BUT Mrs. Heyham, though she did her best, could not settle down as she
ought to have done. James watched her carefully, and though she was
charming about it he felt that the engagement still distressed her. She
was a little pale, he thought, and detached and indifferent to carefully
planned amusements. Something more radical would have to be done. He
would have liked to take her abroad, but he had business matters in hand
which he could not trust to Trent. Nevertheless things must not remain
as they were. He took his problem to Rosemary, whose own conscience was
not untroubled. "We've got to think of some way," he told her, "of
interesting your mother."
Rosemary agreed with him. Now that she turned her mind to it she could
see that her mother's life needed interests. For what, when she came to
express her sense of it, had Mary's life been? She expended some little
ingenuity in pointing and amplifying her own conception of such an
existence before, in her turn, she consulted Anthony.
Her mother, that was the gist of it, had not lived. Here, in this great
world of speed and steel and electricity, this world of banks and
syndicates and organised labour, Mrs. Heyham had kept her house and
nursed her babies as she might have done a hundred, five hundred, years
ago. She used the clothes and the food and the furniture of the
twentieth century because they were there, at her hand. She knew nothing
of how they were made or of what brought them to her. She lived like an
insect in a coral reef, ignorant of the laws by which she was governed.
Mathematics, the triumph of man's intellect, meant some x's and y's,
some circles and triangles in children's school-books. Philosophy meant
that a great many cultivated people do not believe in God. Biology meant
that in some indiscreet manner we are descended from monkeys; economics
that the Conservatives think a lot can be done with Tariff Reform, and
the Liberals have been left to make the best of Free Trade. Industry was
represented in her mind by the shops where she bought her clothes and
ordered her provisions, by factories, heard of but never seen, by a bank
with large stone pillars that sent her cheque-books, by so much money
from her husband every week. When she tried to escape from it all, at
least to vary it, she travelled on padded seats of first-class
carriages, she slept in hotels where she was carried to her room in a
lift, she stared at views whose last details of excellence had been
dissected in guide books. Public opinion, since she was a rich woman,
did not allow Mr. Heyham to beat her or to take her money, and she could
walk alone in the street without being insulted. She could read novels
about other women's love-affairs, she could turn up the light in her
house by putting her finger on a knob. Yet she had no clue to the
meaning of her life or of the lives of the people who served her and
worked for her. She knew as little of the city she lived in as she knew
of the fields where primitive women toiled. She was shut off--like all
of us, Rosemary thought--from the wild things of the earth, from its
oceans, its forests, its snows. She was denied man's heritage of
knowledge, the rewards of his search for truth. She was sheltered from
the need of working with her hands. She had lost the keenness of her
savage senses and the strength of her savage impulses. She had lost her
bodily hardness, her mental vigour and curiosity. Even her love of
luxury had gone--she did not care, as some women do, to scent herself
and hang herself with jewels, to wrap herself in soft furs and in supple
bright-coloured stuffs. All these desires had withered to a mere dislike
of dirt and disorder, a vague positive aspiration that things should be
nice. Mrs. Heyham was a graceful woman, good, simple, sensitive. She
respected herself and she was respected by others. That was her
spiritual share of the loot of the centuries!
They were walking through the park to Hampton Court when Rosemary tried
to impose this view of the matter on Anthony. He listened to it with
interest but without excitement. He was a fair-haired, sunny-tempered
youth, a little lazy about giving rein to his own enthusiasm but
tolerant of Rosemary's, for he admired her wits. It was a fine
afternoon. He turned appreciative eyes to the long lines of trees
changing from green to grey in the slight pleasant haze. Then he looked
back at Rosemary. "Well," he asked her, "granting all that--and you've
put it very nicely--what is your solution?"
Rosemary had thought of a solution and a very good solution too,
suitable, revolutionary, and high-minded. She was not deterred from
explaining it by Tony's indolent tone. Rosemary was herself a Socialist
and she could not help feeling that if her mother were to take up some
sort of work among her father's employees the results must be thoroughly
satisfactory to all right-thinking people. Her father was a good
employer--neither she nor Anthony doubted it--but it is admitted that
only a woman can understand a woman's difficulties. If you thought of
the matter with an open mind, some such devotion of herself seemed only
Mrs. Heyham's duty. There could be no doubt that she ate and wore the
profits of the business.
