stood still for a
minute, his discouragement turning already into a practical perplexity.
"You mean, I suppose," he said at last, "that you don't love me any
more?"

Mary tried to answer truthfully. "I don't know," she said, "I expect I
shall love you again when I've got more used to it, but I don't know if
I shall ever love you like that!"

"My love doesn't matter then?" he pressed. "After all these years you've
grown indifferent to it?"

Mary did not answer. She did not wish to say anything hard or bitter,
but as the memory of his love rose before her she could see it only as a
long tyranny, a hypocrisy, an exaction. James's discomfort deepened.
"You women are not very merciful," he said.

Mary's thoughts were blotted out by a sudden rush of misery and
impatience. If only James would go away--what use could there possibly
be in talking like this! It was with an effort that she forced herself
to answer him. "I'm sorry, James," she told him, "but I can't help it."

He fidgeted for a little with the edge of her quilt, but no fresh way of
approach presented itself. Before Mary's obstinacy his mind seemed
heavy. She was not in a state, he told himself, when she could be
reasoned with. "Perhaps you'd rather I went?" he asked her, his
uneasiness showing even in his voice.

Mary was not in a state, either, to notice the tones and inflections of
people's voices. She assented at once. "Yes, please, James, I would--I
really am sorry."

"Good-night then." He spoke quickly and turned away without waiting to
hear whether she answered. Outside the door his doubt rose coldly before
him. "I'm damned if I know what to do!" he said, and went downstairs.

Inside, Mary lay sobbing with her face in the pillow. Now that she had
sent him away she was sorry for James. For a moment she saw him, not as
her erring husband, but as a man who had asked for forgiveness and been
refused. Then her sorrow turned to resentment again. If she had been
cruel it was he who had made her cruel, it was he who had robbed her of
her love for him!

As the night passed her tired mind became incapable of coherent thought.
The image of James faded to a dim figure, menacing and oppressive, that
would not let her rest or sleep. She had never longed for anything, she
felt, as she longed for sleep. It seemed the last effort of James's
tyranny that he should deny it her.

She slept towards daybreak, and was awakened next morning by Penn
bringing her hot water and her letters. There was still no news from
Rosemary, but on her breakfast tray, when it came, she found a note from
James.

"I will not worry you to-day by trying to see you," it said, "if you had
rather not. But if you are well enough I should be glad if you would fix
a time for seeing me to-morrow, as there is a most important business
matter I want to discuss with you. I hope you have had a good night, and
are feeling better."

It was signed with his initials.

Mary stared dully at the familiar writing. So far as she could see it
was meant as a threat. She could think of no other motive, for it seemed
to her evident that James could, if he liked, have delayed the
interview. The letter, on its face, could not show her the nervous
impatience which had made the poor man take any positive step rather
than admit, by doing nothing, that he was baffled.

If Mary had been another business man James would have cursed her and
put her out of his mind until the moment had come for decisive action.
But she was not a business man, she was his wife; his whole moral
universe was sensitive to her behaviour.

He could not believe in the depth and reality of Mary's feelings. He saw
her merely determined to get her own way, and moved by a woman's natural
love of scenes. To him the effort she had made, when she gave up her
scheme for increasing the waitresses' wages, had seemed perfectly
natural. He had imagined that his arguments had shown her how foolish
she had been. He had no time himself for brooding over emotions, and he
felt no sympathy for people who did. Now, laboriously, he thought out a
test for Mary. If she sulked because of what he had done, it was
tiresome, but she was within her rights. If she allowed such a thing to
affect their business relations she would be palpably, outrageously in
the wrong. He was not aware, unfortunate smarting man, how greatly he
longed to put her in the wrong. The idea of a business interview, which
she could hardly refuse to grant, revealed itself to him merely as a
means for making her treat him in a normal manner. He would be very kind
and patient, and after a little she would forget that they weren't on
their usual terms. He would give her, to begin as well as end with
kindness, a whole day to recover herself and to get rid of her headache.
For a whole day he would allow this wretched state of things to go on.
For a whole day the head of the house would remain downstairs in
disgrace, deprived of the pleasant greeting and intercourse that were
his by right. If he had ever known anything of Mary that could hardly
fail to impress her, and the scheme, as he would unfold it to her, could
hardly fail either to touch her imagination. She would be pleased by his
proposal to give all the girls a day's wages to celebrate it. He need
not worry, everything would come right, but he could not shake off an
annoying uneasiness.

Mary, meanwhile, was unaware of his chagrin and his penance. In
twenty-four hours, then, he was going to force on her another
discussion--in twenty-four hours the fight would begin again. The
talking, the appeals to her feelings--she seemed to remember nothing of
her life with James but endless hours of talking. And this time the
talking would be of vital importance. Somehow, before it began, she must
ensure that she should not give way. Somehow she must arm herself. And
she did not even know where to look for her information. Miss Percival
was gone, even Rosemary and Anthony were gone. It was impossible that
she should make up her mind in a day, and a day that might well be
interrupted, if James's spirits rose, by baskets of flowers.

It became very plain to her that the present state of affairs was
unendurable. She must do something. She could not remain like this,
lurking in her rooms, quivering with the dread of hearing James's hand
on the door. She must have, for one thing, more time--time to recover
herself, time to decide her duty towards the girls. She must have quiet
too, in which she could think. For the last few months she had thrown
herself, deliberately, on her feelings. Well, this was what her feelings
had done for her. Now she must think, not with the happy excitement of
the autumn, but slowly, painfully, confusedly, she must think herself
out of this tangle of suffering. She must shut out the feelings that
clamoured at her mind, anger, disgust, probably, if she knew it,
jealousy; she must detach herself, she must consider herself as if she
were another woman. It would not be easy to do. She had cherished her
feelings, loved them, indulged them, until they were not easy to deny,
but no other way would be fair either to herself or to James.

To succeed she must relieve herself from the burden of fear that lay on
her as long as she was in James's house. While he might come upon her at
any moment her feelings were her master. She could not but shrink from
him, she could not see the lilies and the pink ribbon of his basket
without disgust. She must go away. It was not a new idea. It had been in
her mind the day before, and that morning when she awoke. Then she had
put it aside as too strange to be worthy of scrutiny. Now, after the
added pressure of James's letter, it did not seem strange, but familiar
and feasible. "I could do it," she told herself. Then for a moment her
thoughts seemed to stop, to shrink in fear. When the fear passed she
knew that she had decided. She would go.

Now that her decision was made its grounds came very clearly before her
mind. There was no other way of escape from the ugliness of foolish,
wordy quarrels between her and James. She could not think and make an
important choice under such influences. The harshness and resentment of
dispute would warp her judgment and twist her estimates.

A knock at the door made her start violently for fear lest it might be
James who had changed his mind. The door opened on a maid who had come
for her breakfast tray, but the start, with its accompanying pang of
fear and dismay, was the best of reasons, Mary felt, for carrying out
her decision. And yet even now she knew that it was not her only reason.
She did not go as some women might have gone, desperately and in
despair. She had suffered, and been afraid, but she did not go broken or
maimed. She had chosen to go, she went of her deliberate will; below the
sharp sorrow of her wounded love new life was stirring. She rang for
Penn to dress her, and while she lay waiting this faint excitement grew.
Never for a moment, she thought, had she been free. Now she was to know
freedom.

While she was being dressed she put everything from her mind but the
details of her plan. Practically there was no great difficulty. Rosemary
was gone. Laura did not need her. The issue lay simply between her and
James. As for what she should do, she must stay in London to be near the
information she needed. She would not be longer than she could help in a
hotel where people come and go, she would find a tiny furnished house or
a little flat. She would live very simply; it would not be right, she
felt, to pamper herself while she was doing such an unusual thing.

When Penn's ministrations were over she left the house on foot and
walked to Oxford Street, where she took a passing taxi. She had decided
to go to a house agent from whom she had once or twice taken houses for
shooting and summer holidays. She would not need to give him another
reference, and James was not likely to make a search for her that would
involve asking questions of house agents. At the thought of a search she
felt a little quiver of fear, then she forced herself to think again of
the matter in hand. Until she was safe in her flat she must consider
nothing else but getting there.

At the house agent's she told the young man behind the counter that she
wanted to take, as soon as possible, a small furnished flat in Chelsea.
It was all very simple. Chelsea, in February, seemed lavish of furnished
flats, all small, all delightfully situated, all ready for her immediate
occupation. Even when she had rejected the handsomely furnished and the
cosy she left the office with a substantial bundle of permits.

The first flat that she visited had often been let for short periods,
and it seemed a little weary of the life. The second had shelves for
photographs and vases hanging down the back of its cottage piano. The
third looked on to a garage, the fourth was both expensive and unusual,
but she decided that it would do. There was very little furniture in it,
for one thing. For another, it reminded her of Rosemary.

The lady who showed it to Mary was younger and more friendly than such
ladies are wont to be. She was Mrs. Jenkins, the porter's wife, and she
had a sister who for twelve shillings a week would come in every day and
do for Mrs. Heyham with pleasure. The sister herself would willingly
have taken less, but Jenkins had his ideas on the subject. He had his
ideas, it seemed, on several subjects, for his wife went on to explain
that she hoped that Mrs. Heyham would not want a hot meal in the middle
of the day, as the hour before half-past one engaged all the skill of
both ladies in the preparation of dinner for the porter.

Mary thanked Mrs. Jenkins and returned to the agent's office. She had
chosen a flat, it appeared, whose owner was in London. The agent would
telephone through at once, and find out if she would accept Mrs.
Heyham's offer. If she did accept, as the agent thought she would--Mary
had made no difficulties about the price, and had offered to pay the
first quarter in advance--and if, further, Mrs. Heyham was willing to
let the firm make the inventory for both parties, there was no reason
why she should not go in, if she wished it, that very afternoon.

Mary was willing to let the firm do anything that would spare her a
night at a hotel. She had never been alone at a hotel, and she was
afraid of meeting people she knew, of being stared at when she went to
engage her room. With house agents, and their inventories and documents,
on the other hand, she was familiar.

The agents produced the form of agreement in use on the estate, and Mary
signed it. She would come back, she told the man, at half-past three.
That, she thought, would allow her an ample margin of time before James
came home, and it would not be too late for a respectable woman to
arrive at a hotel if the lady to whom the flat belonged should resent
being hurried. Meanwhile she could pack and then write her letter to
James.

Her packing did not take long. She decided to take very little with her,
as she did not want Penn to think that she was going away for more than
a few days.

The letter, when she sat down before her desk, was as difficult to write
as she had expected. Mary could write charming notes, and her
correspondence had been much valued by her aunts in her younger days for
the clever amusing way in which she told funny stories about the
children. But she had not the habit of expressing her conclusions in
written words or of stating an argument. She would have liked this
letter to James to be a close expression of herself. She would have
liked it to soften the shock it must inflict by a manner of wording that
should recall her to him at her most normal, her kindest, her most
familiar. "It mustn't seem excited," she told herself, "I must write as
if I were doing the usual sensible thing,"--but she knew that she was
asking too much of her own skill.

"My dear James," she left it at last, "I am sending this to the office
so that you need not let the servants know what has happened. When you
get home you will find that I have gone away. The reason that I am going
is that I want to think things over and decide what I ought to do before
I see you again. I want to decide freely, for myself, and when you are
with me I cannot think. You said I was cruel--I don't want to be cruel,
but when we are talking together I can think of nothing but not giving
way to you against my will. It is very difficult for me to resist you
when you are there. I have decided to go to-day because you ask me to
let you see me to-morrow. I suppose what you want to see me about is
turning the business into a public company. I am very sorry, James, but
I cannot consent until I know a little more about it. I don't believe it
will be for the good of the employees. I want to find that out before I
talk it over with you. And I think too, that I was wrong when I told you
that I would give way to you on the question of wages. I thought then
that it was my duty to give way because you were my husband. Now I feel
that perhaps I ought to have thought first of my duty to the girls. I
want to decide that too before I see you again. And besides that I do
not think, after what you told me the other day, that I could go back to
our ordinary life together just yet. You would want me to, and we should
quarrel about it and grow bitter towards one another. It would be so
terrible if that happened. But if only I can have time to think it over,
I feel that perhaps I shall be able to see a way out. It will all come
to seem more ordinary and I shall not mind so much of course. You will
feel that I ought to have asked you first whether I might go. I
couldn't, James. I felt that I could not bear another argument so soon.
And I should not have changed my mind. I will send my address to the
bank so that they can forward letters. I shall have gone from Victoria
before this reaches you."

A regard for the dignity of the occasion made her sign it with her whole
name.

