A lady and her husband

by Amber Reeves Blanco White

Mrs. Heyham shook her head. She had not the habit of considering her life in terms of experience. Her mind had darkened again over Rosemary's words. Experience—that must be an idea of Anthony's—it was a wonder the child had not said "mental capital." She would never be rid of Anthony now—whenever she talked to Rosemary, Anthony would be behind her!

"And of course I'm not going to marry yet."—Rosemary reproached herself with not having made this clear. Her mother must think her callous. "I should feel sorry enough if I were really going away! You do know how much I love you, don't you, mother darling?"

She started to rise, so that she might reach her mother to kiss her, but Mary rose too. For a moment they clung together, trying each of them, to think of nothing but their mutual love. Then Mary made the need of wiping her eyes an excuse for freeing herself. "I'm going upstairs," she said, "and when I come down I shall be a much nicer, more satisfactory mother, and very glad that you have chosen such a dear boy. I'm delighted that it's Anthony, dear, you must tell him so from me. And now if I were you, I would go and see your father—he's in the library. You will be glad to get it all over." She smiled, pressed Rosemary's hand again, and turned towards the door.

Rosemary, left alone, did not go to her father at once. She was angry with herself. "I didn't do it right," she thought, "I hurt her. I don't see why she should have been hurt, but she was." For a moment, though she sought, she found no explanation; then she decided, "It is father, I suppose, he has kept her so wrapped up. And now, when she has to face a fact, she is not accustomed to it. But all the same I do wish I hadn't hurt her."

She sat down again in her comfortable chair and recalled the conversation. It had been self-conscious, she felt, and artificial, they had not really been open with one another. And yet she did not know what was wrong—it was very difficult.

But she could not keep her mind fixed for long on this distasteful subject. The fire-light and the solitude were pleasant, and her thoughts went back to Anthony and the summer. It was in the early summer at King's Leigh that she had first loved Anthony, though she had not known it. It gave her pleasure to remember the day. She had been bathing with Laura in the stream at the bottom of the garden, and on their way back they had met Anthony coming down the path with towels under his arm. It was blowing, and the wind blew back the folds of his thin shirt. He had asked them whether the river was clear again after the storm, and she had told him yes,—the water was still brown, but you could see the white stones on the bottom. Then absurdly, like a child, she had flushed with shame. Laura and she had been pretending that they were water nymphs, and she had twisted leaves into her hair. Anthony was looking at the green crown. It had seemed unbearable that he might think she was foolish—laugh at her—without waiting for Laura she had walked away. She had gone quickly through the rose-garden because she did not want Laura to follow her, and along the old stone wall. There was no one under the beeches at the end and she had stopped there, telling herself that it was beautiful. The lilies and the blue larkspurs shone in the sun, there was no wind tinder the trees and the still air felt warm. She had looked up to see the light coming down through the young leaves—it was bright and it glowed, like light in the trumpet of a daffodil. And then, as she stood, a little dazed by the shining leaves and the heat, something that hurt her seemed to stir in her heart—she had thrown herself down beside the trunk of the tree because she had found that she was crying.

She had only been a child then, afraid of love, afraid and exalted beyond any need of Anthony. She had been in love with the summer days, with poetry, with warmth and colour, and flowers. The world had become a place of caressing, delicate contacts, even the air seemed kind to her as she moved through it. Under her happy senses her spirit had quickened. Here, she had thought, was worship—if she could worship—here, in this awe and delight, this conviction that she was one with the flowering earth, with its light, its heat, its joy. Here was the new birth—she had lost her old self, her old hopes and desires, and had become instead a vessel filled with the wonder and the beauty of life.

This ecstasy had not stayed. It had been banished by something more personal, less diffused, by a return of her mind upon itself. It was a new troubling thing—she could remember the first surprise of its insurgence. It had been a hot afternoon and she had been walking by the river, slowly, without any thought of where she was going. A willow bush grew in the long grass by the edge of the water, and beside it she had seen Anthony's blazer lying on the ground. Anthony was playing tennis with Trent; he must have forgotten it. It was a pleasant, secluded place, and the patch of colour on the grass seemed to make a reason why she should stop. She had sat down in what shade the bush afforded—presently she would carry the blazer back to the house.

The light flickered on the water; Rosemary sat lazily inert watching the willow leaves as they stirred a little, and the pointed shadows that changed their shape as they moved over the uneven grass. A white butterfly was circling above her, and while she looked he fluttered down on to the blazer's tempting brightness. The surface did not please him—his eager trunk found no honey—Rosemary, her face held low, saw the under surfaces of his wings gleam blue as he rose from the deceptive cloth. She put out her hand to it, idly, where it lay warm in the sun, but when her fingers met the soft stuff she paused. In the short space of her movement the action had become intimate, had assumed significance. She felt that Anthony must know that she wanted to touch his coat. Then she took courage. Her doubt, her hesitation, were nothing to Anthony. His coat was thrown down, forgotten, disregarded. She might touch it or not, no sense of his could be fine enough to betray her. She had pulled it towards her and buried her face in the limp, kindly cloth before she realised, trembling, what she had done.

Now, remembering it, she moved in the big chair and sighed. She almost regretted that moment of sharp feeling. She was happy now, but even the first secret delight of her happiness was at its end. She had told her mother; she had still to tell her father, and Laura, and Trent. And they would all discuss it and fuss about it. Trent would think it his duty to express his opinions. She had been foolish, really, not to choose a time when Trent was away.