"Delightful for the girls, but what is your mother going to get out of
it?" Anthony asked. He thought of his own mother, a strong-minded lady
who made a great point of remembering that she was only a woman. No
child of hers would willingly have extended the sphere of her influence,
but then she lacked essential human kindness. Mrs. Heyham, on the other
hand, was the kindest woman he knew, she was kinder than Rosemary. He
wouldn't, personally, have considered that her life or her personality
needed any addition. They seemed to him gracious, complete, and
satisfying, and he did not think that she herself would wish to tamper
with them.
But Rosemary was answering him. Why--she told him, looking round in her
turn at the still trees and the sunny grass--here would be her mother's
chance. She could leave her artificial, opulent home and go out into the
world, the man's world, that she had never seen. She would touch it,
study it, find out her own place and her value from it. She could live
again, not only with her charm and her sympathy and her admirable
legitimate affections but with her mind, with her soul--Tony might jeer
at the word as much as he liked, but it was exactly her soul that
Rosemary meant. She would learn that out in the world justice and mercy
and pity are not easy, natural things. They must be found--fought for,
insisted on. "Mother," she finished, "has never fought for anything in
her life."
"On the contrary," Anthony told her, "you know nothing about it. A woman
like your mother--I speak with the authority of all the ages--finds her
life and her adventures in herself. She doesn't need to be stirred by
your gross realities, your sordid politics, your miserable clamour for
things to eat and a hole to go to sleep in. She lives, so to speak, in
the depths of the sea, dark-green and heavy, far away down, while you,
my dear Rosemary, are running about in a bright red bathing-dress and
splashing in the little waves on the beach." He smiled at her all the
same as if he approved her choice of occupation.
"And the air," Rosemary reminded him, "and the sky, and the sun! But
seriously, Tony, isn't that all drivel? There may be a mystical life
that can do without experience, but most women haven't got it--mother
hasn't. Taking things as they are, what can you find to criticise in my
plan?"
Tony turned to look at her and met her earnest eyes. She was a beautiful
creature, he thought, and he liked her gallant tilting at destiny. It
was rather jolly of her to marry him. When he spoke, his voice expressed
an easy-going affection. "If I were your mother," he informed her, "I
wouldn't stir a finger to touch what you call life. However, from your
point of view, your plan is all right--if you can persuade your father."
Rosemary had no doubts upon that score. She could easily manage father,
and her mother would simply have to be persuaded. Really it was a
masterly idea--it would be thrilling, most thrilling, to see what she
made of it all.
To her father next day she presented the plan as if it meant nothing
more than a trifling charity, and Mr. Heyham, after careful thought, saw
no objection to it. He was not aware of any deficiencies in his system,
but he was a broad-minded man and could very well believe that there
were a lot of little things that might be done for the girls as long as
they were done in a proper way. He had always deplored the spirit which
makes so many employers regard their business contract as the only link
between master and men. He had given his support to Progressive
legislation when his party introduced it, and when he went into one of
his restaurants he liked to see the waitresses looking cheerful and
well-fed. He knew that he was popular, and the thought of Mary among the
work-people, doing good to them and adored by them, was pleasant. Also,
and this was the chief consideration, it was just the thing for Mary.
Her own children were leaving her and what she wanted was somebody to
mother. He thought well of Rosemary for her idea; he told himself that
there is a good deal to be said for these modern young women.
Laura, whose own struggles with housekeeping had given her a new respect
for Mrs. Heyham, showed the easy enthusiasm of the irresponsible. It
would be splendid for mother to have this fresh outlet for her powers,
and it would be so nice for them all to feel that everything was being
looked after from a woman's point of view. Perhaps later on, if mother
organised clubs or anything that might help her--after all, they all
shared in the profits of the business and in a sort of way they were
responsible. She also felt that it was so splendid of father to want to
let mother in, not like most men who are so vulgar about their wives.
And--this when she had been told of the young man's attitude--it was
just like Trent to make a fuss about what everybody else wanted.
Rosemary, though she was glad of this warm reception, did not feel that
it took her very much further as to Trent. If Mrs. Heyham chose to see a
difficulty in his beastly mulishness she was not likely to be moved by
Laura. After all Trent worked very hard at the business and, in a way,
he had plenty of brains. You could not disregard him as if he were a boy
or a fool.
"Why not, when he behaves like one?" Laura had only looked in for a few
minutes and as she was in a hurry she was inclined to take a lofty way
with obstacles.