It was the sort of letter, she told herself as she sealed its envelope,
that a school-girl might have written. In her own mind she had discussed
the matter until reason lay piled upon reason and explanation upon
explanation. But her words, laboriously chosen, seemed, when she had
read them through, to have lost their meaning. It was impossible to
guess how much of her thought they would make clear to James.

It was three o'clock now, and Penn came to tell her that the car was
waiting. She looked hastily round the room, and her eye fell upon the
unhappy basket which had seemed so desirable to James's clerk. As she
went down the stairs she wondered why its ridiculous pink ribbons had
made her angry. She would have done better if she had laughed at it.
Well, she was going now! There would be no basket in her room to-night.

She told the man to drive to Victoria and there she put her luggage in
the cloak-room. Then she took a taxi to the house agent's office. The
house agent received her with smiles. All was well. The owner would sign
the agreement, and the agent's men at that very moment were making the
inventory. Mrs. Heyham could have the keys, he should say, in under an
hour. With such a modern style of furnishing the inventory was not a
lengthy matter.

Mary had to think carefully before she decided what she should do next.
She must take her luggage away from Victoria, she decided, before she
sent James's letter. He was certain to ring up the chauffeur and ask
where she had gone. And she might just as well, with an hour before her,
get something to eat. She had had no time for lunch.

She fetched the luggage in yet another taxi, and then entrusted the
letter to a district messenger. He seemed young and irresponsible for so
grave a task--she found it difficult not to tell him that he must be
particularly careful. After that she drove to a rival tea-shop and
ordered poached eggs on toast, with the taxi ticking extravagantly
outside. When the eggs came their whites had a curious crumbling
consistency, and she wished that she had ordered something else. But she
ate them, for she did not like to hurt the attendant's feelings. James
was proud of the eggs that appeared upon the Imperial's tables.

Mary was sorry that the rules of this company did not allow its damsels
to receive tips. She would have liked, if only by a lavish scattering of
such things as tips, to ensure some good results for her enterprise.

The agent's clerk, obliging man, had the keys ready for her, and with
them an assurance of his best attention at all times, and particularly
if Mrs. Heyham should happen to be thinking of a house in Scotland again
this summer.

Mary thanked him and told him she would certainly not overlook his
unrivalled selection. He smiled at that, for he had been wondering what
had induced such a wealthy lady to descend to a flat in Chelsea. He
supposed that she must have lent her town house to a friend for a month
or two, and then found that she wanted a place where she could sleep
when she came up for shopping. He thought out the matter with unusual
care because if there was anything wrong his clients would blame him, he
felt, for his incautious hurry. He was so far justified, at any rate,
that the bank had honoured Mary's cheque.

When Mary and her cab reached Cheyne Mansions there was at first a
slight difficulty over the luggage. The taxi driver was tired of being
kept waiting outside shops and offices while Mary transacted business,
and he did not offer to carry her things upstairs. Jenkins, his wife
said timidly, was out. Finally, since he was out, though it infringed
all regulations, she allowed the luggage to go up in the lift. They were
not really, she explained, more than what you could easily call hand
luggage. Mary's desire to be lavish was again checked. It was too bad of
the taxi driver to sulk on his seat instead of offering to help with the
things. He was, besides, a man with a face that did not invite
generosity. She gave him an extra shilling.

Mrs. Jenkins's sister Guinivere was waiting for Mary in the flat. She
was a smiling child of sixteen, and Mary was glad to see her fresh
little face. They unpacked together in a friendly fashion, and then
Guinivere--they called her Winny at home, she said, her name being
Winifred, but Mr. Jenkins thought Guinivere more suitable for
service--asked Mary what she would fancy for dinner. Mary would fancy
anything that Guinivere could cook nicely, and the young lady departed
in high spirits at the prospect of choosing a magnificent chicken. She
had long desired to try her hand at a chicken--when such dainties graced
the board of Jenkins she was never allowed to touch more than the
vegetables, and the bread sauce.

When the door had closed behind Guinivere, Mary went into the
sitting-room which had reminded her of Rosemary. This was the moment
when, according to her arrangements, she should have sat down on the
odd-looking sofa and begun to think. That was what she was here for, to
think in quiet. She could not have asked for more in the way of quiet,
no one seemed to be stirring in the flats, even the street beneath her
windows was empty of noise.

Nevertheless she did not want to think. The calm judicial mood she had
meant to evoke escaped her. Instead she felt restless, she wanted to
explore her flat and see what there was behind all its doors and in all
its cupboards. She wanted to examine the orange-red furniture in the
sitting-room, and to decide whether she liked the extraordinary patterns
that were painted in gold and silver on its hangings. She could consider
nothing else, she felt, until she had considered the room. Something
about it was certainly Japanese and yet it wasn't Japanese in the least.
She wanted to open all the flat's windows too, and put her head out and
look up and down the street. It was in vain that she rebuked herself.
This was not like the other furnished houses, it was her adventure, her
defence, her stronghold, where nothing mattered but her own will. It was
her will now to be foolish and frivolous, to enjoy, as far as she could,
the little sensations that were offered her. She could not, though she
wished it, feel adequately solemn.

When Guinivere returned with the chicken, Mary was still wandering
through the rooms, looking at their astonishing decorations. It was
pleasant to help Guinivere lay the table under the pretext of learning
where all the things were kept, it was pleasant to hang anxiously with
her over the gas cooker, wondering when the moment had come for the
chicken's release. It was pleasant to agree that the little bit of burn
could not possibly affect the flavour.

After dinner there were the things to put away, just to see that she
remembered their places, and the books on the dining-room bookshelves to
look through--it was not until nine o'clock that she remembered her
letter to the bank. That changed the current of her thoughts. She
realised that although she was restless she was also very tired. She
realised, too, that James had read her letter, that he was probably at
that moment struggling with the emotions her letter had caused. A new
fear occurred to her. He was probably very angry--she could not tell in
the least how angry he might be. His anger seemed suddenly real to her.
Even in the security of her silver walls it made her tremble. Even here
he could hurt her. Supposing, to punish her, he intercepted her news of
Rosemary. She did not know where to write to Rosemary. Before this fresh
anxiety, slight though it was, the last of her excitement disappeared.
She went into her bedroom, worried and dispirited, looking forward to a
wakeful night. She was astonished when she woke next morning to remember
that she had not even heard the funny clock strike ten.




CHAPTER XVI


JAMES received Mary's letter, by a happy chance, just as he was about to
ring up his solicitors and ask them to send him some papers that he
wanted to show her next day. When he had read its first few sentences,
he asked for the messenger boy, but his clerk told him that the boy had
already gone. As that was so, he told the man to get him a taxi--he
could very well finish the letter on his way home. While he was waiting,
he walked up and down his room. "This is nonsense!" he told himself.
"This is nonsense--it must be stopped at once!" He got into his taxi
without being aware of any other feeling than his determination that it
must be stopped.

The light in the taxi was bad, and Mary's sloping writing seemed
difficult. He realised that he was not understanding what he read, and
when he had gathered the facts of the affair he put the crumpled sheets
back into his pocket. Then he pulled up the window of the taxi--the
early spring day was cold. Already the other, the emotional aspects of
Mary's conduct were forcing themselves upon his mind, but again and
again he wrenched his thoughts away--he must look at it now, he
insisted, simply in the light of something that had to be stopped. Over
a growing consciousness of disaster he kept his attention busy with the
familiar spaces and buildings that he passed, and with the people in the
streets.

As soon as he reached home he sent for Penn. "What train did Mrs. Heyham
catch?" he asked her.

Penn did not know, Mrs. Heyham had left for Victoria at three. But she
could ask Lang.

It would be ten minutes before the chauffeur came--James went into his
study and took out the letter again. But even now he could not
understand it. She was angry with him about Greta, he supposed, and to
revenge herself she had determined to refuse her consent to his scheme.
Then she had been afraid, she had not dared face him, so she had run
away. He felt the tide of his anger rising to meet the anger he imagined
in her. He could not doubt for a moment which was the stronger and the
more effective. It was difficult to believe that she could have been
foolish enough to provoke him like this----

At that moment he heard footsteps on the marble floor of the passage and
he tried, instinctively, to resume the usual calm of his expression. But
the muscles of his face, stiffly contracted, would not relax. He faced
Lang, coming in at the door, with a deep frown.

"What train did Mrs. Heyham take, Lang?" he asked again.

"I don't know, sir. We got to Victoria at about 3.20 and Mrs. Heyham
told the porter to take her things to the cloak-room."

With a great effort James made himself smile. "That's all right," he
said; "then she is probably going by the later train, as she arranged."
He thought rapidly. His letter had reached him at half-past four--she
had probably handed it in soon after four. It was nearly half-past five
now. After what she had said in the letter, it was unlikely that her
luggage would still be there, though she might, of course, have been
bluffing.

He wondered for a moment whether he would go to Victoria himself, but he
was too angry. He'd be damned if he'd hang around any cloak-room for
her. "What's Heyham doing--looking for his wife?" She should come back
without that.

He turned to Lang. "Go to Victoria at once," he said, "and find out, if
you can, what train Mrs. Heyham took. The man in the cloak-room may know
at what time she came for the luggage. If it is still there, wait until
she comes and tell her that I have been obliged to change my plans and
cannot leave London to-night. If Mrs. Heyham decides to come back, bring
her home--if not, see her comfortably into her train."

Lang looked intelligently at his master, as if he were memorising these
instructions. Then, with his usual, "Yes, sir," he went.

When the door had shut, James, without seeing it, looked slowly round
the room. He had become aware of a curious light, giddy sensation. His
mind seemed to be inactive, open, and blank. Suddenly his blood rushed
to his head and he found himself trembling under a storm of rage.

For a moment he thought of Mary as an angry peasant thinks of an animal.
She was his--his possession--his woman--and she had defied him. Words
came to his lips that old Clarkson, years ago, had used of the factory
girls, but as he stood there with his hands clenched and his red,
distorted face thrust forward, he could not even speak them coherently.
Presently the inhibiting pressure of his wrath grew less, and he turned
to stride rapidly up and down the room. His anger, as it became clearer,
had not shrunk, but only grown more vindictive and more intense. He saw
Mary now as an embodiment of greed and treachery. Was she not, after
all, Julius's sister?--he had been a fool to marry into such a family!
All these years he had toiled at the business, working as much for her
as for himself, and now, after taking all that she could get, she was
angry with him, and for her revenge she ruined him. This was her answer
to his years of love and care. He had loved her--he shivered with
humiliation when he thought how abject he had sometimes been, how he had
respected her, hung on her moods, twisted himself into ecstasies of
sentimental gallantry! He had treated himself like dirt, because he had
been afraid of wounding her damned delicacy--while she, in all
probability, had been laughing at him! It had amused her to see him
making a fool of himself over her imaginary fine feelings! She had been
so sure of him that she had dared to tell him to his face that she did
not love him!

He had adored her, and she, all the time, had been leading her own life,
her double life, throwing him enough affection to keep him blind when he
was at home. As soon as it suited her, she left him, left him to tell
his son and his daughters--to tell everyone--that his wife had run away.
Left him to explain why she had seen fit to do such a thing. He
shuddered again with hatred and disgust.

At last, tired of walking, he threw himself into his great arm-chair.
Mary imagined, no doubt, that he would forgive her. Forgive--he struck
the arm of the chair with his open hand--while there was blood in
his body, he would not forgive. She should come back, and she
should sign the papers, and then, after that, he would live as he
liked--treacherous--treacherous and cold-blooded! She had left him to
explain to Trent, her prig of a son, why she had gone----

His anger mastered him again, he could not breathe properly, he bent
over the side of the chair that he had gripped with shaking hands. When
he tried to rise it seemed to him, for a moment, that he could not.

At this he became alarmed. "Mustn't go on like this!" he told himself,
and instantly his muscles relaxed and he fell back in the chair, while
rings of light seemed to shift before his eyes. When he sat up, wiping
his hand across his wet forehead, he had collected himself, his anger
was finally under his control. He was able to think about what he had
better do, what he should say to Trent, what Lang would have found.

