A lady and her husband

by Amber Reeves Blanco White

IT was a day of tears. Poor Mrs. Wilson and Florrie had every right to cry, the landlady had cried because it seemed the proper thing to do, the little man had cried, presumably because he could not help it, and when she reached home Mary had cried without any definite excuse. It was true that she had realised for the first time how gay, how clean, how spacious, her own house was, how refreshing warm water is, and plenty of soap, but a sensible person need hardly have made these an occasion for weeping. As a matter of fact she was crying where a more energetic woman would have rejoiced. Miss Percival, though she was coldly above the weakness of tears, had taken Florrie home. There was a spare bedroom in her flat for which she didn't consider Florrie too immoral, and in it the child was to spend the day which, in this industrious age, is sufficient concession to the filial grief of the lower classes. Afterwards she was to be apprenticed to a friend of Miss Percival's who was a dressmaker. Mary would pay for her support, for the necessary instruction, and for the funeral. The dressmaker was a lady with theories and perfectly able, said Miss Percival, to cope with such a poor attempt at a thief. Mary ought to have been gratified at the good her money was doing. Even Mrs. Wilson might be said to have come well out of the adventure. She herself had admitted that since heathens in Asia had learned to make crochet lace their rivals in England must feel themselves better dead; and as far as this one case went Mary agreed with her. The coarseness, the subservience, and the cruelty of Mrs. Wilson had shocked Mary. That being so, there was no one for whom to feel pity but the unhappy little man, and as a right-minded woman she knew that he deserved heavier punishment than a passing pang of sorrow. He was a wicked little man. Nevertheless she cried very heartily, and only recovered her self-control when she remembered that James might well be home early and would certainly be upset by visible traces of tears.

She did not now dread the return of James; the unwonted emotions of the day had exhausted her capacity for worrying herself. Florrie's cruder troubles made the subtleties of her former uneasiness seem a little ridiculous. She forgot that she had meant to greet James with a special compensating tenderness; she only felt a little excited when she realised that for once she had something of real importance to talk to him about.

But James had not forgotten. As soon as business released his mind he remembered that he wanted to be particularly loving. He hadn't had a chance that morning of kissing and reassuring poor little Mary; all the more reason to hurry home now and put an end to whatever thoughts might still be distressing her. He knew from experience that Mary, with no other imperative claims on her attention, let her mind dwell too long on such trifles. She would suffer all day because she had done or said something that had left his mind when the first thought of his day's work entered it. He had always tried to be very tender with her, since she was so harsh with herself—his last night's bad temper had been inexcusable. He could not imagine now what had provoked it. Nothing that she, poor darling, was responsible for, but that wouldn't have kept her—he knew her—from persuading herself all this time that it was entirely her own fault and nothing to do with him.

He hurried through the last batch of waiting papers, and decided to forego even his walk home. It was a sacrifice, because he felt in need of exercise. Instead he drove to a florist's and bought some roses. When he had first become able to afford it he had bought Mary rings. She had charming, slender fingers, and he had a taste for rings. But after some time he had noticed that though she thanked him delightfully she seldom wore them. She was afraid, she said, of losing them. So he had been forced to fall back on flowers. The dear little thing was fond of flowers.

He bought enough flowers to-day to satisfy five or six ladies of Mary's size. It was one of the troubles of being rich that she could, undoubtedly, procure roses for herself if she really wanted them. But he liked to think, so strong was the instinct that had made him give up his walk, that the roses he gave her were different from those that she merely ordered.

She was in her room when he reached home, and when he had thrown aside the florist's wrappings he went up to it. He didn't want to give her just an immense unwieldy roll of paper. She was to see, as soon as she saw him, the beauty which he had chosen to be the token of his love. She was leaning on the mantelpiece as he came through the door. There! Red eyes!—just as he had thought!

She seemed perfectly pleased, however, with him and his roses, and her mouth, as she lifted it to be kissed, had no wistful droop.

"How lovely, darling!" she told him, and rang the bell. "I particularly wanted some to-day. I've had no time to get any and the others are dying. And I'm so glad to see you so early, because really, James, it has been an extraordinary day, and I do want to hear what you think of it all!" She looked at him anxiously.

He stroked her hair, and then put a finger beneath her chin. "I don't think I like you to go through extraordinary days if they leave you looking like this—tired out, and red round your dear grey eyes! But as you are in this state it's quite right to tell me all about it!" He made her sit down on the sofa and sat down by her.

Mary, for once, was too full of her tale to notice that he looked a little disappointed. She did not usually entrust to a servant flowers that were his special personal gift. It was quite right—as he had said—that she should be eager to give him her confidence, but he had wanted to-day to be welcomed for himself, affectionately, intimately, not merely as a friendly audience. Nor did her story, when she told it, astonish him as much as it astonished her. He was accustomed to the idea that the lives of the poor are often tragic, and he was angry with these people for dragging Mary into their sordid affairs. When she came to the account of Mrs. Wilson's death he interrupted her.