Rosemary did not agree. "It's very tiresome of him, but what is the use
of owning a business if you can't be tiresome and obstinate about it?
That's what employers mean when they write to the papers and say that
they must be allowed to manage their own affairs in their own way!" In
her heart Rosemary was not sorry to see Trent embodying her notion of
the grasping capitalist. She was fond of her brother, but she preferred
a dramatic interest.
Laura refused to see matters in this light. If they wanted to win, the
point to be stressed was not Trent's rights but his ungraciousness.
"But, my dear Rosemary," she said, "he can't have any serious objection!
Isn't it obvious that he's merely trying to be disagreeable? Unless of
course--" this struck her as a good idea--"he thinks his Iredales won't
consider it the thing!" She had a train to catch and as she spoke she
moved towards the door.
Rosemary shook her head. She didn't believe that Lord Iredale's
objection to Trent as a cousin would be affected by any charitable
enterprises that Mrs. Heyham might undertake. Trent's reasons, whatever
they were, were clearly not of a kind that he could make public.
This, as Trent himself felt, was the weakness of his position. He was
not a man who could make a show with sentimental values and this was a
matter of sentiment. Trent liked little soft childish women. He liked,
in a quiet way, to be made a fuss of; he did not long to be understood,
but only to be prettily admired. Women who sat on committees and
superintended movements were apt to cultivate an impersonal manner which
he found chilling. He had not much leisure for ladies' society, but when
he did adorn it he expected to be received with womanly charm. And his
grievance now was that Rosemary, with her confounded ideas, was getting
hold of, was doing her best to spoil, his charming mother.
However you looked at it, it was a horrible plan. Mrs. Heyham, as Trent
saw her, was the last person to throw among waitresses and factory
girls. Their girls were no worse than the rest, in fact the firm made
distinct efforts towards moral tone, but he could not believe in his
heart that they were better. And Trent was afraid of waitresses. At
Oxford there had been a rather large waitress who made advances to him.
She was a moist lady with bright yellow hair, and Trent still shivered
with disgust when he thought of her dirty fingers on the edge of his
plate.... That was the sort of person Rosemary wanted to bring into
contact with his mother! He pictured Mrs. Heyham being imposed on, made
use of, duped and talked over by malcontents and agitators. Sooner or
later there was bound to be trouble and once she was there they would
have to stand by her. On the other hand the prospect of his mother
hardened, his mother become managing and suspicious, his mother under
the influence of inspectors and Trade Union officials and Socialists of
all kinds, filled him with a mild anguish.
Trent did not realise that Mrs. Heyham, who was now forty-five, had a
character of her own. She had been almost his ideal of a mother,
receptive and sympathetic, and he could not think of her now as anything
but immature and easily swayed. A wave of protective feeling rose in his
heart. It was particularly shocking that her own husband should expose
her to this danger!
But though these considerations glared broadly before his eyes he could
not state them directly. Trent had, of a formal kind, an immense respect
for his mother, and he accepted the fact that it was as impossible for
her husband to discuss her with her son as it was for her son to discuss
her with anyone else. It was unfortunate, he thought, that the serious
approach had come from his sister and that when James had mentioned the
plan to him he had done so in a casual manner, alluding to it as
Rosemary's newest idea. Trent had hoped to avoid offence by laughing
too, saying that Rosemary's imagination was given to running away with
her, and promising that he would think it over as fully as it deserved.
Thinking it over had only produced reasons to fortify his impulsive
aversion, and if he did not mention it again it was because he hoped
that Mr. Heyham might have seen fit, on reflection, to drop it. Trent
never made it harder for people to do right by enlisting their pride
against him.
But James, who had learned from Rosemary of Trent's real attitude, had
as a matter of fact been waiting, not to retreat from his position, but
for some sign of an apology from his son. In business matters Trent
might stand up to him if he could. Young brains were sometimes a match
for experience, and in any case they could only develop by making a
fight for it. But where his own wife--where Trent's mother--was
concerned, Mr. Heyham was still the head of his family, and he was hurt
that Trent should lack the good taste that would have taken this for
granted. He had never exacted a show of respect from his son, and he had
perhaps assumed too easily that the young man had understood his
attitude. He ought to have understood it; if he hadn't he showed a
mental coarseness which his father did not find easy to forgive.
