For the first time, her will and Laurence's were definitely, sharply opposed. Heretofore, each of them had yielded, in much that concerned the other, without a clear issue. She felt that she had yielded a good deal to Laurence. He had associates that she did not like, hard-drinking bachelors of the bar, with whom he spent an occasional convivial evening, coming back flushed and gay though never overcome. She did not like even his moderate drinking, nor the fact that he never went to church, that he took no interest in religion except to jest crudely about it. On the other hand, he had not, so far, tried to interfere openly with her interest in the church nor her association with Hilary in work, nor her taking up a course of reading in history and beginning to study Greek under Hilary's direction. He had acquiesced in her asking Hilary to supper a few times, as was her social duty, and had behaved with courtesy, though she knew he disliked "the preacher." He gave no good reason for his feeling, but he expressed it in gibes and bitter jokes about "sky-pilots," the fondness of women for priests, the power of "holiness," and so on. These expressions irritated Mary deeply, but she had passed them over in silence, withdrawing into herself and indicating to Laurence that she did not expect him to understand nor take any part in this interest of hers, any more than she could take part in his stag-suppers.
But this division of interest, this separation, to some extent, of activity, did not affect her feeling about Laurence nor disappoint any desire in her. She was satisfied with Laurence and with the arrangement of her life. The achievement of maternity had given her the solid basis, the central motive, to which everything else was incidental. Laurence was most importantly connected with this motive, but yet in a way he was outside it. And he felt this and raged dumbly against it. What he had dreamed of was a mystic bond between Mary and himself, which should be the centre of all things, subordinating everything else. And this, in his feeling, had not come to pass, because she could not understand nor respond to his desire. He was unsatisfied; therefore demanding, often harsh and bitter, often unreasonable.
Laurence was not contented to be a husband and a father; and this appeared to Mary the height of unreason on his part. To be the head of a family—what more dignified and satisfactory position could he wish, so far as his private life was concerned? If, in addition, he succeeded in his profession, what more could he ask? Why, when everything promised well, should he so often be moody, irritable and discontented? It must be the nature of man, perpetually unquiet.
On one point Mary was a little disingenuous, or perhaps not clearly conscious. Her plan assigned to Laurence the rôle of head of the family; in reality what she expected him to be was a figurehead. This was quite in accordance with custom and tradition. Theoretically, of course, the man was master of his household, and the wife as well as the children owed himobedience. Mary would never have dreamed of disputing this axiom. It was accepted by all the women of her acquaintance. But practice—that was quite another thing. In practice, the women ruled their households and themselves, and very often their husbands also, allowing them liberty of course in exclusively masculine matters, such as business, and a certain amount of license in regard to their amusements. The woman's path was sharply marked out; she could not overstep certain limits. But keeping within those limits, she had her authority and independence.
In her own family, Mary could remember very few occasions on which her mother's actions or decisions had been questioned by the nominal chief. If she were subject to her husband, it did not appear; the household produced the effect of a matriarchy. And this was Mary's idea of the proper constitution of a family. It was unthinkable that the man should interfere in details, should try to dictate in matters outside his province; by so doing, he lost dignity, which it was essential he should maintain.
A wife must always speak to her husband with respect; must never criticize him nor complain of him, even to her nearest friend or relative; his dignity was hers. Also, a certain formality in her address to him was proper. She should use his title, if he had one, as Judge, Doctor or Colonel; or if not, should call him Mr. Brown, rather than John. Mary was conscious that her relation with Laurence, so far, lacked formality. But Laurence hated that sort of thing, and he was very young, for his years. He was nearly thirty, yet he acted like a boy, much of the time.
That afternoon and evening, there were times when there was nothing to be done in the sickroom but to sit and watch; and Mary was thinking. She regretted bitterly the clash with Laurence—those sharp words, her own assertion of independence. There she had made a mistake, had transgressed her own code. Laurence's counter-assertion of authority was also a mistake, but a natural consequence of hers. She should not have set herself up against him, in a personal matter, even if he were wrong. She now found herself obliged either to give battle or to retreat—both alternatives very distasteful to her. She was angry at herself; she had fallen below her own standard, lost her self-control, behaved in an unseemly fashion; and had much weakened her own position.
