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.
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.
"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."
"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 lovingMary."
"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 lovingROSEMARY."
"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