A Lady and Her
Husband
By
Amber Reeves
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York and London
The Knickerbocker Press
1914
Copyright, 1914
BY
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
A LADY AND HER HUSBAND
CHAPTER I
ROSEMARY looked round her mother's drawing-room. It was a charming room,
she thought, of its conventional kind, gay and luxurious, anxious to
please, like some soft, pretty woman. She had never considered its
origin before, but now she felt sure that her father must have planned
it. It revealed his mind--large, cheerful, excellent--and showed the
thorough competence of his taste.
She had chosen this room deliberately for an interview with her mother.
She was going to tell her mother that she was in love, and she had found
herself shy, afraid of the poor lady's emotion. In the publicity of the
spacious room, where anyone might interrupt them, a display of feeling
would be difficult.
She made sure, once more, of this train of thought. Then she looked
anxiously at Mrs. Heyham. Mary was sitting in her usual place by the
side of the hearth, and, for the moment, behind the glittering,
fire-flushed tea-things, she seemed curiously unreal. She was wearing a
chain that her husband had given her, set with pearls and crystals--that
caught the light, and so did a brooch that was a present from Trent, her
son. Behind these witnesses of masculine esteem there was the vagueness
of grey stuff, of lace, of pale brown hair, and a face where the play of
lights and shadows blotted out expression. Rosemary, seeking for some
promise of immediate, cheerful sympathy, could see nothing but her
mother's evident dignity and grace. On the point of speaking, she
hesitated. She had not the least idea, after all, how her mother would
respond to her.
At that moment Mrs. Heyham looked up and met her daughter's eyes. "Yes,"
she said, "I like your new way of doing your hair, my dear, it suits
you, it gives you height. And I like your funny green frock." She smiled
a little shyly. She could not tell the child how lovely she found her.
But the tenderness in her voice reached Rosemary, making her feel
suddenly affectionate and ashamed.
"Mother, dear," she cried, "how selfish I am!--Am I very horrid to you?"
She had forgotten the ungenerous detachment which she had planned, and
as she spoke she crossed the floor to the rug by her mother's knee. She
had been fussing all day about her own feelings, she told herself, and
she had hardly given a thought to her mother's!
Mrs. Heyham paused before she answered. It was her custom to consider
what she said, with a view to her children's welfare, and her replies,
in consequence, were sometimes evasive. Horrid to her? What had made
Rosemary, she wondered, worry about such a thing? "I hope you don't
think so, my dear," passed this scrutiny, but did not satisfy her
daughter.
"You don't say I'm not," she insisted.
Her mother reassured her. "Of course you're not."
Rosemary sighed. "I don't think many mothers are like you!" she
admitted, and for a moment her warmth made Mrs. Heyham anxious. These
expansions from the children were apt to be connected with remorse.
Well, whatever it was, she would hear it now--she put out her hand to
smooth the soft hair pressed against her knee. But Rosemary, turning
quickly, caught the wandering fingers. To Mary it looked almost as
though she had taken fright. Her eyes were wide open and she was
trembling a little. "Mother," she said, "I've something to tell you!
I've promised--I'm going to marry Anthony."
Before she could stop herself Mrs. Heyham had pulled her hand away.
Rosemary promised to marry! At eighteen! Rosemary who had been so
careless of love! The girl, anxiously listening, could read nothing but
disappointment into her "My darling!"
For a moment they looked at each other. Then came the amends, that Mary
was never slow to make. This time she took her daughter's hand in hers.
"You know how fond I am of Anthony--it isn't that. But you--you're so
young--how can you know--how can you possibly know?"
Rosemary found no words that would convince her. Instead she turned away
from her mother's eyes and stared into the fire. It was not a thing one
could talk about, how one knew.
Mary looked down at her bright young head. She loved it too dearly, she
thought, she could not lose it! "Won't you wait--" she began, but then
she checked herself. It was passion, not happiness, that she had wanted
to keep from the child for a little longer.
But Rosemary had heard her cry and was answering it. "We have waited
ever since the summer. I didn't want to hurt you, mother, but I couldn't
bear that anyone should know. Tony wanted to tell you at once, but I
wouldn't let him."
Mary did her best to smile. She could not speak--she was humiliated. She
had never intruded herself on her children or forced the delicate
privacies of their minds, but she had stood apart only, she thought, to
watch and direct them better because they were not conscious of her
attention. And now, for months, Rosemary had known these new intimacies
of love while she had seen no further--that was what it amounted
to--than her charming manners!