Mr. Heyham had always stuck up for Trent, if only because he was a boy
and the girls were down on him, but it seemed to him quite possible now
that he had been wrong. The possibility was not pleasant, and James,
when business allowed it, preferred his thoughts to have a mellow
savour. He therefore decided, when two days had passed and Trent had
said nothing, to finish the matter out in the library after dinner.
He waited until Trent had left the hearth-rug and settled himself in a
chair. James himself remained standing, it was always, he felt, annoying
to have your adversary leaning over you. Trent was looking particularly
thoughtful, for he was trying a new kind of cigar.
James opened briskly. "Rosemary and I are anxious to know, Trent, when
we may mention this plan of ours to your mother?"
Trent was deeply disappointed. He had hoped, at the least, for a
reasonable openness of mind, and he was met with what looked painfully
like a display of temper. It was clear that argument was no use, there
was nothing for it but to be firm.
"As soon as you like, sir," he said in a tone which he hoped would
express the sentiments desirable to a man in his position, "as long as
my mother understands that it has nothing to do with me."
"As long as we tell her that you wash your hands of her!"
This was unfair, and Trent hated unfairness. He stared hard at the cigar
for a moment while he tried to master his irritation, telling himself
that thirty years of business make a man quick to put others in the
wrong. His father, watching him, was struck by the attitude. "Good
lord," he thought, "he might be a curate! Well, well...." Meanwhile
Trent was answering. "My dear father, once we're committed to this plan
it won't be possible to wash our hands of it. But I don't want my mother
to think I approve of it."
"It would be interesting," said James, who was accustomed to come off
best in verbal disputes, "exceedingly interesting to know why!"
Trent picked his way as well as he could, among his reasons. "Well, in
the first place, I'm convinced that it will make difficulties. Perhaps I
see more of the girls than you do, and they're as discontented as they
can be. Especially the waitresses. We simply can't afford to have them
upset." He hesitated.
"And what in the second place?"
"In the second place, then, I must say that I don't think it's suitable
for my mother. Our girls are not like villagers, they're not accustomed
to ladies. And mother has never had any experience of this sort of
thing."
By this time James was angry too. Trent had as good as said that he
didn't take proper care of his own wife. That wasn't an arguable matter,
so he let it rankle a little and turned to the other point. "I really
can't congratulate you on your apparent experience," he said. "Our
waitresses are a perfectly respectable lot of girls; I shouldn't in the
least mind my daughters going amongst them. In any case I can't see why
you should think that your mother is likely to corrupt them!"
Here was more unfairness! "I didn't say corrupt. I said upset. Anything
they are not accustomed to upsets them. Look at the trouble we had over
stopping their tips, though they must have seen that it's a far better
plan to have a regular bonus! What I feel is that the person at the back
of this is Rosemary, and frankly I'm not prepared to be responsible for
Rosemary's ideas."
Rosemary's ideas received no defence from her father. He had thought of
a new weapon. "My dear fellow," he retorted, "suppose we look at this
from your mother's point of view for a moment. It may not occur to her
that her influence is likely to be disastrous and upsetting. She may
even feel that she has some rights in the matter, seeing that half the
business is hers! You forget that it was your mother's money that bought
out old Clarkson!"
Trent had forgotten it, indeed it was not often remembered by anyone but
Mary's unsatisfactory brother. When Trent heard it mentioned now he knew
that he had lost; money is money, even when it belongs to a woman. But
he was too much annoyed to admit defeat. "I wasn't disputing my mother's
rights, sir; if it were even her own wish it would be different. But, as
I understand it, she is to be persuaded into a rôle of interference
that is the last thing she would have thought of for herself!"
His father laughed. "In fact there's a general conspiracy in the family
against the dignity and peace of mind of Trent Heyham, Esq.!"
Trent, he flattered himself, could be a gentleman even in an argument.
Such cheap sneers were unworthy of his father. They were not argument.
He did not answer them.
James, too, felt that almost enough had been said. Trent hadn't a
chance, and there was no need to press the boy.
"Look here," he said, quite agreeably, "I'm not prepared to discuss your
mother with you. You can take it from me that nobody is going to
persuade her against her wishes"--Trent grunted, he knew Rosemary's
powers--"and I'm not going to discuss the whole position of women with
you either, though I don't mind telling you that you know nothing about
it. But before we close the subject you must understand that I really
can't undertake to explain your views to your mother. They're beyond me.
