But this division of interest, this separation, to some extent, of activity, did not affect her feeling about Laurence nor disappoint any desire in her. She was satisfied with Laurence and with the arrangement of her life. The achievement of maternity had given her the solid basis, the central motive, to which everything else was incidental. Laurence was most importantly connected with this motive, but yet in a way he was outside it. And he felt this and raged dumbly against it. What he had dreamed of was a mystic bond between Mary and himself, which should be the centre of all things, subordinating everything else. And this, in his feeling, had not come to pass, because she could not understand nor respond to his desire. He was unsatisfied; therefore demanding, often harsh and bitter, often unreasonable.
Laurence was not contented to be a husband and a father; and this appeared to Mary the height of unreason on his part. To be the head of a family—what more dignified and satisfactory position could he wish, so far as his private life was concerned? If, in addition, he succeeded in his profession, what more could he ask? Why, when everything promised well, should he so often be moody, irritable and discontented? It must be the nature of man, perpetually unquiet.
On one point Mary was a little disingenuous, or perhaps not clearly conscious. Her plan assigned to Laurence the rôle of head of the family; in reality what she expected him to be was a figurehead. This was quite in accordance with custom and tradition. Theoretically, of course, the man was master of his household, and the wife as well as the children owed him obedience. Mary would never have dreamed of disputing this axiom. It was accepted by all the women of her acquaintance. But practice—that was quite another thing. In practice, the women ruled their households and themselves, and very often their husbands also, allowing them liberty of course in exclusively masculine matters, such as business, and a certain amount of license in regard to their amusements. The woman's path was sharply marked out; she could not overstep certain limits. But keeping within those limits, she had her authority and independence.
In her own family, Mary could remember very few occasions on which her mother's actions or decisions had been questioned by the nominal chief. If she were subject to her husband, it did not appear; the household produced the effect of a matriarchy. And this was Mary's idea of the proper constitution of a family. It was unthinkable that the man should interfere in details, should try to dictate in matters outside his province; by so doing, he lost dignity, which it was essential he should maintain.
A wife must always speak to her husband with respect; must never criticize him nor complain of him, even to her nearest friend or relative; his dignity was hers. Also, a certain formality in her address to him was proper. She should use his title, if he had one, as Judge, Doctor or Colonel; or if not, should call him Mr. Brown, rather than John. Mary was conscious that her relation with Laurence, so far, lacked formality. But Laurence hated that sort of thing, and he was very young, for his years. He was nearly thirty, yet he acted like a boy, much of the time.
That afternoon and evening, there were times when there was nothing to be done in the sickroom but to sit and watch; and Mary was thinking. She regretted bitterly the clash with Laurence—those sharp words, her own assertion of independence. There she had made a mistake, had transgressed her own code. Laurence's counter-assertion of authority was also a mistake, but a natural consequence of hers. She should not have set herself up against him, in a personal matter, even if he were wrong. She now found herself obliged either to give battle or to retreat—both alternatives very distasteful to her. She was angry at herself; she had fallen below her own standard, lost her self-control, behaved in an unseemly fashion; and had much weakened her own position.
She perceived now, aghast, that if Laurence actually did command, she would have to obey. She could not openly flout her husband's authority, that was impossible, her own pride would not permit it. The terrible mistake was to have brought him to issue a command. She knew very well that that was not the way to manage.
Sitting by the bedside, her hands folded on her knee, looking straight before her, she thought it out. She did not like the idea of "managing," or gaining any point by methods other than the most simple and direct. Anything underhand, any ruse or scheme, was deeply repugnant to her. She did not like even to "humour" people. How, then, was one to deal with an unreasonable man—must one actually submit to him when he was in the wrong?