Rosemary, from the tight grasp of her hands, guessed at Mrs. Heyham's
suffering. "Mother, dear, don't mind!" she begged her. "Why should you
mind so much?"
Why should she mind?--For a moment Mary struggled with tears. Then she
turned resolutely from her painful thoughts. "My darling," she said,
"I'm selfish, thoroughly selfish! You mustn't let me spoil your
happiness. It's nothing, my dear--only a foolish instinct. You see, I
feel that as each of you goes it closes one of the windows of my life!"
Rosemary sighed a little with relief. Here was the matter on reasonable
grounds where one could argue about it! She rather enjoyed discussing
feelings, though she was shy of showing them. She relaxed her attitude,
which had been a little strained, and started to make her point.
"But you haven't lost us, mother. We're still there, it's only that
we're grown up. After all, having children is an experience, and you've
got it there, so much to the good!"
Mrs. Heyham shook her head. She had not the habit of considering her
life in terms of experience. Her mind had darkened again over Rosemary's
words. Experience--that must be an idea of Anthony's--it was a wonder
the child had not said "mental capital." She would never be rid of
Anthony now--whenever she talked to Rosemary, Anthony would be behind
her!
"And of course I'm not going to marry yet."--Rosemary reproached herself
with not having made this clear. Her mother must think her callous. "I
should feel sorry enough if I were really going away! You do know how
much I love you, don't you, mother darling?"
She started to rise, so that she might reach her mother to kiss her, but
Mary rose too. For a moment they clung together, trying each of them, to
think of nothing but their mutual love. Then Mary made the need of
wiping her eyes an excuse for freeing herself. "I'm going upstairs," she
said, "and when I come down I shall be a much nicer, more satisfactory
mother, and very glad that you have chosen such a dear boy. I'm
delighted that it's Anthony, dear, you must tell him so from me. And now
if I were you, I would go and see your father--he's in the library. You
will be glad to get it all over." She smiled, pressed Rosemary's hand
again, and turned towards the door.
Rosemary, left alone, did not go to her father at once. She was angry
with herself. "I didn't do it right," she thought, "I hurt her. I don't
see why she should have been hurt, but she was." For a moment, though
she sought, she found no explanation; then she decided, "It is father, I
suppose, he has kept her so wrapped up. And now, when she has to face a
fact, she is not accustomed to it. But all the same I do wish I hadn't
hurt her."
She sat down again in her comfortable chair and recalled the
conversation. It had been self-conscious, she felt, and artificial, they
had not really been open with one another. And yet she did not know what
was wrong--it was very difficult.
But she could not keep her mind fixed for long on this distasteful
subject. The fire-light and the solitude were pleasant, and her thoughts
went back to Anthony and the summer. It was in the early summer at
King's Leigh that she had first loved Anthony, though she had not known
it. It gave her pleasure to remember the day. She had been bathing with
Laura in the stream at the bottom of the garden, and on their way back
they had met Anthony coming down the path with towels under his arm. It
was blowing, and the wind blew back the folds of his thin shirt. He had
asked them whether the river was clear again after the storm, and she
had told him yes,--the water was still brown, but you could see the
white stones on the bottom. Then absurdly, like a child, she had flushed
with shame. Laura and she had been pretending that they were water
nymphs, and she had twisted leaves into her hair. Anthony was looking at
the green crown. It had seemed unbearable that he might think she was
foolish--laugh at her--without waiting for Laura she had walked away.
She had gone quickly through the rose-garden because she did not want
Laura to follow her, and along the old stone wall. There was no one
under the beeches at the end and she had stopped there, telling herself
that it was beautiful. The lilies and the blue larkspurs shone in the
sun, there was no wind tinder the trees and the still air felt warm. She
had looked up to see the light coming down through the young leaves--it
was bright and it glowed, like light in the trumpet of a daffodil. And
then, as she stood, a little dazed by the shining leaves and the heat,
something that hurt her seemed to stir in her heart--she had thrown
herself down beside the trunk of the tree because she had found that she
was crying.