He left the chair and walked slowly to his desk. His desk, broad,
massive, designed and equipped solely to serve his purpose, reassured
him and gave him back for a moment his sense of dignity. With its smooth
leather under his arms he could not doubt of his success--he had planned
so many things at that desk, and compelled so much success. There were a
hundred reasons why Mary should return at once, before anyone knew, if
only he could get them in order. His head was full of them already--they
crowded upon him. There must be a hundred ways, too, of forcing her to
come back if only he could find them. He had merely to think, to set his
brain to work. Unfortunately he did not want to think. He wanted to be
angry, to give full scope to his indignation, and to find that the sheer
force of it had brought her back. Since his childhood James had
respected his anger. It was an important weapon, dreaded and deprecated
by thousands of human beings. And since it was always effective he had
lost the habit of calling it in question or asking himself whether it
could be unjust. Now it seemed strange to him that, angry as he was,
nothing happened. If Mary had been there she would have been terrified
by his anger; now, simply because she had gone, because there was a
little space between them, it was nothing to her. He did not understand
clearly what was the matter, but he felt an odd sensation of discomfort,
of discouragement, of frustration. He sought in his mind, vaguely, for
some violent thing that he could do--something that would prove his
power. Then he brought himself sharply back to the matter in hand.
"What's wrong with me?" he thought. "Why am I doing nothing? By this
time I ought to have decided what I mean to do!"

His discouragement deepened and with it grew a fear of this strange
incapacity. "I'm not usually like this," he thought--if only Mary had
been there, there was so much that he could have said to her! But she
was gone.

He made a last effort to think of some way of finding her immediately.
He could put the screw on to the manager of the bank and make him give
up her address--he could set detectives to find her. But he did not care
for either of these plans. The manager would not like going back on
Mary, nor did he believe in any but the acquisitive powers of
detectives. Sooner or later of course Mary, being a woman, would give
herself away; meanwhile he must wait.

He must wait--impotent, tortured by his own useless rage--the notion
appalled him. He was not a man who was accustomed to wait, to
suffer--every force that was in him struggled against the idea. Then, as
he could still find no immediate solution, his alarm returned. The state
of affairs was wrong, unnatural, something must be the matter. "Perhaps
I was too angry," he thought, "I have upset myself!" He walked to a
small mirror that hung over a side table and looked at himself in the
glass. He looked tired and shaken, he decided, and with the thought came
a sensation of weakness and fatigue. He turned away from the mirror and
went back, mechanically, to his desk. "After all," he thought, "I am
getting old--I can't stand these things as I used to!" It was a moment
before he grasped the significance of the words.

Then his hatred of Mary blazed out again. That was why she had done
it--he was old--she had taken advantage of his age--ten years ago she
would not have dared to defy him! She had left him, as he saw it now,
with the callous indifference of youth. She was younger than he--she had
not borne the burden of ceaseless work! She was a woman, she worshipped
strength--to her he was merely an old man, whose strength was leaving
him.

Then he made an effort to restore his own confidence. Mary was
wrong--she would find out her mistake--only that morning he had felt as
young as ever! But he could not deceive himself, he knew that ten years
ago he would have taken action instead of wasting his time among ideas.
"Here I sit," he thought; "I tell myself that I must do something, find
something to do, and still I sit doing nothing!" He was seized again, as
he had been seized the night before, with profound despondency.
Something was wrong, but its causes lay outside the habitual action of
his mind. He sat on, not attempting now to cope with the stream of
thoughts that passed before him. He missed, though he did not know it,
Mary's audience and her sympathy.

At twenty minutes past six Lang came back with the car. He had done his
best, he said, to make the man at the cloak-room attend to him, and the
man had admitted finally that he believed, though he wasn't sure, that
Mrs. Heyham had fetched her luggage about an hour after she put it in.

James nodded, and Lang went. In another half-hour Trent would be back
from the works. He took Mary's letter from his pocket and read it again
to see if there was anything in it that he could not show to Trent. The
boy, after all, was his partner. He would have to have an explanation of
some sort. Plausible explanations of Mary's flight began to develop
themselves in James's mind. He did not want Trent to know about
Greta--Trent was such a prig. But as the clock struck half-past he
decided, in a sudden access of impatience, that he would go out and
leave the letter behind him for Trent to find. He would have dinner
somewhere where there was a crowd of people. He couldn't face a
tongue--tied meal with Trent staring at him across the table, and the
servants coming in and out of the room. He couldn't face, either,
Trent's surprise and his damn-fool questions. The boy was all right when
he'd thought a thing over, but he wasn't quick.

He wrote on a sheet of paper, "I will talk this over with you after
dinner, J. A. H.," and put it with the letter into a large envelope
which he addressed to his son. Then, leaving it on the hall table, he
went upstairs to dress. If he had dinner early he would be less likely
to see anyone he knew.

Trent, when he came in, a little tired, picked up the envelope and tore
it open on his way upstairs. He read James's note with a feeling of
impatience. Some difficulty had arisen, he supposed, in the way of the
new company. Trent did not share James's interest in the new company.
The scheme was his father's. It did not afford him the pleasure of
admiring his own ingenuity, and it seemed to him that the new
arrangements tended to lessen his importance. He would be on the Board
of the new Company, but only as one director among many, and he had not
been able to follow his father's sudden delight in cinematographs and
the building of cinema palaces. He had agreed to the scheme because it
would make him, if it went well, a richer man, but he sometimes grew
tired of discussing and praising it. He glanced, now, at the other
envelope, and it was with a shock that he recognised his mother's
writing. James had not spoken to him of Mary's attitude, and as the
months went by he had forgotten his fears. Now they revived, and with
them came a slight feeling of superiority. "I knew there would be
trouble," he said to himself as he went into his room.

Trent's room was carefully furnished and tidy. Even his golf-clubs and
his riding boots seemed evidence less of enjoyment than of the
gentlemanly nature of his pursuits. Although he would have to dress in
half an hour he changed his shoes, washed his hands, and brushed his
hair before he sat down in a comfortable chair to read Mary's letter.

He read it through slowly, after his first start of surprise, and then,
as he could not remember a word of it, he read it again. He was
amazed--his mother had never seemed to him that sort of woman. He had
always thought of her as a good, charming woman, a woman he was very
fond of. Now she had done this astonishing thing--he realised, for the
first time, that his mother and father were not merely parents, that
they lived lives of their own, like his and his friends'. "My father
can't," he even admitted, "be a very easy man to live with"--he could
see that Mary had been very unhappy when she wrote her letter.

But there his sympathy ended. Mary was a wife, she had no right to
behave as she was doing. Trent had always felt very strongly that
upper-class Englishwomen, in a way, are sacred; sacred to the noble task
of maintaining the ideals of English men and children. He had never
doubted that any woman whom he might love would recognise the force of
this obligation. He was very fond of his mother--it was most perplexing!
He tried to think the matter over calmly. Whatever had happened it was
absurd to suppose that she couldn't do all the thinking she liked while
his father was at the office. If, as the letter seemed to indicate,
there was some emotional difficulty between them, that only made matters
worse. In such a case an open breach was not only wrong and foolish, it
was indelicate. If what she really wanted was time to get used to the
idea of selling the business then she had still no right to run away and
take counsel of strangers instead of discussing the affair with her
husband and son. She was hopelessly in the wrong, even when one looked
at it, as he was doing, from her own point of view. When one thought of
the consequences of her action----

He left his chair and began to walk, like his father, up and down the
room. Walking, his thoughts came faster and less coherently. Why had she
done it?--it was a terrible thing to do! And in what a false position it
left them all!

Even he would suffer--why, more especially he! With a pang he remembered
Lady Hester. If her family knew that his mother had done such a thing
they would not let her marry him, however much money he made. For a
moment the poor young man stopped, appalled, then he resumed his pacing.
Hester had probably never heard of such a thing as a mother who ran
away!

It was impossible that his mother could ruin his life, and ruin it for a
mood--a whim--she must not do it, she must not be allowed to do it! She
must be brought back and made to feel how unbecoming--how shameful--her
behaviour was; he felt a slow, irresistible anger rise in his heart. His
mother was disgracing herself, she could claim no mercy. She had
rejected her duty to her husband and children, she had put herself
outside the scope of man's generosity. He had a right to be angry with
her, he said to himself; he did well to be angry!

For a few minutes he was exceedingly angry, then his thoughts began to
move in a different direction. Trent, like his mother, took an interest
in the processes of his own mind. After all it was no use his losing his
head. Anger was foolish and undignified--he sat down again,
deliberately, as if to prove to himself by controlling his muscles that
he could also control his feelings. His mother had taken leave of her
senses, but that was no reason why he should not show self-control. This
was a crisis in his life; he must behave wisely, generously!

He tried hard as he sat there, unfortunate youth, to decide on a wise
and generous line of conduct. But all that he could think of were his
ruined hopes, his wounded feelings, the cruelty and treachery of what
Mary had done. He did not feel generous, he felt deeply vindictive. He
wanted to be wise and calm, but his resentment seemed to press on him,
depriving him of the power of ordering his thoughts. He felt a desire to
punish his mother, to make her suffer in return for the suffering she
was causing him. He struggled against this feeling, but he was
astonished by its strength. "It is extraordinary," he thought, "I am not
a vindictive man; I have every wish to behave well, and yet when my
whole desire is simply to be just I am prevented from thinking clearly
by this primitive instinct of revenge! It is true then, after all, that
civilisation is only a cloak for barbarism!" This, in its way, was
satisfactory. To the end of his life Trent would treat himself with more
respect as a person, under the surface, of untamably savage instincts.
But even this interesting discovery did not remove the oppression of his
annoyance. When he finally found relief it was in an outbreak of
indignation against women in general. He was not worried by any need to
be just towards women in general. This was what came--his thoughts ran
easily--of women interfering in men's affairs. This was what came of
women setting themselves up to be judges of life and conduct without
balance or judgment or experience; they lost their heads and everyone
else had to bear the consequences. His mother, doubtless--he felt less
angry with her already--had been led away. She had talked things over,
in the gabbling indecent fashion women have, with some of her friends,
possibly with that ridiculous secretary. They had sympathised with her
and persuaded her to behave like this. Possibly even Rosemary had known
about it. All women nowadays were filled with the same spirit of
presumption and ingratitude. His mother had merely been a little more
rash, a little weaker, than the others. The whole thing came, he went on
to explain to himself, of educating women and encouraging them to
express their absurd opinions. His mother had been carried away by the
feeling that half the business was hers--that, of course, was her
father's fault. Now, although she knew nothing whatever of business, she
was not prepared to let anything pass that did not meet with her
approval. She had obviously got some idea of responsibility into her
head--as if a woman would be responsible for an enormous modern
business. There were women who mixed themselves up in business, of
course, women who were thoroughly unsexed, and the others didn't
understand that and were wild to imitate them. Look at Rosemary and her
economics!--Laura, too, had been nearly as bad until she married. He was
going on to conclude that early marriage and no education was what was
right for women--a woman, to Trent's taste, was enough when she was
healthy, pretty, affectionate, and tactful--when he remembered that no
one had ever educated his mother and that she had indubitably married
and married young. He was forced to admit that now these impossible
ideas had got into the air there was no telling whom they would not
attack.

He dressed, at last, without having forgiven Mary, but with his
good-humour towards himself restored by this proof that he could conquer
his impulses and face misfortune in a philosophical spirit.

Soon after he had left the dining-room and settled himself comfortably
in the study, his father returned. James had had an excellent and
encouraging dinner, and he walked into the room with the brisk, bustling
air of a man who is prepared at every point both with plans of action
and explanations of them. He dropped into his particular chair and
selected a cigar before he spoke. Then he glanced suspiciously at his
son. "You've read your mother's letter, I take it," he began.

Trent replied that he had.

"Well, what do you think about it?"

Trent waited a moment before he answered. He could see that his father
was uneasy--probably, then, there had been some sentimental dispute
between his parents, and James was afraid that he would question him
about it. He chose his words carefully. "I don't think my mother can
quite realise what she is doing," he said.

James was greatly relieved. He nodded. "We must remember," he conceded,
"that your mother hasn't been at all well lately, and the excitement of
the wedding was probably too much for her!"

Trent agreed with him. They looked at one another, and then James turned
to the ash-tray on the table by his side. There was not yet, however,
any ash upon the tip of his cigar. "In a way, of course, my dear
fellow," he said, "if this gets about you are the greatest sufferer."

Trent moved uncomfortably. He did not care to be reminded of his
possible sufferings.

"Of course," his father was saying, "the position, if it becomes public
property, makes me look very foolish. And it is extremely inconvenient
to have the arrangements for the reconstruction hung up like this for
want of your mother's consent. Only yesterday Mansfield and Sir Ezra
Swiney agreed to be on the Board of the new Company. But in the long run
that hits you as hard as it hits me, and in other ways your prospects
are affected in a way that mine can't be." He leaned forward towards his
son in a solicitous, fatherly manner. Trent's answering, "Yes," was
stiff.

