A lady and her husband

by Amber Reeves Blanco White

She paused for a moment and let her hands fall to her sides. When she spoke again, she spoke more slowly. "But what I hate them most for isn't that—I despise them for what they are. I hate them most for what they've made of us. We love them and their children, so we are at their mercy. We have always tried to fulfil their plans for us, to be the kind of women who would please them. And see what has pleased them—see what they've praised in us! I don't mean working-women, but women whose husbands can afford to have the kind of wife they like. Look at most of us, narrow, uneducated, barbarous, trivial, content to let life go by while we humour from day to day a man who looks down on women. If we've an instinct for order and organisation we use it to see that the cook keeps the kitchen clean, if we love beauty we embroider tea-cosies or hunt in shops for pretty dresses, if we've more emotion in us than our man has an appetite for we're allowed to work it off, sensibly and with moderation, in a religion he doesn't take seriously. If we were like that in our hearts it wouldn't matter, but we're not; in our hearts we have pity and love and understanding. But men are more cunning than we are, and stronger, and they've all the money—and they use the best that is in us, our religion, our love, to degrade us— Indeed it's time that some of us hated men!" She stood trembling for a moment, then she turned and laid her face against the cool marble of the mantelpiece.

Mary had meant, when the secretary stopped, to say something in protest. What Miss Percival had said was exciting and courageous, but it wasn't fair and it wasn't true. It is one's duty to be fair. But the tired gesture with which so much anger came to an end, the droop of Miss Percival's defiant head, made Mary forget her protest in compassion. "Poor child," she said, "poor child!" and crossing the room she put her arm round the secretary's shoulders.

The young woman did not move for a moment, then she yielded, and Mary found herself soothing a passion of tears. She was surprised, but after a minute she was not puzzled. If Miss Percival's emotional nature had been so stirred by holding Giles it was because, in the past, she had loved a baby. If she hated men it was because, in the past, some man had been cruel to her. Probably her lover, the baby's father, had deserted her. For some reason it did not occur to Mary that Miss Percival had been more than essentially married.

She was wrong. When presently Miss Percival recovered her self-control and moved back a little from the shelter of Mary's shoulder, she explained. "I beg your pardon," she said first. "I have behaved disgracefully. It was baby, I'm afraid. He seemed such a jolly little creature on my arm—I have wanted one so, and I never had one. I am married really, you know, only I don't live with my husband."

Mary did not feel angry with Miss Percival for having deceived her. Instead she moved forward as if to comfort her again, but the secretary, who was wiping her eyes, pretended not to see the outstretched hand.

"That was what made me bitter in the beginning, I suppose," she said. "If men cared for anything but their own pleasure and freedom they would not let people like my husband marry girls of eighteen." She checked a final sob and crossed the room to the table where she had left her gloves and her leather despatch case. Then she came back to Mary. "I know of a very good secretary who wants a place, Mrs. Heyham," she said. "She is a most capable woman, with every qualification."

Mary broke in on her. "But, Miss Percival, are you really sure that you need go? I really meant it when I said that I never had needed you more. And now that I know your real opinions it makes things so much simpler."

Miss Percival shook her head. "I'm afraid it's no use, Mrs. Heyham. After what I've said to-day you wouldn't be able to trust me. You see, I know myself that what I feel isn't just. I'm twisted—I can't be fair—I take things too hardly. I'm afraid I'm no good really except for finding out abuses and stirring people up. I hate shifts and compromises. No, I must go back to investigation. Besides I've never worked for a private employer before, and I don't like it. I can't go on taking wages from Mr. Heyham that he wouldn't pay if he knew what I feel about him. Most people can accommodate themselves to any abuse as soon as they know the doer in private life. I can't—to me a big employer who sweats his workers is just that. When one of the girls is ill and gets into trouble I feel that he is directly responsible. I can't shrug my shoulders and put it all on to the system. Please, will you let me go now? I'm sorry I've made such an idiot of myself. Of course, I know I owe you a month's wages in lieu of notice."

This brought Mary to her feet. "My dear Miss Percival—of course not!" she said, and then she paused. What the secretary had said was true. Mary could not feel comfortably sure of her again. One does not want a secretary who indulges in outbursts of undisciplined hatred, however sorrowful may be the past that has given rise to them. Besides, what Miss Percival had said of James applied also, in some measure, to Mary. Even if she had handed over her judgment to James she was still responsible. "I'm afraid you're right," she said at last, "I suppose I must let you go. I'm exceedingly sorry to lose you—I shall miss you very much. You'll tell me, won't you, how you are getting on, and if I want to engage a fresh secretary, I'll write for your friend's address." She held out her hand.

Miss Percival shook it. "I'm sorry to go," she said. "You have been very kind to me," then she turned away and went quickly out of the room.