She had only been a child then, afraid of love, afraid and exalted
beyond any need of Anthony. She had been in love with the summer days,
with poetry, with warmth and colour, and flowers. The world had become a
place of caressing, delicate contacts, even the air seemed kind to her
as she moved through it. Under her happy senses her spirit had
quickened. Here, she had thought, was worship--if she could
worship--here, in this awe and delight, this conviction that she was one
with the flowering earth, with its light, its heat, its joy. Here was
the new birth--she had lost her old self, her old hopes and desires, and
had become instead a vessel filled with the wonder and the beauty of
life.
This ecstasy had not stayed. It had been banished by something more
personal, less diffused, by a return of her mind upon itself. It was a
new troubling thing--she could remember the first surprise of its
insurgence. It had been a hot afternoon and she had been walking by the
river, slowly, without any thought of where she was going. A willow bush
grew in the long grass by the edge of the water, and beside it she had
seen Anthony's blazer lying on the ground. Anthony was playing tennis
with Trent; he must have forgotten it. It was a pleasant, secluded
place, and the patch of colour on the grass seemed to make a reason why
she should stop. She had sat down in what shade the bush
afforded--presently she would carry the blazer back to the house.
The light flickered on the water; Rosemary sat lazily inert watching the
willow leaves as they stirred a little, and the pointed shadows that
changed their shape as they moved over the uneven grass. A white
butterfly was circling above her, and while she looked he fluttered down
on to the blazer's tempting brightness. The surface did not please
him--his eager trunk found no honey--Rosemary, her face held low, saw
the under surfaces of his wings gleam blue as he rose from the deceptive
cloth. She put out her hand to it, idly, where it lay warm in the sun,
but when her fingers met the soft stuff she paused. In the short space
of her movement the action had become intimate, had assumed
significance. She felt that Anthony must know that she wanted to touch
his coat. Then she took courage. Her doubt, her hesitation, were nothing
to Anthony. His coat was thrown down, forgotten, disregarded. She might
touch it or not, no sense of his could be fine enough to betray her. She
had pulled it towards her and buried her face in the limp, kindly cloth
before she realised, trembling, what she had done.
Now, remembering it, she moved in the big chair and sighed. She almost
regretted that moment of sharp feeling. She was happy now, but even the
first secret delight of her happiness was at its end. She had told her
mother; she had still to tell her father, and Laura, and Trent. And they
would all discuss it and fuss about it. Trent would think it his duty to
express his opinions. She had been foolish, really, not to choose a time
when Trent was away.
She felt restless--she pushed back her chair and went over to one of the
tall windows. Outside a spring gale was flinging drops of water from the
plane trees in the London square. The rain had stopped, there was blue
in the sky, and an old man who sold primroses had left his shelter and
was carrying his basket down the empty street. It was a day for a long
walk over the Downs with the dogs.
She was watching the yellow gleams of light that lay on the pavement and
its iron railings, when her attention was caught by a cry from the old
man. Hope had entered his heart when he saw her and his features were
now bent to an encouraging smile. "Here y'are lidy," he called, and held
up the basket.
Rosemary shook her head, and then, to end the matter, walked away from
the window. Her mother was right, she thought, she might as well get it
over. Slowly and reluctantly she went downstairs.
Meanwhile Mrs. Heyham had gone to her sitting-room. She shut its door
behind her with relief. Here, alone, there was no need to think of
Rosemary's feelings. She could give way now, a little, to her jealousy
and her regret, to the fierce dislike that she had felt when she thought
of Anthony touching her daughter's hair--turning up her face to enjoy
its loveliness.
They had loved one another for months, and she had never known! To her
neglectful eyes the child had seemed unchanged. It had been a joy to her
that Rosemary, fastidious and a little reserved, had never been swayed
or excited by the people who moved her sister. She had believed that
this younger favourite daughter possessed some quick instinct of her
own, some power of direction that was enough for her. Mary had been able
to stand by and see her avail herself of the widest freedom in the
confidence that it was Rosemary with whom she had to deal, not some
friend or some enthusiasm of the moment. And now men had come into her
life, and love, and approaching marriage. To her mother it seemed that
they must spoil it. Rosemary's liberty of mind was gone, she must
respond to a man's clumsy, imperative emotions, tune her mind to his,
find her growth and her insight checked by insistent personal ties....
That was all very well, later on, but Rosemary was only a child.
