A lady and her husband

by Amber Reeves Blanco White

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!