A lady and her husband

by Amber Reeves Blanco White

Mary could see that the young man had chosen the basket himself, guided probably by the florist's assistant. It was wreathed with pink satin ribbon elegantly fringed, and over the edge of it fell trails of smilax enriched with gardenias. Mary told Penn to put it down on a table in the corner. How tactless James was, she thought, to treat her like this! What good did he think he would do, except to his messenger? She could imagine the pride of the young man from the office as he chose the flowers with the strongest scent. Perhaps some day, when his salary was raised, he would go to a suburban shop and buy a basket of flowers as like it as he could for a little girl at the Hammersmith Alhambra. She called her maid back from the door—she would go to bed now, and think about dinner in bed.

James, meanwhile, was getting through his work as fast as he could in order to see Mary before she went to sleep. He felt extraordinarily sorry for Mary. He couldn't bear to think of the bad time the poor little thing must be having. The night before, and that morning, he had been angry with himself and therefore a little inclined to be annoyed with her. He had been a fool to tell her the truth, and she had behaved in a melodramatic and hysterical manner. But his anger with himself, under the pressure of business, diminished to an occasional uneasy pang, and his kind heart filled instead with solicitude for Mary. Women are hysterical creatures—one must take it and leave it at that. The thing had been a nasty shock for Mary, a very nasty shock indeed. He must be patient with her poor little attempts at scolding and make things up to her in every way he could. She had convinced herself, probably, that he didn't love her. Well, he had got to show her that he did. Women, he told himself, respond to affectionate violence. His policy then was to overwhelm her with love. He had neither the time nor the inclination to search his heart in any thorough manner, but he accepted easily enough the standpoint that he had been to blame. Of course he had been to blame. There could be no doubt about it, but that was no reason for worrying himself. A little patience, a little tact, and it would all come right. It was not for him to take things too seriously—poor little Mary, bless her, would do that for both of them.

He could say this the more cheerfully because to his honest belief he had not been to blame in the least. He had felt himself at the time to be behaving in a perfectly natural manner. He and Greta had been good friends once, he couldn't have snubbed her and wounded her pride. He was a kind man, he could not keep all his kindness for Mary. Afterwards he had known no protest of conscience that had not been settled by the necklace which was now Mary's favourite. Men are men, and Mary, if she only knew it, was a damned lucky woman. He had obeyed the promptings of his good nature in being decent to poor old Greta, nobody had been hurt by it, certainly not Mary—in fact for some time afterwards he had felt particularly fond of her. Her horror when she had heard of it, he saw now, was of a piece with her reluctant, fastidious approach to the sensual side of life and of human nature. As far as life and human nature went he regarded her views as altogether unsound, but he approved of them as the views of his wife and indeed of the wives and daughters of all decent men. It was this ignorance on the part of women that made decent men feel tender and chivalrous—he had always tried to be chivalrous towards Mary. Now, unhappy little creature, she was suffering, actually ill, because of his blundering tongue. She was paying now for her years of comfortable blindness. Well, that was wrong. There was a great deal of sin and misery in this world, but Mary was one of the women who, by common agreement, are relieved from suffering their share.

He was unable to imagine now why he had hesitated to lie to Mary. It had been a shocking lack of self-control. His real remorse for having made Mary suffer he mistook for an admission that he had been to blame in the beginning.

In his lunch hour, and when he paused for a belated tea, he wondered what he could do to comfort her. He particularly wanted her comforted because in a day or two he would have to ask for her consent to the reconstruction of the Imperial. It was an appalling nuisance that the two matters ran together like this. He decided finally, supposing she were in bed, to have dinner before he saw her, for he was aware as a general principle that one is never at one's tenderest and most persuasive between one's dinner and a hard day's work.

When he was cleaned and comfortable, fed and soothed, he went lightly up the stairs to Mary's room. At the door he paused for a moment. "Poor little thing!" he thought. "Now, you brute, be kind to her!"

Mary had heard his footstep, and had quickly turned out the light. He could not see, as he leaned over the bed, the anxiety on her face.

He felt for her hand. "Little mother," he said when he held it, "have you forgiven me?"

The sound of his voice, though she was waiting for it, made Mary start. When he had spoken she lay still for a moment confused and surprised. Why did he speak like this, what was going on in his mind? She could not tell in the least, she felt, what feelings were prompting him. She wished he would let go of her hand, the insistence of his touch was unpleasant. "I don't know, James," she said at last, "I have tried to!"

He sat down on the bed beside her and with his other hand stroked her cheek. "If you were to try a little harder," he asked, "couldn't you forgive me? Even although I don't deserve it?"