"Now just for the present," James went on, "I haven't got your mother's
address. I've thought of a way by which we shall probably be able to get
it in a day or two, say a week, but meanwhile there's no time to be
lost. Your mother says that the bank will forward letters--I think on
the whole, if you agree with me, that you'd better write at once and
point out to her what she's doing. It is no good at all my writing or I
would. But if she gets a letter from you explaining that this attitude
of hers makes your marriage impossible, I think it's ten chances to one
that she'll change her mind. She's fond of you, Trent, and when she's in
her right mind she's a good mother. Besides, I expect she's feeling a
bit scared now that the thing is done. If I were you I would write
to-night."

Trent leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling to avoid the
compelling affection of his father's eye. He rejected an impulse to
refuse indignantly, and considered the matter as thoroughly as he could.
Consideration did not make James's plan seem more attractive. It was
undignified, it was beastly--Trent had never written such a letter in
his life, and he could not imagine himself writing it. A letter is a
thing that one can keep--he thought of Mary reading his entreaties over
again afterwards, when the urgency of the affair had died away--perhaps
showing them to Lady Hester--"This, my dear, was what brought me back!"
Trent, in defence of his own dignity, was capable of a certain amount of
imagination; moreover, in the depths of his heart he felt that emotional
pressure of this sort was unfair. Before dinner he had been prepared, so
he thought, to use any possible means of bringing Mary back. Now that he
was asked to dirty his own fingers he felt a little sorry for his
mother. James was talking very calmly now and in a very kind and
reasonable way, but Trent had worked with his father for some years, and
he would not have cared, himself, to face such a home-coming. After all,
Mary had gone away because she thought she was acting right, and James
had not given any clear account of what it was that he had done to make
her go.

Meanwhile James stared at his son. "Damn the boy!" he thought, "I wonder
what it is that makes me always rub him up the wrong way. Well--" he
said, as Trent did not seem inclined to speak.

Trent sat up and looked at him. "Do you know, sir," was the most tactful
way he could put his objection, "I doubt whether my writing would be
very much good? My mother has gone away, as far as I can see, because
she wants to think business matters over--she must have considered the
effect it would have on my plans before she went. To bring her back we
must persuade her that what she is doing isn't right."

"She can hardly imagine that it is right to ruin your prospects."
James's tone was becoming less smooth.

"I think," his son went on, "that we ought to write a letter, either
from you or from both of us, as you prefer, to say that for her own sake
as well as for ours we must ask her to come back, but if she comes we
will guarantee her reasonable time and opportunities for satisfying
herself about the reconstruction." That seemed to Trent a very handsome
offer.

To James, already in conflict with his temper, it seemed merely
aggravating. "Nonsense!" he said, "you don't realise, my dear fellow,
that the thing is practically arranged. I can't keep eminent business
men like Sir Ezra hanging about from day to day while your mother makes
up her mind!"

"I had no idea that my mother took up that point of view," Trent
suggested. "It seems very sudden!"

James had no answer to this. He knew perfectly well that he had run into
the affair with his eyes open. He had known that Mary might very well
object, and he had disregarded this knowledge. "I'm afraid she must have
been reading Socialistic stuff," he conceded. "It gets hold of women."
He fidgeted a little in his chair.

Trent threw himself back again. Then his father was to blame! He had
seen this coming and he had taken no steps to meet it. He had not even
consulted his able son. "Arranged or not, I don't see how we can get on
without my mother's concurrence," he threw out. "It seems to me that we
are in a thorough mess."

James glared at him. "I have suggested a plan by which I think your
mother's concurrence can be obtained!"

Trent did not answer. He did not mind issuing his commands to women, but
whining to them and badgering them was another matter. It did not fulfil
Trent's idea of decency. But he knew that this obscure feeling which he
could not name even to himself was the last thing in the world to appeal
to his father.

"Well," James urged him, in tones of growing impatience, "I should
really like to know why you don't think my scheme would be very much
good."

Trent's own judicial calm gave way before this insistence. All right
then, his father must have it! "I don't pretend to understand the ins
and outs of the affair," he said slowly; "you haven't told me, and I
don't ask any questions, but it does seem dear to me that the issue lies
between my mother and you. So far as it affects me as a partner, I am
willing that my mother should have time to make such a serious decision,
otherwise I prefer, if you don't mind, to keep out of it as far as I
can; certainly I would rather not involve other people."

James, since his dinner and the birth of his ingenious plan, had
forgotten the general aspect of the affair and concentrated his mind on
the task of persuading Trent. At this defiance, however, the thought of
his plight and his grievances broke through the surface of his immediate
intentions. This was what Mary had exposed him to--this sort of snub
from his son! James cared more for Trent than he let himself admit, and
the young man's attitude wounded his vanity. Trent would prefer to keep
himself out of his father's and mother's affairs!

"Certainly you may keep out, my dear boy," he began disagreeably, while
he felt his way towards something really scathing. "Whether you'll save
your skin by keeping out is another matter. You will agree," he added in
default of a better phrase, "that if you don't think your own interests
are worth looking after there can be no earthly reason why I should
bother about them!"

Trent broke in on him, "Oh, certainly." The last thing he wanted was
that James should make emotional capital out of his unfortunate
affections.

For some time they both sat there covering their silence by activity in
attending to their tobacco. James was feeling sore and disappointed. He
had expected Trent in this matter at least to see eye to eye with him.
He had looked to Trent for comfort and moral support--two things which
he had become accustomed to finding at home in seasons of stress and
confusion. He could not understand now why Trent was hostile. It wasn't
that Trent approved of his mother's action--Trent, the young puppy, took
a far more high and mighty line about women than James had ever done.
His mind moved wearily amid the tangle of Trent's possible motives. The
boy might be acting from laziness, priggishness, cowardice, mere
pig-headedness. In any case he was a damned young fool who didn't care a
rap for his father. James leaned heavily back in his chair and cursed
the man who had sold him his cigars.

Trent, too, was puzzled and upset. He had hoped to impress his father
with his courage and common-sense, he had hoped to cheer him up.
Actually, on the contrary, they had got no nearer to friendly sympathy
than ill-tempered bickering. "Am I in the wrong?" he asked himself.
"Ought I to write the letter?" Every instinct told him that he was
right. His mother was wrong to go away as she had gone, but if they were
to plead with her at all it must be by reasoning with her, by pointing
out her duty, not by working on her feelings. Trent didn't want her
return made a favour to him that he would have to carry for the rest of
his life. Nor was he going to drag Lady Hester, even by remote
allusions, into such an affair. He was right, and his motives in
refusing his father were of the noblest, but, even so, things were
unsatisfactory. He did not want to fence with his father, using his
brains to wound the old man instead of to encourage him. It occurred to
Trent, dimly and for an instant, that in all probability the old man did
not want to wound him either. What was it then that irritated them and
made them quarrel?

At this moment the door opened and the parlour-maid announced Mr. Julius
Trent.

Julius came in with a smiling face. He had come to see Mary eventually,
since the evening was a time when she might be found alone in her
drawing-room, but as his purpose was to borrow money--Mary had been very
kind the day before, and an old creditor whom Julius had forgotten had
sent in his bill that morning--he thought it more politic to say a few
cheerful words to her husband first.

"Evening!" he said; "evening, Trent my boy! How are you all? Settling
down again, I suppose. Any news of the young couple?" He included them
both in the benevolence of his greeting.

The last person James wished to see was Mary's brother Julius. "Good
evening," he said, without shaking hands. "No, we've heard nothing yet."

"And how's poor little Mary?" her tactless brother went on. "Didn't seem
very well when I saw her yesterday--upsetting things, these weddings."
A joke--a mild enough joke--was on his lips, but he checked himself. A
dull straight-laced lot, Mary's family. Even as a boy, James had been
one of the plodding sort. He helped himself to one of James's cigars.

"She wants to see me, I think," he went on, as nobody answered. "Is she
in?"

James was thinking as quickly as he could, so quickly that he forgot to
be annoyed with "poor little Mary." In spite of their old friendship
James had never grown used to this reprobate who spoke of his wife in
familiar terms. Yesterday,--Julius, annoyed at not being made a
director, had been saying things to Mary about the sale! "No," he said
slowly, "I'm afraid she's not in."

Julius stared at him. Mary out alone at this time of night! "Oh, I
suppose she's gone round to Laura's," he suggested. "Women never grow
tired of talking things over. Will she be very late?"

If it really had been Julius who had been making mischief, James was
thinking, Mary's brother or not, he would smash him! He stared heavily
at his guest, but did not speak, and after a minute Trent felt obliged
to say that they did not know.

Julius pulled out his watch. It wasn't yet half-past nine. He was not
going to waste an evening with people like James and Trent. "Oh, very
well," he said. "I expect to-morrow will suit her just as well. You
might tell her from me, that I'll look in to-morrow morning." He smiled
brightly again as he took another cigar.

But at this smile James's fretted self-control gave way. "No, I will
not!" he said. "Mary will not be here to-morrow morning. Your sister, my
good Julius, acting in a manner which you probably think very natural,
has run away!"

"Run away! Mary! Mary!" said Julius, putting the cigar into his pocket,
and automatically helping himself to another. "Well, I'm damned!"

Neither of the others spoke. Trent was annoyed with his father, and
James was annoyed with himself. "What on earth did she want to run away
for?" Julius went on. "She seemed quite happy yesterday!" His
indignation grew. "Well, I must say that's a pretty thing! A woman of
her age running away from her husband!" Where was he to get his money
from now? "It's disgraceful, a shameful way to behave, never heard of
such a thing-- You needn't think I approve of her, James, I can tell you
I'm damned sorry for you!" All the same, he told himself, it was almost
worth losing the money. James left by his wife! Jaw-your-head-off
cock-a-doodle James! Not that that excused Mary. "Perfectly
disgraceful!" he went on, with enthusiasm. "I wonder if she's joined the
Suffragettes? There's no saying what the fair sex won't do nowadays.
Mary, too, of all women. Well, I'm disappointed in her. And if I see her
I shall tell her so-- If I were you I should put my foot down. If once
you give in to this sort of thing----"

James crossed the room and took his brother-in-law by the arm. "The best
thing you can do," he said to Julius, "is to clear out and keep quiet."

Julius looked at him and then at Trent. "I'll keep quiet enough," he
assured them, "for my own sake. It's not the sort of thing I should care
to have Esther know." Then, rubbing his arm, he made for the door. "Of
course I can quite understand you're a bit annoyed," he said when he
reached it, "I should be angry myself."

James turned his back to the door's closing.

Trent returned to the chair he had left when his uncle came into the
room, and James, after a minute, followed his example. There was nothing
that either of them cared to say. They would have to see Julius next
morning and find out how much it would cost to keep him quiet, otherwise
matters were much as they had been.

For nearly an hour they sat there, busy with unprofitable thoughts.

James was wishing that he had kicked Julius. To kick Mary's only brother
would, in some small measure, have relieved his feelings. It would, at
any rate, have been something that he could do. Of all Mary's offences
this was the worst--that she had left him with no one and nothing on
which to wreak his anger. She would go, heaven knows where, carrying his
name at her mercy, while he must remain at home, baffled, thwarted,
pestered by busy-bodies----

This was his mood when his idea came.

To Trent's surprise a joyful light appeared on his father's face. James
left his chair and went over to his desk. "I've got her," he said. "It's
worth it! I don't care what it costs. It's not for nothing I've
subscribed so long to the party funds! When she comes back she shall
find herself Lady Heyham! She's my wife still even if she has run away!
And if she makes a fuss about it I'll call myself Sir Archibald!"

Just then the maid brought in some letters, among them a picture
post-card for Mary from Rosemary. Five minutes before James would have
considered that Mary didn't deserve to have letters sent on; now he was
so pleased with the thought that he could alter her life whether she had
gone or not that he handed it over to Trent to re-address.




CHAPTER XVII


MARY spent the next day reading _The Shareholder's Guide to Company
Law_. She did not remember much of it when she had finished, but her
aversion to James's proposals had increased. Once she had sold her part
of the business in return for money or shares in the new company she
would not be able to do anything--if she had read the book
aright--without standing up at a General Meeting and delivering a
speech. Of that, she felt, she was incapable. There would be not only
James to fight, but the new shareholders. She pictured them as stout
hard men who would laugh loudly at her. For a few moments she held this
pleasant little nightmare in her mind and it decided her. Well then, she
must not give way to James, she must refuse to sell.

It was easy in her queer, gaily coloured flat to feel capable of such
defiance. It was less easy to think coherently about what James would
say. With the thought of him and his offences her mind became confused.
She could not envisage him calmly, she could not forget how different he
was from the James whom she had loved. She decided that she was not
prepared to consider him, and until the evening she put him, as far as
she was able, out of her mind.

