A lady and her husband

by Amber Reeves Blanco White

James did not answer at once. The whole discussion still seemed to him unnatural and disgusting. But since she insisted on probing into the thing he might just as well, he told himself, state his case. "Look here, Mary," he said, "I don't think we shall do any good by talking about this just now. I don't think it will help either of us. But the reason I won't tell you more about it, is this. That whole side of my life is a side that you have never wished to think of or to know anything about. You have had your own standards, and you have simply taken it for granted that I should live up to them. You have never even doubted, I imagine, that I found it easy to live up to them. Well, I respected your delicacy, I never obtruded anything on you that you did not care to know. Don't you see, Mary, you can't, now, simply because I am at a disadvantage, expect me to break down a barrier which we have chosen to keep up all our lives. You may say that I deceived you, and that you have a right to know the truth. Well, I did conceal it from you, but my concealment was the price I paid for your immunity from contact with evil." As he spoke, the theme developed in his rapid mind. He went on—"Those untroubled ideals of yours, your moral sensitiveness, they're not things that survive a knowledge of the ugly, cruel side of life. Well, we agreed, it seemed to me, that you should enjoy them, that I should prevent them from being taken from you. In some ways they are a luxury, luxuries have to be paid for—" He stopped, because he could see that Mary was not following what he said.

She had tried to follow, she had tried, as a mere matter of fairness, to consider what he had to say. But she had not grasped, in the beginning, what he was talking about, and she had soon lost the thread of his words from mere weariness. The last thing that she wanted was to argue with him. She could not argue—she would only say things that she did not mean—they would squabble—it would all be vulgar and horrible! She wished he would go away now so that she could cry—give way—not have to think. She could not think about it——

She started, for someone was knocking at the door. A moment later her maid came in, discreetly radiant. "I've put out the lilac dress, ma'am," she said, "and it's close on half-past three."

Mary stared at the woman until she heard James say, in his usual pleasant voice, "Well, my dear, I'll leave you to dress. If I see Rosemary I will send her to you." Then, with an effort, she smiled too, but she thought to herself as she rose slowly from the sofa that it was easy for James—he was accustomed to lying.

When Rosemary came in ten minutes later she found her mother completely absorbed, to all appearances, in the process of putting on the lilac dress. For a moment she did not turn round to greet her daughter; when she did Rosemary was shocked by her white face. "How she minds!" she thought, and then she felt a sudden shyness and embarrassment at the idea that her mother should mind. They kissed one another then and Rosemary disengaged herself and stroked the satin of her mother's sleeve.

"I love you in fine clothes, mother," she said, "you are one of the people who can wear them. You ought to have big flounced skirts and a stiff stomacher embroidered with pearls."

Mary did not answer. She had seen Rosemary's hesitation and she could not trust herself with speech.

A few hours ago she might have spoken to some purpose—she might have warned the child, have told her what men are like, what marriage is. But now it was too late. Rosemary was married. Beautiful, fresh, untouched as she was, she belonged to a man, and in an hour he would take her away into his cruel man's world. This lovely child whose body Mary had made, who only a few years ago had lain, a little soft laughing thing, on Mary's lap, was to be at the mercy of a man—she was to see the whole of life through his love—her children were to be his children. She would give herself to him, and in return, if he chose to sin, he would lie to her. One of James's sentences, distorted, came back to Mary's mind,—a woman's purity of thought, her serenity of soul, is her husband's luxury—he likes to have that sort of woman about his house——

The tumult of her mind was stilled for a moment by Rosemary's voice. "Won't you sit down, mother darling—you've been standing too much, you're trembling. You'll have to stand presently——"

But Mary would not sit. She preferred instead to go downstairs and see whether everything was ready for her guests. Rosemary followed her, feeling a little indifferent and detached. One ought, she told herself, to get married without telling people, then one would not have a tiresome day like this, all odds and ends and fussing. She wished she had not let all these people come to stare at her—even the hired footmen looked her over as though she were a horse at a show. Regarded reasonably, it was a disgusting idea. If one were to imagine a country where all weddings were private, what would the inhabitants think of our barbarous customs? One ought to get married on a mountain, or a cliff by the sea, and smell the fresh wind instead of pink roses from a florist's shop—though even pink roses were better than the millinery that was coming.