A lady and her husband

by Amber Reeves Blanco White

Mary drew her chair nearer to the fire. She felt cold again now, and confused and disappointed. She had hoped to find strength and support from Miss Percival, and now Miss Percival was gone. She was gone, and she had left Mary nothing but another picture of suffering and evil. Mary did not know what Miss Percival's story had been, but to change her as it had clearly changed her, it must, Mary felt, have been abominable. There was something wrong about this question of men and women, something twisted and wrong underneath the comforting appearance of everyday social life. She had always known that there are wicked men and terribly wicked women, but she had always thought of them as outside, exceptional, far away. Now, everywhere she looked, she saw ugliness and suffering and sin. She did not know why it was so, she was ignorant, and she felt suddenly that she did not want, she could not bear, to know the truth. It was morbid, horrible, far removed from the decency, the kindliness, the order, of an honourable life. Why should she fill her mind with thoughts like these, with suspicions, with guesses at vice and ugliness?—it was only now, it seemed to her, that she realised how odious, how degrading such thoughts were. She would never be able to get back, she felt, to her normal dignity and sanity. Suddenly, though she had not been thinking of him, she was swept by a wave of anger against James. It was James, while he pretended to love her, who had dragged her into all this!

At this moment her maid came into the room. "It's the master on the telephone, ma'am," she said, "and he wants to know how you are. He rang up this morning, ma'am, but I thought you were asleep."

Mary waited for a little before she answered. James was parading this affection, she supposed, either to impress the servants, or because, after all these years of deceit, he had grown into a mechanical habit of gallantry. She told Penn to thank Mr. Heyham for his message and to say that she was up and feeling better.

The door shut behind the woman and Mary was alone with her injury. That very evening, she reminded herself, she would have to meet James. If he was bent on maintaining a show of smooth appearances he would certainly come to her even if she stopped in her room. But she had not decided what she would say when she saw him or how she would behave. She had changed—she knew that—and with this change they would both have to reckon. The sum of her pain and grief was not merely an anger or a disappointment, something had grown hard in her, she thought, which before had been facile. But how, she wondered, was she to put her feeling into words that would make it clear to James? To make James hear she would have to say something in set terms, something definite, something that she could repeat in the same words when he had finished talking—she would have to stand up, she could see, to flood after flood of talk. And she had nothing prepared and definite, nothing but her sense of outrage, of detachment and loss. She could not face James and say to him, "I see you with different eyes. My compliance towards you, my happy acceptance of you, have gone!" That would mean nothing to a man like James. And yet if she did not speak, if she let him even for one evening impose his own attitude and take hers for granted, he would run away with his advantage and refuse her, ever afterwards, a chance of meeting him fairly. Now, he did not know what he had to expect from her—to a certain extent he was open to what she might say—but once he had made his assumptions no words of hers would ever penetrate them, and something must penetrate. They could not live any more as they had lived. She had given herself up to the old James, hidden herself in him from her own conscience and from the world; now they were separate.

The clock struck, and its four strokes reminded her that Julius Trent, her vagabond brother, was coming to see her. He had been in town for the wedding, and had said that he would look her up early that afternoon. A talk with Julius meant probably a talk about money, but Mary felt to-day that to be in the presence of his affection was worth more than a little money. She had always believed that Julius was fond of her, although he was so very unlucky. Julius's work in life was to show other people how they might manage their business more efficiently than they did, and as far as his profession went, he told Mary, he didn't do so badly—it wasn't that. Unfortunately his instinct, so just and true where the affairs of others were concerned, could not be trusted to an equal extent in his own. Whenever Julius backed a horse the horse lost—pulled, Julius said—and whenever he promoted a company it went bankrupt before his genius for efficiency had had a fair chance of coming into play. In these circumstances he came to see Mary two or three times a year, generally with some scheme in his pocket for reorganising the Imperial which he offered her free, gratis, and for nothing from her affectionate brother. In her heart Mary was deeply attached to Julius.

He did not come, this afternoon, as early as she expected him, and when he did come he seemed subdued and did not produce any scheme. "How are you, my dear?" he said. "You're not looking up to much." And then, having settled himself in a comfortable chair, he stared thoughtfully into the fire.

"How is Milly?" Mary asked him. Milly was the lady to whom, Julius said, he was engaged to be married. She acted in provincial companies and while they were trying to save enough money to marry decently Julius in the intervals of business followed her about the country. Mary had offered once to call upon her when she was near London but Milly, it appeared, was proud. She wasn't going to be called upon until she could receive Mrs. Heyham in a house of her own—being a lady, really, the conditions of provincial touring galled her.

Julius nodded. "Ah, yes, poor old Milly!" He looked, Mary thought, a little nervous.

"I hope there's nothing the matter with Milly?" Mary asked. "I thought she was getting on so well!"

Julius coughed and fidgeted in his chair. "Fact is," he said, "I've something to ask you! Now, don't you start thinking it's money this time, it isn't! No, poor old Milly and me are going to do it at last. She's come into a little money and we're going to be married next month!" He looked anxiously at his sister.