In the evening a large envelope came from the bank. It bore Trent's
writing, and she opened it fearfully to find nothing inside it but some
letters and the post-card from Rosemary. Rosemary, in Italy, was having
lovely weather and getting on splendidly--as Mary put the post-card down
she felt a kindlier feeling towards James. It was generous of him to
have sent on her letters. It occurred to her suddenly that with all his
faults James had always been generous to her, and often sympathetic.
Whatever credit was due to him for that he still deserved--the fact that
one is deceiving a person does not make it easier to sympathise with
them.

Next day when she awoke in her room,--Chinese blue, sea-green, and
indigo, not the colours she would herself have chosen for a bedroom, but
stimulating in the early morning,--she came to the conclusion that she
had been a little unjust to James. She had taken it for granted that
ever since his fall his whole relation with her had been built up of
fraud and hypocrisy. Now she could see that she had certainly been
wrong. For a month or two James must have suffered from a waning
uneasiness, after that he had probably taken his guilt for granted. If
he had been kind to her it had been because he was naturally kind. She
need not feel that she had been insulted by every different instance of
his affection.

She was astonished with herself now for not having understood this
before. She had made the discovery of his fault, she reflected, at an
unfortunate moment. The more she thought of it, the more sure she felt
that James had not let his adventure alter his affection for his wife.
The different planes of James's being were unconnected, his mind was not
logical. She reminded herself that she had not lived with him for
twenty-seven years without getting a glimpse of his attitude towards his
business. The business--she turned over restlessly--the business was a
problem less easy of solution. For James's infidelity she had simply to
forgive him, and within a week he would have forgotten it. But his
business was his life.

She must, she told herself, be more energetic. She must not trust to the
chance thoughts of the moment. She must sit down on the red and orange
sofa, absurd as it might seem, and make herself think, or she would find
herself sliding into some plausible position that had no solid reasoning
to support it. And by and by she would need solid reasoning--when it
came to explaining her conclusions to James. If she could not think yet,
she could read, and read she must.

As she became more intimately acquainted, in the week that followed,
with what the London Library could tell her of our industrial system,
she found her conception of her problem alter. She could laugh now, a
little drearily, at the thought of James heading a band of willing but
ignorant employers. The facts she learned now were not different in kind
from the facts she had known when she invented that pleasing legend, but
her attitude towards them was changed. She had not to fit them into her
ideal notion of James. Not that he, in this new light, appeared any more
a harsh or dishonest man than the majority of the gentlemen who direct
the creation of our country's wealth. In some ways, indeed, he seemed
even better than they. He might treat his employees badly, but he did
not cheat the public. To Mary, that seemed, on the whole, the lesser
virtue, but she recognised that to James it might fairly be a cause for
pride.

James did not consider himself a cruel employer, and he did not consider
himself, either, a hypocrite or a man of loose morals. He seemed to
himself, as he seemed to other men, a generous and honourable person. To
her, and by her standards, on the contrary, he did not seem so, and the
world respected her standards too. She was a good woman, with a good
woman's point of view. The world does not like to see a woman uphold
immorality, or starve her servants in order to make money. Nevertheless,
when James did these things, she was bound, according to the world's
judgment, to forgive him, or give way to him, as the case might be. Men
praised her stricter standard as long as she applied it to nobody but
herself.

For a moment of one darkening winter's afternoon it seemed to Mary that
men stood before her, stripped of all but their wickedness, as they
might have stood before Miss Percival. Men's chief demand of women was
that they should be pleasing when men had time to think of them and
quiet when men had not; to this end then women were to keep themselves
busy practising a morality too exacting for men themselves. It would be
a sad world without virtue, therefore let others be virtuous--from a
business point of view an excellent argument. The poor lady paced her
room in the painful agitation of one who discovers that he has played
the part of a dupe.

But she could not believe, for long, that the whole fabric of her morals
had been raised in obedience to a conspiracy. She was not virtuous,
after all, because men imposed virtue on her. She had never wanted to be
anything else. She could not bear, knowingly, to treat people cruelly,
and as for sex, one husband and one family had occupied her fully. She
was free now, but the life that was left to her could hardly be troubled
by any such adventures. James, on the other hand, had not been so
quietly content with virtue. She remembered now, though she had not
attended to it at the time, a long defence that James had tried to make.
She, he had said, had never attended to what he wanted, had never known
or cared. She had merely assumed that his wants were like her own.

It was growing dark, and the city below her great leaded window showed
black and yellow. She stopped her pacing to turn on the light, for she
needed in her confusion the gay reassurance of the beautiful room. The
light that collected its shining colours seemed to illumine her
distress, making it less formidable, though not yet, alas, more clear.

She sat down in one of the painted chairs and smoothed the habitual grey
silk that covered her knees. She was trying to remember what it was that
James had said. He had said that lies--the lies he had told her--were
the price he had had to pay for her comfort of mind and ignorance of
evil--something to that purpose, at any rate, her memory was not exact.
That, of course, when she thought it over, fitted in very well as part
of the theory. Virtue and innocence are artificial, to be preserved only
by ignorance of the world. Women, therefore, if they remain virtuous,
must sympathise with men's temptations while carefully refusing to
understand them. A man cannot help being tempted--that had been the
burden of James's excuse--and there may come a point, of course, when he
is but human. A woman, on the other hand, presumably can, since no
temptation must be too strong for her. A good woman, obviously, is not
tempted; if she felt the desires of men she would be, at heart, a wicked
woman, not the sort of woman that James would have cared to marry. So he
had married a good woman, and her goodness had gone to make things hard
for him.

Mary, who detested cynicism, was dismayed by these thoughts.

Roughly, though, she told herself, they were true. James had certainly
liked her to be the type of woman she was. He loved her for it, he
preferred her even to his less ignorant though equally virtuous
daughters. Mary wondered what Rosemary thought of it all. Mary, at
Rosemary's age, had thought of nothing--Rosemary had probably reduced
the whole thing to a theory. She had certainly horrified James on one
occasion by saying that our divorce laws are scandalous; probably she
believed in free love, whatever that might be--it was not a thing that
Mary had ever pictured to herself. Fortunately it was not of much
importance what Rosemary believed--she was a dear, good girl under all
her modernity and could be trusted not to act on her convictions.

Mary had hardly had time to take comfort from this reassurance when a
new possibility occurred to her. Supposing--impossible though it
was--that Rosemary could not be trusted! Supposing she behaved exactly
as James had done, that she became the mistress of another man after her
marriage without telling Anthony. From one point of view the cases were
parallel--whatever codes the world might accept for a man, Mary would
never have married James if she had thought that he was free to deceive
her. What would James have said to that?--her lip curled at the thought
of his hypocritical horror; it was only afterwards that she asked
herself what her own attitude would have been. Deceit, of course, is
always terrible, there can be no doubt of it, but she couldn't doubt,
either, that she would have forgiven Rosemary. She would have forgiven
her and she would have thought Anthony a brute if he had not forgiven
her too. She would have advised Rosemary, as a matter of course, to tell
Anthony--well, James had told her. He had told her when he might have
lied to her. She would not have believed him, but she could hardly have
insisted against his denial. Unwillingly she faced a further
question--would she have counselled Rosemary to tell Tony if she knew
beforehand that he would not forgive? Might not she have said, even
though she knew it was wrong, "It's all over my dear, you must think of
the future now, and not of the past?" Tony, of course, might have
divorced Rosemary--and she had run away from James.

She jumped up and went over to the window--"Very well then, very well
then," her thoughts ran, "but where is your standard? Where is the basis
of your judgments? How can you say, in the face of this, that you have
not been cruel? What would you think if Anthony treated your daughter as
you have treated James!"

Mary sat down again on the low window-ledge and looked out into the
darkness. Far below her lights were moving in the cleft of the narrow
street. She did not see them, or London that lay spread out towards the
east. Where was her standard then, how could she decide? It had seemed
easy enough to judge men and women, their virtues and their sins, but in
the narrow circle of her own life justice eluded her. She had been angry
with James; she had only thought of shielding Rosemary from an
irresponsible and cruel world. James, after all, she told herself in
excuse, was a man, a master of life. Men had made the world to please
themselves, James should not have needed her protection from it. But
this argument was not very convincing. James had not created modern
morals: in such a sphere he was decidedly a person who took things as he
found them, and if that was a sin, she, until now, had sinned as well as
James.

She tried, for a short time, to reconcile her opposing points of view by
the discovery of some subtler, loftier moral rule into which they might
be harmoniously absorbed. She could not believe that she, a good woman,
a fair-minded woman, could ultimately treat so differently a husband who
sinned against her and a daughter who sinned against another person. It
was only reasonable, she told herself, to assume that some reconciling
system existed. This is not, after all, the first century of man's
sojourn on the earth, nor his first attempt at building a civilisation.
Somewhere the wisdom of the ages must have evolved a rational and
merciful attitude towards human sin.

Mary searched her experience for this attitude but she did not find it.
Her acquaintances, on the whole, went no nearer to discussion of the
matter than scandal, and Mary was not able, looking back, to find any
ethical system beneath their judgments. They forgave the people they
pitied and the people they feared--anyone, in fact, whom they wanted to
forgive--and they condemned the unfortunates whose affairs were
mentioned when they were in a mood for condemnation. The more she
thought of them, the more sure Mary felt that she could not have exposed
her daughter to their comments. She must find, she decided, some more
stable body of opinion, less tainted by laxity and recklessness of
thought.

She sought in all seriousness, only to be shocked by the perversity and
frivolity of her own mind. She knew very little about the ethics of
mankind, and the first really definite system that occurred to her was
that of the Mahommedans, who believe--she did not really know much about
the Mahommedans--that a man may do as he pleases, but a woman who sins
should be shut up in a sack and thrown into the Bosphorus. That came
pretty near on the whole, she concluded, thinking it over, to our own
English practice, though perhaps, since it was more drastic, it might be
more effective in securing womanly virtue, but she did find herself able
to accept it on that account. Then there were the Puritans--she could
fairly take them as representing the theory of good people to-day.
Anyone who disobeys the moral precepts of the English churches should,
if not executed at once, be punished and made miserable for the rest of
his life. There was something to be said for such a stringency, if only
it could be enforced--Mary wished she knew more of the state of morals
under the Ironsides and Oliver Cromwell. If we all really believed that,
she wondered, so that all virtuous or cowardly or prudent people acted
upon it, would the world be the richer for the triumph of their hatred
and contempt? Would the groans of its backsliders be truly edifying?
Then she stopped herself. She was being unfair again. The churches were
always ready to rejoice over the sinner who repented--was it repentance,
then, that she must ask alike of James and Rosemary before she forgave
them and hid their wickedness from the eyes of the world?

For a moment she thought that she had found what she was seeking, then
her spirits sank. How could anybody possibly tell whether James had
repented or not? He would say that he had repented--he would even
believe it--but what would he mean more than that he could not bear to
see his Mary unhappy and did not intend, if he could help it, to hurt
her again? James was not a man who ever repented, he merely put
provoking matters out of his mind. And she could not imagine him
comforted, either, by the rejoicings of the Churches.

For the first time she felt fully the deficiencies of her early
education. She did not even know what her parents had learned from their
lives--her mother, of course, had been a really nice woman, but her
father must have held views of some sort upon so important a question.
She had always thought of him as ennobled and distinguished by the
breadth and the abundance of his views.... It was not long before, from
the dim confusion of the past, a memory of her father came back to her.
It had been an accepted fact that Mary never understood any sentences
that she might overhear as she passed the half-open door of Mr. Trent's
study, and since she was a modest and loyal girl she had not understood
them, but now she remembered clearly her father's thin, amiable voice
explaining to some friend whom she could not see that Christian morals
were the invention of astute and envious monks. Monks had no use for a
happy and virtuous people: they needed a race of sinners cowed by the
fear of hell. Otherwise what place was there for the Church's
ministrations?

She did not believe that this could be true, she deplored the accident
that had presented her with such an example of her dear father's
thoughts, but that a good clever man like him could believe such
terrible things seemed to show that the whole question must be in
confusion. She did not suppose, in that case, that she was likely to
solve it. If everyone were alike, to begin with, and everyone could
marry, and marry young, and all marriages turned out happily, then there
would be something to go upon. But as it was she did not find in her own
thoughts the least germ of a solution.

