“Well, that’s what we thought, but I went round and saw her the other day, and she quite agreed with us that it was really no good waiting any longer. You are making a lot of money, and it’s quite likely that Mr. Marston will raise your salary when he hears you’re going to be married; and after all, why should you wait? As I said to your father: ‘They’ve known each other for a long time, and if they don’t know their minds now they never will.’ ”
Roland did not know what to say. He was unarmed by a sympathy and kindness against which he could not fight.
“It’s awfully decent of you.” Those were the only words that occurred to him, and he knew, even as he uttered them, that they were not only completely inadequate, but pitifully inexpressive of his state of mind.
“We only want to do what will make you happy, and it is happier to marry young, really it is!”
He made a last struggle.
“But, mother, don’t you think that for April’s sake—she’s so young. Isn’t it rather hard on her to be loaded with responsibilities so early?”
“It’s nice of you to think that, Roland. It shows you really care for her; but I think that in the end, when she’s an old woman like I am, she’ll be glad she married young.”
And then, because Roland looked still doubtful, she offered him the benefit of what wisdom the narrow experiences of her life had brought her. She had never unlocked her heart before; it hurt her to do it now and her eyes welled with tears. But she felt that, at this great crisis of his life, she must be prepared to lay before her son everything that might help him in it. It might be of assistance to him to know how these things touched a woman, and so she told him how she too had once thought it cruel that responsibilities should have been laid on her so soon.
“I was only nineteen when I married your father, and things were very difficult at first. It was a small house, we had no servant, and I had to get up early in the morning and light the fires and get the breakfast things ready, and all the morning I had to scrub and brush and wash up. I had no friends. And then, after tea, I used to lie down for an hour and rest, I was so tired, and I wanted to look fresh and pretty for your father when he came home. And there were times when I thought it was unfair; that I should have been allowed to be free and happy and unworried like other girls of my age. I used to see some of my school friends very occasionally and they used to tell me of their balls and parties, and I was so envious. And then very often your father was irritable and bad-tempered when he came back, and he found fault with my cooking, and I used to go away and cry all by myself and wonder why I was doing it, working so hard and for nothing. And then I began to think he didn’t love me any more; there was another girl: she was fresher; she didn’t have to do any housework. There was nothing in it; it never came to anything. Your father was always faithful; he’s always been very good to me, but I could see from the way his face lighted up when she came into the room that he was attracted by her, and I can’t tell you how it hurt me. I used to think that he preferred that other girl, that he thought her prettier than I was. It wasn’t easy those first three years. When you’ve been married three years you’re almost certain to regret it and think you could have done better with someone else, but after ten years you’ll know very well that you couldn’t, because, Roland, love doesn’t last; not what you mean by love; but something takes its place, and that something is more important. When two people have been through as much together as your father and I have, there’s—I don’t know how to put it—but, you can’t do without each other. And it makes a big difference the being married early. That’s why I should like you and April to marry as soon as ever you can. You’d never regret it.”
The tears began to trickle slowly down her cheeks; she tried to go on, but failed.