But of course I shall be delighted if you can make her see why she is
going to do all this harm. Only you'll have to put it off until
to-morrow because I mean to speak to her myself first." Victory had made
him energetic, and he felt this was a good moment for explaining the
matter to Mary. He stood up, paused for a minute as if he were waiting
for Trent's answer, and then walked briskly, almost gaily, out of the
room. He knew that he had left Trent nursing a grievance. He knew that
Trent did not mean to speak to his mother, and that he felt insulted by
the accusation. He did not care whether the poor young man felt insulted
or not. For the moment Trent was merely a defeated adversary.
Moreover he was a nuisance. Mr. Heyham had never felt certain that Mary
would take to the plan, and now it had become necessary that she should
receive it with enthusiasm. He was not going to overpersuade her, he had
said so, and, besides, it is of no use forcing a person to do a thing
for her own amusement. But Trent had certainly made it difficult for him
to give way on the matter. Trent was a self-righteous young fool. Damn
him!
Mary was alone in the drawing-room, for Rosemary had gone to a theatre
with Anthony. James became more impressed by the beneficence of his
scheme when he noticed that Mary was doing nothing. But she took up some
knitting and pretended to be busy directly she saw him--brave little
woman!
He hovered over her rather awkwardly for a moment. Twenty years ago, if
he had wanted to persuade her, he would have sat down on the footstool
at her feet, and some unreasonable impulse was urging him now that the
footstool would be appropriate. He made no conscious decision, habit
settled him in his usual chair, but for once he went doubtfully. He
remembered the time when their house had seemed to him merely an
opportunity for being alone with Mary, when his heart had beat with a
little feeling of triumph as he closed the street door. Then the
children had come, with their right to interrupt, to burst joyfully into
rooms, and now that the children were going he had discovered a sense of
what was due to the servants. It would be ridiculous now to jump up
because the moment had come for some of the servants' confounded
fidgetings. He told himself that there was nothing to regret. He and
Mary were beyond the old constant need of these little symbols and
affirmations. It would be absurd if they weren't, after twenty-six years
together. Such things had to give way to the other pressures and
interests of life, but that didn't mean that love had given way!
He looked fondly across at Mary, satisfaction completely restored. It
was a commonplace that there are not many wives like Mary, and a matter
for congratulation that he had, on the whole, been able to make her a
very decent husband. At any rate, she thought so, bless her, and he was
perfectly willing to admit his debt to her belief. If James had really
believed in a God he would frequently have thanked Him for His
forethought in creating good women.
As it was, the force of Mr. Heyham's gratitude went to increase his
determination. "I suppose Rosemary has been telling you of the great
things you are to do?" he began lightly, wasting no more time.
"Well, she hasn't said anything, but she has been looking at me with an
appraising eye. And she has lent me one or two books to read." It was
plain to Mary that James wanted her to be pleased about Rosemary's
scheme, so she prepared herself to receive it. "Dear James! Dear
children! How sweet of them to think of me!" she told herself hurriedly.
James seemed amused. "I saw she was trying to make Trent read somebody's
_Principles of Economics_ the other day."
"I don't think these were economics. I'm afraid I haven't looked at them
yet, though I meant to begin one this evening. She said they were books
that would give me an insight into the lives of the poor."
James was touched by the thought of little mother bent over Rosemary's
books. "Tyrannous young bluestocking!" he said, "I don't think we need
bother our old lady with books! It's just where books fail that we want
her to come in. The fact is, mother--I don't know whether you will
forgive us--but your family have been hatching a plot. Rosemary is
concerned about the workgirls ground down under the masculine heels of
Trent and her father, and I am very much concerned about the old lady. I
don't think she's as happy as she ought to be. She's an active old
thing, and it's no use her pretending that she can settle down to
knitting. I believe if she looks she'll find the sock she's got there
has two heels to it. So we thought that if she were to give some of her
time to combating the firm's ruthless oppression it would be a new
interest for her, besides putting an end to one of the worst excesses of
the capitalistic régime!"
Mary was startled into opposition. "But, my dear, what could I do? I'm
certain I shouldn't suit Rosemary at all--I should probably be on the
side of the tyrants! And I know nothing about it!" She smiled at him to
hide a sudden feeling of fear.