She did find, however, a growing shame at her own harshness, a
realisation of her own ignorance. It was not only Cromwell and the Turks
about whom she knew nothing. She knew nothing of modern men, or modern
life, she did not know the force or the nature of love, or what place
there is left for it in a driven and burdened world. She did not even
know why her own husband had deceived her. And she did not believe that
she would ever know. Now that she was released from the strain of her
wrath against James, from the rigidity of her injured virtue, she
decided, with an immense relief, that she might put the whole matter
from her mind. Rosemary and her friends might study things of this sort,
might draw their conclusions from evidence that to Mary was
unimaginable. Rosemary was a modern woman, fearless of truth. To Mary
truth was less than reticence. She could not, she realised, discuss such
subjects frankly, even with herself. It was her duty, therefore, since
she shrank from the knowledge without which judgment is only prejudice,
to admit her own ignorance and be merciful. She saw now that James, even
while he deceived her, had not been a monster but a human being, acting
as human beings act--because they are kind, because they are afraid,
because the small words and deeds of everyday life have made a chain for
them. There was no need for her to be angry with James. The existing
state of affairs might permit him, though he was her husband, to sin,
but it had also enabled James to give his wife twenty-seven years of
happiness and freedom from care. In all those years she had not bought
her right to be angry with him by a single sacrifice, or a single
protest. To keep her happiness intact James had disabled his clerks from
marrying and driven his girls on to the streets. She had not even cared
to find out that this was so. And when, at last, she had known, she had
not acted. She had argued a little with James, and then given way. When
her ignorance had disappeared she had found another method, wifely
obedience, of shutting out the thought of suffering. In the beginning,
she remembered, she had not wished to follow James's suggestion because
she had been afraid that he and Trent might come to think badly of her.
They had thought badly--and she had been terrified. The girls might be
crippled by standing or die of consumption, but she, whose profits they
made, must keep James's good opinion. Let James deceive her, however,
let him give another woman a little of the love and the money he had
promised her, and virtue gave her strength. She hated him, she was
furious with him, though she tried she could not forgive him--it had
been simple to forgive him his sins against others!

Her thoughts ran easily down the familiar channels of self-reproach.
About James's sin she had not been able to think either justly or
coherently--she had struggled in vain against the repulsion she felt for
such a subject. But now, when she had only to blame herself, the power
of her mind came quickly back to her.

She could not doubt, she decided now, that in the matter of the girls
she was more to blame than James. His attitude, that had seemed to her
so callous, was due she thought now to a fact beyond his control, the
fact of his being a man. For men, after all, are not like women. They
have different ideals and different standards of value. They do not
think as women do in terms of health and happiness, but in terms of
knowledge, of riches, of power. She checked herself and went through
that again--she must build up her argument carefully for she was dealing
now with unfamiliar notions. A clever man is more, she told herself,
than a person, a husband, a father, the centre of various personal
relations. He is the guardian, the vehicle, of an idea. He wants to
impose this idea of his on his environment, to work it out, to see it
take form; and for a man success in his career, in his chosen
enterprise, is justification. If he has no career and no ideas at all he
deceives himself, and makes himself hot and happy playing games.

He does not trouble to think--it is not his business to think whether
what he is doing serves the race or not. He wants to do something, and
do it better than other people, and have his friends congratulate him
and his womenfolk make a fuss about it. No--Mary pulled herself up--no,
that was unjust, she was letting herself lose touch with her real
thought! A man likes success, who doesn't?--and he likes a little
petting, particularly if one allows him to pretend that he despises it.
But in the end it is not petting that sways him. He has a need to
impress himself on the world that he finds outside him, an impulse that
drives him to achieve his ends recklessly, ruthlessly, through any depth
of suffering and conflict. She must be very just, she told herself, she
must be serious, and not assume that little air of half-amused
toleration with which middle-aged women are apt to dismiss the
turbulence of men. She had often assumed it, in order perhaps, she
thought now, to save her temper, but this was not an occasion for its
use. For it is just by means of the qualities that are often so
irritating, their tiresome restlessness, their curiosity, their
disregard for security, for seemliness, even for life itself, that men
have mastered the world and filled it with the wealth of civilisation.
It is after this foolish, disorganised fashion of theirs, each of
them--difficult, touchy creatures--busy with his personal ambitions,
that they have armed the race with science, dignified it with art--one
can take men lightly, she told herself solemnly, to protect oneself from
annoyance, but one cannot take lightly the things that men have done.

Women, however--this was the thought that had stirred her to begin her
thinking--women are not divided by all these different aims. Their
single end, poor hampered things, is the service and the care of human
beings. Amid the magnificent confusion of man's conquests, in a world
whose riches and beauties man has turned to plunder, they do what they
can to love people, to feed them, to keep them healthy and happy.

It was exactly plunder that she meant--she told herself after a minute's
consideration--for what are women, after all, but mere camp-followers,
dragged up and down the world, allowed to exist and to carry out their
work in the interstices of man's enterprises, even permitted to enrich
themselves, if they can, by stealing a little here and there from the
vast accumulations of his loot, but without power to influence the
campaign, to choose the enemy, to choose the issue, even to decide the
order of the day's journey? It is no wonder, poor things, she thought,
forgiving them in advance, that with their children to rear and their
men to humour they have not been able to heal the wounds of these
preposterous battles, that in a land littered up with bricks, with iron,
with food, with stuffs, with books, with pictures, with tools and
machinery, with all the wealth that men--brilliant acquisitive
creatures--so love to produce, most of the people who live among these
riches are denied an access to knowledge and lack the simple necessities
of health. It is no wonder, but the point that she wanted--she made very
sure of it--is that this business that has not been done, this task of
distributing and administering, is not men's but women's work. Men care
for things, for their splendid complicated expensive things, women care
for the happiness that can be got from them. There are women, of course,
who don't, women like magpies, who have absorbed men's ideals without
doing the work that makes them honourable--she made the concession
hastily, for it suddenly occurred to her that hers would hardly be a
man's view of women--but after all one can put such people aside. In her
own life Mary had always put them aside, regarding them as the affair of
men and not of decent women. They were spoiled, poor things, and
doubtless not mainly by their own fault. There are men who prey on the
world, one can match the two sets of them against one another. To
protect the poor and the helpless is women's work, and if they neglect
the task there seems no reason--the London Library had not been
reassuring--to suppose that it will ever be properly done.

She turned back to her concrete example. James, for instance, had
conceived his business and brought it into being like a man. It was not
his fault that he had to build it according to the conditions of modern
commerce. It was not his fault that he had not a natural tenderness for
the girls' weak lungs, their flat feet, for the varicose veins
in their legs. A man like James was impatient of weakness and
stupidity,--impatient, therefore, of poverty and helplessness. His
workers were his material--his instruments--his troops; all men's games
have, after all, she supposed, an analogy to their great game of war.
Men enjoy a fight, they had rather get things by fighting, and when one
fights someone is sure to be hurt. No, these poor girls in the
restaurants were not James's charge, but hers, and she had neglected her
charge as idle women neglect it everywhere.

Mary reached this point in her thoughts with a certain satisfaction. The
matter was now quite settled in her mind. She did not so much believe
the conclusions she had come to as feel that this was her way of looking
at things. Others might look at them in a different way, but for her,
henceforth, that part of government that consists in helping the weak
and protecting them from the strong was to seem part of woman's general
task of clearing up after men. She understood now why James had not been
pleased when she tried to undertake her neglected duty. Man never is
pleased by the sight of woman's work. He hates having his study tidied,
he hates meeting the housemaid on the stairs, the primitive routine of
infant life makes no appeal to him. He does not like to think that his
wife could possibly clean a rabbit. It is not logical of him, but there
it is--in future she would not expect from James any glow of enthusiasm
over the details of her work, she would be content with his general pat
of appreciation when he found it properly done. Many a woman has been
content with less.

Nor was she dismayed, as well she might have been, by the inadequacy of
which she convicted her sex. We are all inadequate, and what she needed
was a reason for being inadequate no longer. She had found it, she was
delivered now, once and for all, from her doubt and her cowardice, from
her ridiculous dilemma of a virtuous person helpless in an evil world.
She had been, in her passive way, as evil as the world. She found the
reflection bracing.

It was not until the next afternoon, when she was taking her walk by the
river, that she began to wonder why she had been wicked and what were
her excuses. It was a sunny day, the people on the Embankment walked
cheerfully and the seagulls seemed to be enjoying themselves as they
screamed over her head. The cold bright air made her thoughts--she
imagined--unnaturally clear. She herself, of course, had been trustful
and ignorant, so had her mother been, her grandmother, and in her
grandmother's generation all really nice women. But women had not always
been ignorant--in the days when they gnawed bones and lived in caves
they must have possessed at least a rough practical knowledge of
everyday life. In the Middle Ages, too--that was the next period of
English history that came at all easily to her mind--James, a good
burgher, or perhaps a farmer, would have expected her to look after his
workers, after the maids, in any case, and the apprentices. She would,
she thought a little wistfully, have liked doing that! It would have
pleased her to plan and arrange for the big household, and have all
these girls and boys growing up round her and all their careers and love
affairs to watch over. And she would have liked to be a skilful woman
with half a dozen crafts at her finger-ends, a woman with legitimate
prides, with a reputation for this or that,--spinning, weaving,
preserving, baking,--all the things that James and his friends were
doing in factories. Even if her children had left her there would have
been her trades to carry on. And it would, too, she told herself, have
been very much more amusing for the children to grow up in such a
community than in an elegant and empty modern home. There were now no
interesting domestic crafts to watch, no apprentices to play with, no
population of maids or clerks or journeymen to distract the eye of the
mistress of the house. Instead, a strip of one side of a straight
street, servants one hardly spoke to tucked away in the dark, and dear
mother in the drawing-room never too busy to realise that the children
were not where they ought to be and were making too much noise. Of
course that was an advantage--Mary's loyalty stirred--a busy mother
cannot devote herself all day to her children. But memory was too strong
for loyalty--a busy mother has at least a certain intelligence at her
disposed. Mary's own dear mother had not been intelligent.

She left that part of the subject hastily--she did not wish to think ill
of her mother but she certainly had not succeeded with poor Julius. Mary
was fond of Julius, but nobody could admire his character.

She turned her thoughts, rather, to the reasons for this change. Men, of
course, had wanted to make fortunes out of women's industries, and with
their usual success they had invented machines that would do it. And
women, protesting probably, and being called fools for their pains, had
let them go. The workers had gone into the factories and it was not a
time when ladies could follow them there. Ladies, after all, were people
of no education, and the idea of their responsibility had not occurred
to them. Then, of course, there had been Napoleon. Mary had always
disliked Napoleon and she was pleased to attribute this extra blame to
him. He was a person, as she saw him, who had butchered the sons of a
million mothers without in any way making it up to women as a husband or
as the father of wonderful children. This Napoleon had looked upon women
in the way a man of his nature would--as trifles and possessions, and
the English nation had hastened to copy him. Only being Englishmen they
had grown sentimental and called their wives angels and shut them in
drawing-rooms. From their point of view, one must admit, it was a
pleasant arrangement. A woman with nothing to do all day would naturally
be ingratiating and affectionate in the evenings. And then of course
there had been the French Revolution--it was with both delight and
surprise that Mary recalled these historical facts. A year ago, she
felt, her thoughts would hardly have moved with such an easy boldness.
The French Revolution--ideas of equality were in the air--only in this
country we do not level down but up. The middle classes must have
enjoyed seeing their wives lead the life of a fine lady without, of
course--Mary thought of Lady Hester's mamma--a fine lady's idea of
herself or her challenging eye. It was all very natural. And then there
had been the Queen and her babies and her crinolines--one could not
expect women to be energetic with such a weight of cloth dragging at
their waists. So they had gone on indulging their husbands and making
them bad-tempered until by and by their children had revolted, and
now--she felt a little thrill of excitement--she was revolting too!

Well--she put it to herself--it was perfectly right and proper! They had
had a hundred years of drawing-rooms. And in spite of photographs and
Nottingham lace and new kinds of light and new-coloured dyes and stuffs
the rooms of a hundred years ago were probably prettier. It was no
wonder that they were tired of staying in them. She, at any rate, was
tired of hers. She was not a fine lady, she did not care for a fine
lady's life. She was an ordinary middle-class woman, who preferred doing
practical work to being kept in the house to be beautiful and mysterious
and tender and all the rest of it to any man with half an hour to spare.

She had reached the Vauxhall Bridge Road now, and she turned back. She
was surprised at the resentment that she discovered in herself when she
thought of this aspect of the life she had led. She and her personality
had simply been there to soothe them when they preferred her, as a
comforter, to their pipes! She knew that she had not seen the matter
like this before, and yet this was not, she felt convinced, a new
resentment. She must have disliked her position all along, if only she
had known it.