She turned her mind, with an effort, from this unbearable thought. It
was her duty, she reminded herself, not to be miserable, but to be
honest. Being honest now, as generally, meant to Mrs. Heyham discovering
a way to accept any blame that remained when she had made excuses for
everybody else. On this occasion she found it as easy as usual to
persuade herself that she was behaving badly. She was doing, she must
admit it, just what she had despised in other mothers. She was regarding
her children as mere objects for her own affections. She had not grudged
Laura, because she had felt that she herself was giving the brilliant
creature to Harry, because in Laura she had wanted to live through again
her own early wifehood and motherhood. Now she was hurt and bitter
because Rosemary had put her aside, had claimed a right to her own youth
and her own beauty. She could only feel that Rosemary did not know what
a priceless gift they were.
Since Laura had married she had been hoping, as silly old women hope, to
fill a greater place in Rosemary's life. She had felt that this was the
time for which she had waited ever since Rosemary had learned to walk.
She had stood then, a mere mother, outside the excitements and mysteries
of nursery life. All through the children's youth she had waited, greedy
for their love. Now, it seemed to her, her chance was gone.
Now she was middle-aged, and her life was failing her. With the children
went its purpose and its meaning. She had worked hard to be the sort of
mother they liked, to make her home a congenial background for their
activities. She had not oppressed them with her own needs, or forced
their affection from them. And now they were going, going to other homes
where she would be only a visitor who rang their door-bells and asked
their servants whether they were in. She could no more share them with
their husbands than she had shared them with one another when they were
babies. She could not even arrange the world for them as she had then.
They had grown up, as modern girls do, in touch with an intricate life
that meant nothing to her. She had given them her ignorant sympathy, her
facile interest, her approval, where she could, but if they had valued
these it was because they loved her. And it would not matter to them any
more what she and their father felt. They would wait on someone else's
ideas and someone else's moods. She had tried her utmost to be just to
them, to hold herself in check--it only made her feel the more for them
now the slowness and the egotism of men. They were happy--she wondered
how much their happiness had cost of the freedom she had so painfully
given them.
She rose from the chair where she had been sitting to walk up and down
the room. She was stung again by the knowledge that Rosemary was gone,
that she looked to other loves, to a new life, to another loyalty. She
tried in vain to change her thoughts by centring them on her own
foolishness. "I've been dreadful," she told herself, "ugly, grasping,
blind! She has a right to choose her happiness." That was bald--bald
enough to shock anyone into common-sense. But she could not quite
believe it. Why--why had the child not waited!
One thing she could at least do, she told herself. She could use
self-control, and refrain from causing discomfort to others by her
selfish pain. She had failed already quite sufficiently that afternoon.
The clear discernment of a duty was always a relief to Mrs. Heyham, a
stimulus to which she could respond mechanically. She now turned her
mind, after an effort, to considering the matter from Rosemary's point
of view, to any thoughts, indeed, that would keep her mind from its
ungenerous fretting. And Rosemary's interview with her father, she
supposed, was now taking place. It would not be terrible. James's
children, like everyone else, found him a sympathetic and delightful
man. But Trent was another matter. It was a pity that neither his
sisters nor she could really get on with Trent. She had never felt for
him the passionate love a mother sometimes feels for her only son. She
had hoped to, she had tried to, but Trent had baffled her. It was wrong
of her, for poor Trent was loyal and affectionate. It was a pity,
perhaps, that they had sent him to Harrow, where his family could not
follow him. That was perhaps why they could not follow now his perfectly
correct and manly view of life. She was struggling with a sense of
fatigue and incoherence among these familiar reflections when the door
opened to admit her husband.
James seldom forgot to kiss his wife when he found her alone, not only
because he was a methodical man, but because he seldom forgot that he
was fond of her. To-day he kept his arm around her shoulders and looked
down at her tenderly. "Poor little mother," he said, "to have nobody
left but me!"
She let him draw her head against his shoulder where it was easier to
cry. He used to call her "little mother" long ago, when the children
were babies and belonged to her.
After a little he thought that she had cried enough and ought to be
cheered up now; he made her sit in a comfortable chair while he went
over to the fireplace.
"Of course Rosemary is much too young for this sort of thing," he said,
believing that the only permanent cheering up is obtained by facing
facts, "but we must admit that she's done very well for herself, better
than poor Laura."
This was the first time anybody had thought of calling Laura "poor," and
Mrs. Heyham looked up for explanations.