She perceived now, aghast, that if Laurence actuallydidcommand, she would have to obey. She could not openly flout her husband's authority, that was impossible, her own pride would not permit it. The terrible mistake was to have brought him to issue a command. She knew very well that that was not the way to manage.
Sitting by the bedside, her hands folded on her knee, looking straight before her, she thought it out. She did not like the idea of "managing," or gaining any point by methods other than the most simple and direct. Anything underhand, any ruse or scheme, was deeply repugnant to her. She did not like even to "humour" people. How, then, was one to deal with an unreasonable man—must one actually submit to him when he was in the wrong?
Laurence was wrong and unreasonable in this casebecause he could not possibly think that there was any harm in her friendship with Hilary. He could not possibly suspect her of anything approaching wrong, in that connection. At the mere idea of it, her cheeks fired and her eyes flashed proudly. She felt herself not only impeccable in thought and deed, but above suspicion from him or any one else. Therefore in acting as though he suspected her, or even disapproved of her, he was wronging her deeply....
But let that be, for the moment. The thing to do now, was to retrieve her own false step. She had done wrong—she would set that right, as far as possible. Then at leastshewould be right, whatever he might be. And it was absolutely necessary for her to be right, in her own feeling. What she saw as the right thing she would do, whatever it cost her.
Having made her decision, she became quieter in mind, and began to think about the Judge. This day was evidently a day of disaster. The Judge would never be the same again. Suddenly she realized that she had grown very fond of him. Affection had been obscured in her by constant disapproval of his character. She disdained fleshly indulgences, such as eating and drinking too much. She had felt scornful when the Judge's face would flush after dinner, when sometimes his speech was a little thick of an evening, when he found difficulty in lifting his heavy bulk. But now that the punishment of these carnal indulgences had fallen upon him, she felt real sorrow. And even, as she thought what was before him, the rare tears rose and softened her grey eyes.
When she had a few minutes alone with Laurence, before he took up his night-watch beside the Judge, she said to him gently:
"I'm very sorry I spoke to you as I did this afternoon. I was wrong. I shall never oppose your will, in anything that concerns myself, if I can help it."
Laurence's troubled gloomy face lit up with a flash of joy. He clasped her in his arms, melting instantly when she showed a sign of yielding, too happy to pause upon the manner of her yielding. His generous spirit, impetuous and uncalculating, carried him much farther in concession. He swept their difference away passionately.
"Dearest, I was wrong too—more than you!... You know, Mary, I don't want to interfere with any pleasure of yours—you know I want you to have everything you want!... And I don't think you want anything wrong, you know I don't think it, not for a minute!... Only I want you to love me more than anything, not to need anything but me, that's all I really want! And you do, don't you? Because I love you more than the whole world—"
"Of course I do," she said softly. "You know perfectly well, I do."
"No, sometimes I don't, and then I get wild! Then I can't bear to have you like any one else at all. Only make me feel that you love me, Mary, and it will be all right. I shan't care what you do, if I'm sure of you!"
"As if you weren't sure of me!" said Mary, with a touch of austerity.
"Oh, I don't mean what you do, I mean your feeling, don't you see?"
"No, I don't. How queer you are, Laurence!"
"No, it's you that's queer!... But I love you."
So the shadow passed, for the time being. But the reality which had cast this shadow remained, the real difference. Both of them were careful now not to bring it up, both repressed themselves somewhat. Mary continued to see Hilary in connection with the church, but she did not ask him to the house. Laurence did not speak of him, nor of Mary's studies, and she kept her books out of his sight. But he knew that she was going on, as he would have said, regardless of his feeling; and she knew that he was still unreasonable about it.
For some time, however, this remained an undercurrent in their life, which was full of activities, interests, anxieties, in which they generally accorded. It was on the whole a happy time for them, an unconscious happiness. They were young and vigorous, life opened out before them full of hope and promise, vaguely bright.