A lady and her husband

by Amber Reeves Blanco White

James, who had cast one hasty glance at the infant's cot, said that women always see these likenesses, and was very much flattered by it. He bought his grandson—who was to be called, when Laura could decide between them, either Jakes or Giles—a collection of silverware, and told himself that an era of feminine peace and contentment would now set in. Harry, who was handsome and vain, said that he was glad the poor little beggar had the sense not to look like his father, and added that he had never pretended to feel any interest in babies. But Laura was far too ill and too happy to mind what Harry said.

For two or three weeks Mary's thoughts were completely engaged with Laura; she could give her mind to nothing away from Laura's room. It was as a matter of fact a delightful room—Laura loved beautiful fabrics and graceful furniture. Mary had thought how pretty it was when she sat waiting outside its door on the night the baby was born. She had come there, although she knew it was foolish, because she had already waited so long downstairs. She had heard the baby cry, but no one had come out of the room to tell her about it. She had tried to picture the struggle that must be going on inside, to remind herself of the tasks that were imprisoning, for hours, the doctor and the nurses. She had tried to turn her thoughts to the new love that she was to feel for Laura's child. But her tired mind had failed her. She could not keep it fastened on her future happiness, or on the busy figures that she knew to be near her on the other side of the dark, shining door. Try as she would they had slipped away, and then the room had been empty, warm and green and quiet, with its curtains moving softly in the wind. Even while dread stirred in her mind it had seemed impossible that a beautiful woman should suffer in such a room.

It was late in the night, and she had left her chair and propped herself in a corner to alter her position, when the door had opened on a long panel of light, on a wave of sound, and one of the nurses had come out. She had not looked round at Mary, but had run quickly downstairs. There was a bright stain on her apron.

The nurse had disappeared; Mary, pressed against the wall, had neither moved nor spoken. She could not see, she could not even think; her mind, her will, seemed to have dissolved in fear. The sound of the hurrying feet had died away. There was no noise now in the room.

Then, before thoughts had come back to her, the nurse had returned. This time she had noticed Mary in the corner and thrown her a hasty reassurance. "It's all right now—there's no need to be anxious—a beautiful boy!" The door had closed behind her.

After the first confusion of her relief, the first disorder of her joy, Mary's mind had moved swiftly. This, she had told herself, was the weft on which women's lives were woven, moments like these of terror, of suffering, of ecstasy! Beside what Laura was feeling now the best that the world could give women must seem dim. What did it matter then if they turned away from the great problems of life, if they were content with narrow ambitions, with timid thoughts, with foolish dreams? All that was nothing—under it there lay this savage splendour of pain, this sacrifice that was their justification. By pain—helpless, ignorant, idle though they might be—they paid for the joy that life had given them.

Presently, towards morning, Mary had been called into the dressing-room where the nurse had been tending the baby. The little creature had lain on her knee, grave, motionless, dignified, in the clothes of his nation and his century. Mary had lifted him with anxious care. Here in her arms she held the strength, the desires, the ambitions, of a man. This light burden was born a master of the world, heir of the world's experience. He was born a master of women; all through his life women would minister to him and obey him, and he would accept their service as his right. She herself, as he grew to the power of his youth, would be to him a mere waste product, a body that had outlived its usefulness. As she bent to kiss him she had wished, for an instant, that he had been a girl.

She was not allowed to see Laura until next day, when she was told that she might sit by her bed, but must not excite her. It was enough for both of them; she did not want to excite her—she had never been on exciting terms with Laura. Their attitudes to the surface of life were too different. But here in the pretty room differences passed them by, they were content to be near one another, to exchange insignificant words, to see one another's faces light up when their boy was brought into the room. Mary knew that this pleasure in her presence, this need of her, must pass, and that then she would come no nearer than she had come before to touching the problems and interests of Laura's life. Her own mind, too, would answer the call of other duties. But for these few weeks she was happy. James, watching her, felt perfectly satisfied.

[CHAPTER XIII]

TIME drew on towards the wedding, and James's contentment increased. He felt very well that autumn—his summer holiday had agreed with him—and he was vain of his vigour at an age when many men are already a little wearied by life. Fate, too, was treating him kindly. Mary had settled down, Laura's child was a boy, and a very fine boy, and here was Rosemary marrying an exceedingly decent young fellow who was bound to get on. Moreover business was booming. James went down to his office every morning in an excellent temper. He had made up his mind now that he would carry his cinema project through. He had consulted the various people in whose advice he had confidence and matters seemed to be shaping very well. He was not looking to the new company for enormous profits—if it succeeded he would make his money through its effect on the Imperial. He meant to keep all the Imperial's ordinary shares in the family. If he was excited about the new company it was because he had always had a liking for neat and amusing inventions, and he saw himself now with two or three interesting years ahead of him, years during which he could complain that he was being worked to death, and astonish his admirers by the unclouded brilliance of his business capacity. Of course the changes he proposed would bring him in two or three thousand a year, but this did not mean so much to James—who, at bottom, had a sense of the values of life—as the fact of success itself, the fact that his influence would be extended, that his name and the name of his business would be spoken and heard with more respect.