"Hastings," her husband went on, "is a thoroughly decent fellow, he's a
cut above most of the young men the children have in the house. And
since Laura isn't here, I don't mind saying that Moorhouse is a bit of a
fool. I fancy he came the man of the world over Laura!"
"He makes her very happy,"--Mrs. Heyham's voice was a little
doubtful--"and he's an excellent man of business."
"It's quite possible she'll soon have as many cares as you, my dear,
but, as you know, I've always declared that since my girls would have
enough to live on anyhow I did not mean to make money the most important
thing. I don't object to it, of course, but I don't see why I should let
it sway my judgment. Laura's man is not good enough for her, and I shall
be disappointed if Hastings doesn't turn out a son-in-law to be proud
of." He smiled at Mary, and stroked his trim little pointed beard.
Mrs. Heyham did not answer, but she realised, as she looked up, how
proud she was of James. He was a hard-working business man himself, and
after thirty years of it he might have been forgiven if he had been a
little obsessed by ordinary business standards. Most men in his position
wouldn't have looked at a penniless boy whatever they thought of his
intellect and character. But James did not keep his principles for
nothing. She could almost wish for once, that he had been a more
conventional father, and she felt a moment's anxiety as she wondered how
far his complaisance had extended.
"You told her--of course--that they'd have to wait?" she asked.
"There was no need, the child showed very proper feeling, but I did say
that I didn't suppose you would consent to her setting out on married
life at eighteen. In any case, it appears that the young man wants to be
earning enough to pay for his own share of the ménage."
James was evidently pleased with the interview that had just taken
place. "She's a dear child," he went on after a minute; "you're to be
congratulated on both of them, Mary, though I admit that as a wife I
prefer their mother. The women of your day had more character, though
nobody made a fuss about their brains. Nowadays young people treat each
other as if they were all friends of the same sex; it may suit them, but
I know I shouldn't have liked it."
Mrs. Heyham did not move, and he wondered whether his talk was having
the desired effect. He felt very sorry for her--when he thought about it
he often felt sorry for women. Good women had such a hard time of it,
they suffered so inevitably as life went on. It was rough on them losing
their looks, it was rough on them when their boys went to school, and
many of them had a bad time with their husbands. Men wouldn't have stood
it, but women--thank God for it!--were like that. Men were not grateful
enough, but he had done his best to make life smooth for Mary and the
girls.... Poor Mary, he was glad she had cried on his shoulder. She was
a dignified little thing, it was not always easy to tell what she was
thinking.
He went over to her and stroked her hair. That, to his mind, was the use
of her hair, and to please him she dressed it in a way that was not
easily disarranged.
She looked up at him, and he saw at once that she was still a little
excited. "James," she said, and then paused. He sat down on the arm of
her chair so that he might give her better attention. When she spoke it
was in the slow thoughtful way he deplored. It meant that she was taking
things too hard.
"What do other women do when the children go?" she asked him. "How do
they fill up their days?"
"I should say a good many of them were glad of a rest," he told her
reassuringly. "It's not such easy work bringing up children. Haven't you
noticed a friend whose grey hairs have gone brown since her daughters
married? We shall have you a gay young thing again in no time. Or you
could take up politics and make Trent stand for Parliament--the old lady
would look fine as candidate's mother!"
She shook her head. "You forget the candidate's wife. I don't think I
want to play second fiddle to Trent's Lady Hester. But I suppose that is
about what they do. Either they knit boots for their grandchildren, or
they go on committees."
The mention of Lady Hester had ruffled James's good humour. "If Trent
waits for her, he'll wait some time," he said. He shrugged his shoulders
and then they both smiled. "Trent's good at waiting," he admitted.
Mary jumped up from her chair and took his hands. "James," she
whispered, "I sometimes wish there were something Trent wasn't good at!"
James kissed her. That was all right! Here was the old lady quite
cheerful again. They must all be very kind to her for a day or two, and
when she realised that Rosemary wasn't leaving her yet and got used to
Anthony's new status she would see that there was nothing to be unhappy
about for a long time. And when the disaster came she would be busy
waging war on Laura's nurses.
"I told Rosemary she could have her young man to dinner, my dear," he
said, apprehensive, but feeling that on the whole it was better to get
it over. "It seemed the only decent thing to do."
His wife appeared to have accepted the worst. Her "I'm glad, I forgot to
tell her," was serene. "Laura's been here to say that she and Harry
aren't coming. That's just as well, Trent will be quite enough for them
in one evening."