Well, there was no need to resent anything now, she was not poor Miss
Percival, she had finished with the cause of her anger. In future she
would have a life of her own, work of her own, and importance greater
than the importance of her smiles or of her sympathy. It would not be,
as a matter of fact, a question of smiles! For the first step towards
her new activity would be telling James about what she meant to do.

This thought made her walk a little faster, but walking faster did not
make the thought more pleasant. She would have to face an appalling
scene with James, and probably a great many scenes after that. He would
not give up his own way without a struggle. A fortnight ago, when she
still hated James, she would not very much have minded his scenes, but
now she had forgiven him, she had let herself feel fond of him again,
she had deliberately stirred up her gratitude! She almost wished that
she could take cover, just for the first impending interview, behind the
dislike that had protected her when she ran away. But she could not do
that--even on general grounds it is not right to dislike people if in
any way one can manage to make oneself like them. And she owed it to
James, moreover, to approach him in the kindest mood compatible with
firmness. She had caused him, by her behaviour, quite enough discomfort
and chagrin already. For the same reason she must not keep him waiting.
She must write to him as soon as she got home and tell him that she
meant to come back again.

She walked home without enjoying either the river or the sun.




CHAPTER XVIII


MEANWHILE the unfortunate James was feeling lonely. He was a hasty, not
a vindictive, man, and his anger soon ceased to afford him company. He
missed his wife and he missed Rosemary; as for Trent, he felt that Trent
regarded him with suspicion. The boy's prospects were to some extent in
peril through his father's conduct of this wretched affair, and try as
he might, James could not think of an attitude that would make Trent's
doubts of him seem absurd or wrong. He did not live, during these ten
days, in a cheerful household, and he could not seek consolation among
his friends for fear they would ask him questions about Mary. He still
had hopes for the future--James's future was not in the habit of turning
traitor--but the immediate present was certainly depressing.

Amid this gloom he had one pleasure--he could contemplate his future
knighthood. There he had Mary, damn her! There she was done! There was
nothing she would hate more, he believed, than to be Lady Heyham--your
ladyship--the wife of an undeserving and unromantic knight. Well, if she
wanted her feelings considered she should not have run off in the way
she did. In this at least she was helpless and at his mercy--his sense
of supremacy was soothed.

His anger had also another enemy. He was anxious, against his will,
about Mary's safety, and worried about the safety of their secret.
Heaven knows whom Mary mightn't have found to be her confidante! She
wasn't accustomed to managing for herself; if she hadn't found anyone
she might well be in difficulties and too proud to admit it. It was her
own fault, of course--if she was unhappy she deserved it--but his
generosity could not remain unstirred by the thought of Mary struggling
alone with the problems of a callous world. Her head was not made, he
felt, for the task of thinking things out, a task which even he himself
had refused as too hard for him. At the same time it was becoming daily
more necessary that she should finish her thinking and come home. The
friends with whom he had discussed his scheme would be wondering why he
did not get on with it. If he had had no means of finding Mary, he
might, in despair, have taken to hating her, but in a few days more he
hoped to be able to discover where she was. He had found her pass-book
and he meant, when sufficient time had elapsed, to send it in. She was
accustomed to making payments by cheque, and sooner or later she was
likely to draw a cheque to the manager of her hotel. And if he could not
track her by her cheques he thought that he might track her through her
bills. She paid them in the middle of every month, and in another week
the accustomed date would have come. It was unlikely that she would
change such a habit as this merely because she happened not to be at
home. He would go presently to one of the shops where both he and she
were well known, and ask if Mrs. Heyham's bill was paid. If not, he
would pay it and tell them to return her remittance, if it came, to her
town address. If the bill was paid, he would ask on what date she had
paid and from what address the money had been sent. He could explain
that some of her letters seemed to have been stolen on their way to the
post. It might not work, but he was inclined to think that it would. The
bills were coming in, and he forwarded them carefully to show that he
expected her to deal with them herself. This being so he hoped in a few
days to be in a position to open negotiations, and as the need for her
return became more urgent his idea of the tone that he should take was
modified. He did not believe that he was any less angry with her than he
had been at first, but from a tactical point of view it would be no use,
he told himself, to say many things which he had morally a perfect right
to say. He must go softly and, injured and indignant though he was, he
must endeavour to move her by arguments rather than threats. He had not
the least intention of sacrificing his rights or his dignity, but
although he did not admit it to himself he was tired of his rage and the
thought of compromise relieved his nerves. He told himself that she had,
after all, one valid score against him, and it might be as well, on the
whole, to cancel their personal injuries.

It was in this frame of mind that he came home, on the tenth day after
Mary's flight, to find her letter waiting in the hall. He had meant, if
a letter came, to recognise her writing with complete indifference. That
little offering at least he would make to his dignity. He was annoyed
with himself, therefore, when his body seemed to grow tense, to prepare
itself, at the sight of the small white envelope. He picked it up with a
frown and carried it into the library. Clearly he was an old fool!

He tore the envelope at once, with the gesture, he tried to persuade
himself, that he would have used for the opening of any ordinary
business letter. It bore the date of that morning, and was headed by her
address.


"DEAREST JAMES:

"To-morrow, unless you've some reason for preferring me to wait a few
days, I am coming home. I only hid myself here in order to think in
quiet, and I believe I have decided the questions I wanted to consider.
In the first place, James, about our personal relations, I feel that I
was wrong. I did not want to hurt you, or to revenge myself, but as a
matter of fact I was hard and uncharitable. I was ungrateful too, I
forgot all I owed you and only remembered the wrong you had done me. I
was miserable, and I forgot that I loved you--I did not realise that
even my suffering was only the other side of love. Now I want you to
forgive me and to let me forgive you, and to agree with me to bury the
whole thing. I have thought it all over,--why you did it and what my
share and blame in the matter was, and I see that I was angrier than I
had any right to be. But please, James, if you don't mind, I had rather
not discuss it with you. I had rather that we neither of us mentioned it
again."

So far so good--James looked up from the letter. He was pleased that
Mary had forgiven him, and he had not the least desire to discuss the
matter. His dominant feeling was one of great relief. Only that morning
he had been saying to himself that he couldn't be expected to stand this
sort of thing indefinitely. If Mary chose to go off and neglect her
duties she couldn't complain of what he might do in her absence. She
need not think that whatever sort of fool she might make of him he would
go on taking it lying down. Now he was glad that his protest had gone no
further. She was coming home, and the sentimental values of his position
were unimpaired. He could greet her and feel fond of her, if he chose,
without reservations. As for forgetting the past--it was clearly the
best thing, on the whole, that he could do. She had had no business to
go, but no particular harm had come of it. And, after all, she had been
an injured wife and a fuss was within her rights. He had got off with
only ten days of it and with a minimum of scenes. On the whole he was
decidedly pleased to cry quits.


The rest of the letter was more serious.


"As to the business, I am afraid that I have made up my mind not to
consent to the sale. I have thought it over very carefully, and if I
haven't asked anyone for advice it is because I felt sure you would
rather I decided entirely by myself."--James grunted.--"It isn't that I
doubt the soundness of your schemes from the point of view of making
money, but I cannot consent to anything that will make it more difficult
to obtain proper conditions for our employees. It is hard enough, as you
explained to me yourself, to do anything for them when no one would
suffer for it but ourselves, but it seems to me that if there were
outside shareholders to consider, it would become impossible."


James looked up again. He was making a hasty search for an argument that
would prove that employees in public companies are necessarily better
off than those who are employed by an individual master. He did not find
the argument he desired, and he returned to the letter.


"I don't want you to think that I am blaming you, James, or that I think
you are a bad employer. I know our girls are better treated than plenty
of others. All the same, the work is too hard for them, and they are not
paid enough. But the person I blame for it is myself. I have been taking
half the profits and doing absolutely nothing for them. You have done
your work of building the business, and done it splendidly, but I have
neglected mine. If I had taken an interest in the girls from the
beginning, as I should have done, it would not be necessary to make an
upheaval now. But late as it is I feel that I must make it. Now that I
know what their lives are like, I cannot live happily without trying to
alter them, and that can only be done by altering the conditions of
their work. I haven't decided this because I am obstinate or because I
want to get my own way. Believe me, I would far rather come back to you
without a shadow of difficulty between us. But it would not be right.

                   Your loving

                             Mary."


James put the letter down. It was final. She had done her worst. For a
moment he was filled with pity for himself. His scheme was ruined! The
wonderful scheme of which he had been so proud! Those columned
cinematograph palaces of his dream would never be built--they were
doomed by a woman's caprice. The builders and painters they might have
employed would go empty away. The public that might have enjoyed his
first-rate films would continue to enjoy the films of other people. The
money that might have made him a rich man would continue to flow into
other people's pockets. And all because Mary-- He pulled himself up. He
must think, and think quickly, not of his grievances but of what he had
better do. There must be some way among all the devious ways of commerce
of getting round a mere woman's decision. He could, of course, leave
Mary out of it and carry out his projects by himself. He could sell his
share of the business to the Afternoon Tea Company, or he could persuade
Mary to buy him out. Then she could wreck the Imperial with her damned
philanthropy if she wanted to--without him to manage for her she would
wreck it fast enough, whether she tried philanthropy or not.

For a moment or two he turned over these possibilities. They would dish
Mary all right, as far as her schemes of coercing him went, but that, as
he considered them, seemed their only attraction. For one thing everyone
would want to know why he had given up the Imperial and Mary would no
doubt supply an explanation. That wasn't good enough for a man well
known to have a liberal mind. In the next place he could not afford to
smash the Imperial, as Mary would certainly smash it. She would never
allow herself to be guided by Trent. The Imperial was his life's work,
it stood for his life's credit--besides it was one thing to invest in
this new venture with another business safe and sound at his back; it
was a different thing to go into it, at his age, when he might come out
a beggar. No, Mary had got him cornered. His only hope, it seemed, was
to appear to consent to her plans and then to wear her down. Plans of
hers were certain at some point to be impracticable.

He was cornered, but he could not believe it. As he paced the floor his
brain worked feverishly--as actively, with as great a strength and
sureness, he felt, as it had ever worked in the great days of the
Imperial's expansion. It was impossible that he, with his brilliance,
his reputation, his knowledge of business, could be brought to a stop by
a scruple of his wife's. He went back to the thought of deserting the
Imperial--he was proud of the Imperial, but he was also wearied of
managing it. It had been all right while new openings were presenting
themselves every day, but now the thing had established itself in a
routine. For twenty Marys he wasn't going to spend the rest of his
working life like an old horse at a wheel....

What he wanted, he told himself, was an idea--one of his famous ideas.
He had always before, in moments of crises, been able to depend on his
wits--why should he fail himself now! He must have an idea, if only to
present it to Trent when Trent came home....

The idea, when it came, was so little the idea for which he had been
hoping that he did not welcome it as it deserved. But in ten minutes he
had almost accepted it. It was new, it was interesting, it was exciting.
Mary, it seemed, was set upon making him one of your model employers.
Very well then, let them be the most model employers in England, the
most blatantly, spotlessly, ostentatiously model, and then he would go
into Parliament as the nation's hope. That could be his reason for
dropping his other scheme. He had been persuaded at last, he could say,
that it was his duty to stand. And in a way, after all, why shouldn't it
be his duty?

"For of all the political problems that vex our age, what is more
pressing and more difficult than the urgent problem of labour? It cannot
be postponed, gentlemen, it cannot be ignored! The recent strikes have
brought it home to the heart of every honest Englishman. And how is it
to be solved, apart from violence and class hatred and mob law--which as
my hearers know are not a solution--except by a new spirit on the part
of both employers and employed? A less grudging spirit--a less material
spirit! And moreover, like all movements that are worth anything, this
change must spring not from the ignorant masses but from the enlightened
few. We, if only to shame them by our example, must take the first
step--" He was already deep in his speech when Trent came in.

James turned to his son with a benign and serious air. "I've had a
letter from your mother, Trent," he said, "and she says that she is
coming back to-morrow!"

Trent halted for a moment midway between the fireplace and the door.
Then, continuing his way, he answered soberly, "I'm very glad to hear
it. Does she say what she has decided about the reconstruction?"

"I am sorry to say, my dear boy, that she refuses."

For a moment neither of them spoke, then James went on-- "She wishes
certain reforms to be carried out which would hardly be agreed to by the
shareholders of a public company."

Trent nodded. "Rosemary's Socialism!"

