A lady and her husband

by Amber Reeves Blanco White

She woke, later on, with a sense that something was happening in the house. She did not remember that she was ill, or stop to inquire why she found herself in bed, but rang the bell to discover what this disturbing thing could be. A moment later the door opened cautiously, and James appeared. At the sight of his face she understood at once. Of course—she hadn't been well, and James was upset about it.

"My darling," she told him, "I assure you I'm perfectly well—come and kiss me——"

James came to kiss her, guarding an unusual silence. He had so much to say, that if he had spoken at all he would have spoken too much. He had all his fears to tell her—his regrets, the remorse with which he remembered that he had had to be firm with her the night before. He did not blame himself—what he had said had been necessary, and he knew that he had not said it unkindly. Nevertheless he felt remorse. Poor little thing, wasn't it his duty to keep her well and happy, and wasn't she, on the contrary, lying here ill? Very well then—James's heart was full as he sat down on the bed by her side and took her hand in his.

Mary, whose sudden moment of lucidity had left her feeling giddy again, was nevertheless impressed by his silence. Poor James—he must be suffering! She touched his arm with her free hand and looked up at him anxiously. "James," she implored him, "please, please don't think this has anything to do with you. I'm not ill at all really. I was just feeling rather tired!"

James, who had been staring across the room, turned round to her. "You're not to talk, little thing, and you're not to think either. Hold my hand, and be still and go to sleep!" He spoke with a new, a compelling authority. Mary willingly laid aside the burden of speech and lay looking peacefully at the ceiling. The light on the ceiling was mellow, it must be late in the afternoon. She wanted to know the time, but she did not want it enough to turn her head towards the clock. With James so close to her there was really no need to know anything.

James, who had seen her face relax at his words, was prepared to sit by her all night. She could not have appealed more directly to his love and tenderness than by showing him, as she had done with her eager grasp on his fingers, that she found rest and comfort in his presence. As he waited there with his wife, debarred from talking to her, James thought her over, and among his thoughts, though he did not know it, was a new conception of her. She was a queer little thing, and brave, he recognised that there was a fine element in her obstinacy. She would do what she thought right, follow out her dreams and her foolish big ideas and not care if she suffered for them. He saw her suddenly under the type—familiar to him in obituary notices—of a lofty, restless spirit wearing through its frail envelope of flesh. James was not often mistaken in a man whom he had decided to be capable and honest, and he thought himself therefore a good judge of character. This description of Mary pleased him. He must take great care, he told himself, of his little idealist. He must see that she didn't break her bright wings over the hard facts of life. He must teach her that she wasn't just her own to wear out and throw away if she pleased.

He'd already spoken seriously to Rosemary, when he came home and found out what had happened. He'd speak to that secretary too—he never could remember the woman's name—and tell her that she wasn't to let Mrs. Heyham get tired or excited. Perhaps Mary would take the doctor's warning to heart of her own accord, take it to heart somehow she must and should. He'd think it over before he decided, and he wasn't sure that it wouldn't be better to stop this philanthropic business altogether.

At this point, before he could tell himself that he had thought it over, the maid came in with a cupful of something on a tray. Mary, roused from her comfortable indifference, regarded it with dislike. It was some sort of thick white stuff which had been carefully prepared by the cook according to the directions on the tin, and Mary felt certain, as soon as she saw it, that she would not be hungry again for several days, and that meanwhile there was nothing in the world so difficult and disagreeable as the task of swallowing this pasty, ignominious preparation. Every inch of her quivered under the impulse of resistance. "No, James, I can't," she told him as he took the cup.

James, bending towards her, was confirmed in his fears that she was really ill. As a rule she ate with indifference any dish that the rest of the household liked, though she sometimes expressed in private, as though she were ashamed of them, faint likings for muscatel grapes and for some little dry biscuits James used to bring her home from an Austrian café. He could see now that she was working herself up. "Now, my dear," he said to her, in the tone that he judged would be the most effective, "we've got to feed you up, you know. I don't know what this is, but it's what the doctor ordered, and I expect it contains as much nourishment as a pound of beef-steak. Will you drink it, or shall I feed you with the spoon?"

Mary's anxiety for her sheets reinforced her recognition that James meant to have his own way. She held out her hand for the cup, though she was nearly crying, and drank as much as she could. Then with a little sob she put the cup back again. James examined it doubtfully, the beverage was not finished, and he did not feel certain that she oughtn't to finish it. But something in her face made him merciful. "Well, I'll let you off this time," he told her, "but I'm going to see that you eat every scrap of your dinner. If you're not good I shall telegraph for a nurse. Now, shall I have my tea brought up here, or would you rather not watch me eating?"