It was on a May day, and I saw Mary accompany her husband as far as the
first crossing, whence she waved him out of sight as if he had boarded
an Atlantic-liner. All this time she wore the face of a woman happily
married who meant to go straight home, there to await her lord's
glorious return; and the military-looking gentleman watching her with a
bored smile saw nothing better before him than a chapter on the Domestic
Felicities. Oh, Mary, can you not provide me with the tiniest little
plot?
Hallo!
No sooner was she hid from him than she changed into another woman; she
was now become a calculating purposeful madam, who looked around her
covertly and, having shrunk in size in order to appear less noticeable,
set off nervously on some mysterious adventure.
“The deuce!” thought I, and followed her.
Like one anxious to keep an appointment, she frequently consulted her
watch, looking long at it, as if it were one of those watches that do
not give up their secret until you have made a mental calculation. Once
she kissed it. I had always known that she was fond of her cheap little
watch, which he gave her, I think, on the day I dropped the letter, but
why kiss it in the street? Ah, and why then replace it so hurriedly in
your leather-belt, Mary, as if it were guilt to you to kiss to-day, or
any day, the watch your husband gave you?
It will be seen that I had made a very rapid journey from light thoughts
to uneasiness. I wanted no plot by the time she reached her destination,
a street of tawdry shops. She entered none of them, but paced slowly
and shrinking from observation up and down the street, a very figure of
shame; and never had I thought to read shame in the sweet face of Mary
A----. Had I crossed to her and pronounced her name I think it would
have felled her, and yet she remained there, waiting. I, too, was
waiting for him, wondering if this was the man, or this, or this, and I
believe I clutched my stick.
Did I suspect Mary? Oh, surely not for a moment of time. But there
was some foolishness here; she was come without the knowledge of her
husband, as her furtive manner indicated, to a meeting she dreaded and
was ashamed to tell him of; she was come into danger; then it must be
to save, not herself but him; the folly to be concealed could never have
been Mary's. Yet what could have happened in the past of that honest boy
from the consequences of which she might shield him by skulking here?
Could that laugh of his have survived a dishonour? The open forehead,
the curly locks, the pleasant smile, the hundred ingratiating ways
which we carry with us out of childhood, they may all remain when the
innocence has fled, but surely the laugh of the morning of life must go.
I have never known the devil retain his grip on that.
But Mary was still waiting. She was no longer beautiful; shame had
possession of her face, she was an ugly woman. Then the entanglement
was her husband's, and I cursed him for it. But without conviction, for,
after all, what did I know of women? I have some distant memories of
them, some vain inventions. But of men--I have known one man indifferent
well for over forty years, have exulted in him (odd to think of it),
shuddered at him, wearied of him, been willing (God forgive me) to
jog along with him tolerantly long after I have found him out; I know
something of men, and, on my soul, boy, I believe I am wronging you.
Then Mary is here for some innocent purpose, to do a good deed that were
better undone, as it so scares her. Turn back, you foolish, soft heart,
and I shall say no more about it. Obstinate one, you saw the look on
your husband's face as he left you. It is the studio light by which he
paints and still sees to hope, despite all the disappointments of his
not ignoble ambitions. That light is the dower you brought him, and he
is a wealthy man if it does not flicker.
So anxious to be gone, and yet she would not go. Several times she made
little darts, as if at last resolved to escape from that detestable
street, and faltered and returned like a bird to the weasel. Again she
looked at her watch and kissed it.
Oh, Mary, take flight. What madness is this? Woman, be gone.
Suddenly she was gone. With one mighty effort and a last terrified look
round, she popped into a pawnshop.
Long before she emerged I understood it all, I think even as the door
rang and closed on her; why the timid soul had sought a street where she
was unknown, why she crept so many times past that abhorred shop before
desperately venturing in, why she looked so often at the watch she might
never see again. So desperately cumbered was Mary to keep her little
house over her head, and yet the brave heart was retaining a smiling
face for her husband, who must not even know where her little treasures
were going.
It must seem monstrously cruel of me, but I was now quite light-hearted
again. Even when Mary fled from the shop where she had left her watch,
and I had peace of mind to note how thin and worn she had become, as
if her baby was grown too big for her slight arms, even then I was
light-hearted. Without attempting to follow her, I sauntered homeward
humming a snatch of song with a great deal of fal-de-lal-de-riddle-o in
it, for I can never remember words. I saw her enter another shop, baby
linen shop or some nonsense of that sort, so it was plain for what
she had popped her watch; but what cared I? I continued to sing most
beautifully. I lunged gayly with my stick at a lamp-post and missed
it, whereat a street-urchin grinned, and I winked at him and slipped
twopence down his back.
I presume I would have chosen the easy way had time been given me, but
fate willed that I should meet the husband on his homeward journey, and
his first remark inspired me to a folly.
“How is Timothy?” he asked; and the question opened a way so attractive
that I think no one whose dull life craves for colour could have
resisted it.
“He is no more,” I replied impulsively.
The painter was so startled that he gave utterance to a very oath of
pity, and I felt a sinking myself, for in these hasty words my little
boy was gone, indeed; all my bright dreams of Timothy, all my efforts to
shelter him from Mary's scorn, went whistling down the wind.