A lady and her husband

by Amber Reeves Blanco White

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."