But James did not agree. "Well, of course," he said, "it's very easy to
call a thing socialism merely because it's inconvenient, but after all a
great deal depends upon the way in which it is done. At bottom, Trent,
I'm not really convinced that some of your mother's notions aren't just!
One's ideas get fixed, you know, one's too apt to look at things from
one's own point of view!"

Trent stared at him. "Do you intend to put these notions into practice
then? And what about the new scheme?"

James's mild air rebuked his son's impatience. "The new scheme, I'm
afraid, must be abandoned for the time. And as for these reforms, I
don't tie myself down to any particular plan, but I intend to devote a
certain amount of attention to the health and the conditions of our
employees. After all"--his voice became brisk--"there are more ways of
attaining an influential position than money alone. And I take it that
what you really need, my dear fellow, in your own affairs, is not so
much more money as a more important name. I say 'you need' because I
feel that as the responsibility for this situation rests to a certain
extent with me, it is particularly my duty to see that you do not suffer
by it."

Trent moved uneasily. He always disliked his father's serene assumption
that he could not manage his own affairs for himself. He would have
shown his dislike more definitely if he had not known that as a matter
of fact the assumption was more or less true. Lady Hester's mamma had
recently forbidden her to write to him.

"Well," James went on, "I've been thinking it over, and I've almost
determined to go into Parliament. First we'll reorganise the
business--put it on to a more philanthropic basis. Then I'll attend to
that knighthood, and at the same time start work on a constituency.
After all I'm not a bad speaker, when it comes to speaking, and I really
feel that we business men don't pay sufficient attention to politics.
One owes, after all, a sort of duty to the nation. When I have put our
relations with our employees on to a thoroughly sound footing, it seems
to me that my presence in Parliament might have a real, though of
course, only a small, value---"

So that was it! Trent permitted himself a moment of irony. "It's very
good of you, sir, to adopt such a strenuous career on my account, though
I've not the least doubt that you'll make a success of it. But as far as
I'm concerned, of course, the effect depends upon what side you are on.
The Iredales are naturally Conservatives."

James was taken aback. "Well, well," he said, "it's a great pity that
our leisured classes are so bigoted. They'd have far more real power,
believe me, if they looked beyond their immediate prejudices! Look at
this land legislation! Should we ever have had it if more of our
landowners were Liberals? Still, of course, that doesn't help you, my
boy." He thought for a moment, and then his face brightened. "After
all," he said, "I'm not going into this as a party man. It's a definite
mission--something, in its way, above party. There might even be
advantages in starting the thing from the least likely quarter--I don't
want at all to create the impression that I'm attacking the established
order. My ideas are definitely constructive. Now that you put it to me
I'm not at all sure that it wouldn't create less ill-feeling--though of
course there's their damn-fool protection-- And the knighthood--no, I'm
afraid it wouldn't do!" he sighed.

At that moment the clock struck half-past six. A new idea occurred to
James. "Look here," he said, "I'd brought home these papers from
Carter's to look over--but I've thought of something that I want to do.
I'd be very grateful if you'd go through them for me--if there's
anything I really ought to see I'll tackle it after dinner."

It was one of Trent's good points that he did not object to work, he
believed in efficiency and perseverance as James believed in energy and
enterprise. He nodded. "Certainly, I'll go through them as soon as I've
changed--" He went over to his father's desk.

James left the room without saying anything more. In the hall he met one
of the servants, and with her he left a message that Mrs. Heyham might
possibly be in to dinner. Then he went out and took the first taxi he
met. If there was to be a reconciliation, he considered, it was foolish
to put it off until the morrow. If he was going to see Mary again he
might just as well see her gladly and at once. He was feeling glad and
perfectly forgiving. His new excitement left no room in his mind for
anger or bitterness. The idea of Parliament delighted him. Thirty years
of business is enough for one lifetime, and Trent could manage well
enough with an occasional prod from his father. James was not a very
ambitious man. He did not imagine himself Prime Minister. But he liked
to think of his maiden speech--the House would surely listen with
attention to one who came not as a professional politician, but as the
very voice, so to speak, of England's backbone--a solid successful
self-made business man, and one, moreover, who was unassuming and not
without a certain personal charm. He would be popular in the House, he
felt it. It did not occur to him that his ideas of labour conditions
might be a little old-fashioned.

It was not until the taxi drew up that he turned his mind seriously to
his interview with Mary. He did not look forward to it with any anxiety.
It would be all right, he told himself as the lift mounted, particularly
as she didn't want to discuss things. She had been ill when he saw her
before, but now she was well-- The dear little thing, in a few minutes
more it would be all right again!

Guinivere showed him into the sitting-room. Mary was lying on the sofa,
and as the door opened she turned towards it. Her face, when first she
caught sight of him, expressed nothing but surprise. She half rose--then
he saw the look of surprise change to trouble, almost to fear. Poor
little thing--poor little darling--she was afraid of him! He crossed the
room and took her into his arms. "Ridiculous little mother," he said,
"why did you look at me like that? I've not come to tell you anything
more dreadful than that I love you!"

Mary clung to him. "Oh, James," she said, "haven't you?" and for a
moment she was satisfied with his kiss. Then her doubts returned, she
drew herself a little away. "But did you read my letter?" she asked.
"The part at the end, about the business?"

James kissed her again. "Oh, yes, I read it," he told her, "and this
tyrant of a mother of ours is going to have it all her own way. The
girls shall have a nurse apiece and a lap-dog as well, if the money will
run to it, and you'll dress in black serge and I'll wear a celluloid
collar. Seriously, we can't sell the business if you object to it, and I
feel that I've no right to coerce your conscience in the matter of
wages. I won't pretend that I'm not disappointed at having to give up my
scheme, but to make up for it and keep myself amused I'm going to become
an orator and stand for Parliament. How will you like that?"

Mary smiled up at him. "I'm sure you'll be splendid," she said, "you
speak so well--but, James--just tell me first--aren't you angry with me
at all?"

He interrupted her. "I have been angry with you--I'm a bad-tempered
creature, and I must admit that I was awfully angry. But now that's to
be all over, isn't it? We've come back to one another, just as if I'd
been away on business." His arms tightened round her. "Look up at me,
Mary--I love you, my dear, more than I love anything in the world!"

When he had finished kissing her he told her to put on her hat. "I've
come to take you back to dinner," he informed her, "and we've only just
time. Trent and I have had dinner alone quite long enough. The young
woman who let me in can pack your things and I'll call for them
to-morrow. I'd like to see this place in daylight--do you know, I'm not
sure this scheme of colour wouldn't be worth trying in some of our new
shops. It's quite original--I'll tell young Price to come along and have
a look at it. Are all the other rooms as weird as this?"

Mary went into her room to put on her things, but her fingers trembled
so that their pins and their buttons were almost too much for her. After
all that had happened James still loved her, and she loved him again.
The resentment that had lain so heavy on her, the doubt that had stifled
her, were gone. He loved her, and she could respond with joy to his
kiss. She looked at herself in the glass and smiled happily. The soft
appeal of her youth was gone; no other man would ever care for her now,
but James cared.

She heard the door open and turned towards it. Again it was James. His
eyes were bright and he was holding out his hands. "My dear," he said,
"I'm impatient, I can't lose sight of you!"

In another moment he was bending over her, kissing her soft hair.
"James!" she said, but she did not go on; instead she found herself
crying on his shoulder.

James held her more closely. "Cry away, little thing!" he told her, "I
really believe that you are fond of me!"

She raised her face for a kiss. She was fond of him, but she knew that
it was not that that had made her cry. Her tears were for her vanished
youth and its young, foolish love.

In the taxi on the way back James held her hand and told her how much he
had missed her, and how all his schemes had lost their savour without
his old darling there to encourage him. She must promise to encourage
him in every possible way when he made his appeal to the terrible
elector. She must sit on his platform at meetings and smile at his
workers in her own irresistible way and be in the Ladies' Gallery when
he made his speeches. It was part of James's charm that he never said
pretty things without meaning them, and Mary listened to him in a state
of glad confusion. Underneath her content, she knew, there was something
else, some question unsatisfied, but this was not the time for attending
to it. This was simply the time for being happy--she had earned her
right to be as happy as she could. She lay against James's shoulder and
sighed with happiness. "We're home now," he said, as the taxi turned
into the square, "and do you know, from the moment you cross the
doorstep all this great adventure of yours will sink away like a dream!"
She did not agree with him, but she forebore to shake her head. The taxi
stopped--there were the familiar steps, in a moment she would see the
servant's familiar face. The entrance hall was more like a dream, she
thought, in its tall ugliness, than the queer red and orange room that
they had left to the windy night. But she was glad to see her house
again, her ordinary house.

On the table in the hall lay a letter from Rosemary. "There's no time to
dress," James called after her as she carried it up the stairs.
"Dinner's ready and I've some work to do afterwards." She made him some
answer, and escaped to her room.

The letter was short.


"MY DARLING MOTHER,

"I just wanted to tell you how extraordinarily happy we are. It's
ridiculous that everybody can't always be as happy as this.

                   Your loving

                             ROSEMARY."


Here was a rosy world! Here, if she wanted it, she could seek her youth!
Then she sighed. Would Rosemary, she wondered, wake at last from her
dreams as she had done, or were things different now, did one never,
now, forget the world in love? She must not dawdle, she reminded
herself. James was waiting! Mary washed her hands and went downstairs.

In the dining-room Trent kissed her protectively. He too had missed her
although he seldom saw very much of her, but he thought it more tactful
not to tell her so. He watched her plate, however, during dinner, and
advised her on one occasion to alter her choice as the savoury was
particularly good. James, who liked to sit next her when they were alone
instead of at the end of the table, watched the uncertain glance of her
eyes, her quick smile, and the slight unsteadiness of her hands.

"It was rather sudden," he thought; "she's worked up--the poor little
darling." He laughed and made jokes and told them election stories.

"Trent wants to make a Tory of me," he told her. "What do you think of
that?"

Mary was surprised--her wits were not ready. "But I thought Trent was a
Liberal!" she said.

James leaned back in his chair and twisted the stem of his glass. "There
you are, Trent--what do you say to that?" He looked pleased.

Trent let his eyelids droop. "It seems to me," he said, "that our party
names have lost a great deal of their old reality. But in some respects
I am certainly prepared to support the present Government." In some
respects he would have been, as a matter of fact, prepared to support
almost any Government. It was his instinct to be on the governing side.

Mary looked at James. He thought he could see that she was a little
tired. "Well, well," he said, "we won't distress your mother with talk
about politics now. There's no need to decide at present; we must see to
the business first."

He turned to Mary for the grateful smile which she immediately gave him.

After dinner she went upstairs to the drawing-room as usual and walked
to her customary chair. James had a little work to do, but he had said
that he would come in and see her when it was over. She had hardly sat
down, however, and taken up the knitting that was waiting in the
work-box where she had left it, when the door opened and James appeared
at it. "You're sure you're quite all right?" he said and smiled. "I
thought I'd just have a look at you--to feel sure I've got you safe,
little thing!"

She managed to answer him. "Quite safe, my darling!" Then the door shut,
and she could hear him whistling cheerfully as he went downstairs.

He had got her back and now he was content. For a moment she listened to
his footsteps, then she rose to her feet in a vain protest against the
tears that were running down her face. She had everything she could
want, she told herself, and yet for a second time, absurdly, she wept.

What she hoped, after all, she admitted presently, was impossible. She
had hoped for her old blind worship back again in answer to James's
love. She could not have it back, it was gone, and she was afraid. She
had covered herself from the world with James's strength, with his
assurance and his love for her. His kindness had been her shelter from
suffering, from truth, from life. Now these gifts of his protected her
no longer; she stood alone.

She walked over to the window and pulled the curtains aside. The street
before her was empty under its shining lamps, but across the square,
through the bare tossing boughs of the trees, people moved down the
pavement, talking and shuffling their feet. Two taxis ran quickly past
them, blotting them out, but when the noise had stopped Mary knew that
they were poor people, men and women. As she listened to them her mood
changed. After all, she was not alone. Close to her were millions of her
fellow-men, huddled together in narrow streets because they too were
afraid of being alone, afraid of silence, of the cold empty night. And
they had brought with them the fruit of their knowledge and of their
labour--they had brought their suffering, their ignorance and
helplessness.

She leaned forward a little, resting her arms against the glass. There
about her lay the great violent city, and beyond it, beyond the downs
and the dark sea, down the curve of the world its other cities rang with
the pain, the defiance, the glory of man. Now she too was to share man's
task and his inheritance. She had left her ordered house for the clamour
and promise of life....

Behind her the lights burned steadily in the big gay room. Outside a man
laughed and the wind lifted the branches in the square.




THE END