James was very soothing and very affectionate. She needn't be afraid
that she would have to participate in crimes--things weren't as bad as
that, in spite of Rosemary's friends. And she mustn't fear either that
she was going to be asked to move mountains or change human nature. It
was really the mere fact of her interest that was important. The girls
would feel that someone cared about them, someone who needn't have
cared; they wouldn't suspect her motives as they always suspected the
motives of their employers. And her presence would help them in other
ways. A word or two would encourage the lady managers to treat their
staffs more kindly--though James could assure her that they were a kind
set of women, wonderfully kind when you thought how heavy their
responsibilities were--yet Mary's example would perhaps infuse a new
courtesy into their intercourse with the girls. And perhaps Mary's quick
eye would see little things that might with advantage be altered--it was
very difficult for a busy man to realise where rules pressed perhaps a
little more hardly than they were meant to, and the lady managers hadn't
always the fine sense that could be trusted only to complain about the
right things. It is difficult to explain the necessities of the case to
people of no education without appearing brutal, or even to concede a
reform without appearing weak. On the whole they had had to discourage
complaints. But a private word to him from Mary would stand in a
entirely different category. It would be like giving him double time,
two pairs of ears, two pairs of eyes.
He didn't for a moment propose that she should make a burden for
herself, or tie herself down to stated hours and times. She was to take
them as lightly as she chose, and they would know how to be grateful.
Mary submitted to the flood of these persuasions in helpless silence.
James did not like being checked in the middle of his explanations.
Moreover, taking his argument point by point, she could not answer it.
James was so just and so reasonable--everything he said was sure to be
true. Her only defence was that she didn't like the idea--that she was
afraid of it. She did not want to be mixed up in James's business. She
had been perfectly content to trust him where she could not follow him.
His work, to her, seemed vast, complicated, laborious, and she credited
him with a display of qualities in relation to it which matched the
candour, the courage, the generosity she so counted upon at home. She
knew that he shone at business as he shone everywhere else, but for her
it was different. How would she fare in this world where men made the
rules, with its stalwart virtues and strange stumbling-blocks? How could
she know that she wouldn't give offence, be weak, or foolish, make James
look down on her? "It would be all very well for Rosemary," she told
herself, "but I can't--no, I can't--it's too much for me!"
"Well, what are you hiding in that wise little head of yours?" her
husband was saying.
She could not find words. Her opening "James" remained unsupported. She
would have liked, instead of answering, to cry.
"Is it as dreadful as all that? Are we bullying our little mother?"
James had crossed over to her and taken both her hands, and made her
stand up in front of him by the fireplace. "She must have a little more
courage--oh, yes, I can see she is afraid, afraid of making a mess of
things and not coming up to expectations. But she must pull herself
together and remember that I've just been telling Trent, that in a way
she owns a good deal of this terrifying business, and in a way she is
responsible for it. Trent and I have done our best to administer it for
her, but as Rosemary thinks, though she's too polite to say so, we are
dull masculine creatures at best, and the place needs its mistress's
eye."
If James spoke like that it meant that his mind was made up. There was
no real use in disputing and making matters more hard, more definite.
Nevertheless, she spoke. "But, James, supposing we don't agree?"
James accepted the admission with a smile. "My dear, are we in the habit
of quarrelling? And do we always agree? Well, then! When we don't agree
we shall talk things over."
"And I shall give way!" Of course she would give way, it was simple
enough.
James shook his head. "I'm not so sure about that! I know somebody who
can be as obstinate as a tiger with a bone! I'd sooner move mountains
than move her from off one of her scruples! She's a dreadful little
person to tackle when her mind is made up!" Mary's obstinacy had been
agreed upon between them since she had successfully refused to have
footmen in her household, or even a boy and a butler.
Mary reassured him. "But in this case you'll have the making of it up!"
James thought it probable he would. "Well, there's no need to sigh like
that!" he told her. "In six months, ridiculous one, we shall have you
thanking us for a new lease of life!"
Mrs. Heyham smiled faintly, and let him swing her hands in and out. "You
said you had to remind Trent," she asked presently. "Does that mean that
he doesn't agree with you?"
James let go her hands that he might clasp his own behind his back. "I
rather gather that Mr. Trent believes in women leading a sheltered life.
Dew-sprinkled flowers and bloomy grapes and that sort of thing. He was
distressed at the idea of your going among the girls, who don't meet his
ideas of nice people. And on the other hand he seemed to fear that you
would prove a channel for Rosemary's revolutionary doctrines--want to
hand over the business to the London County Council, or whatever the
theory of the moment is."
Mary could laugh. "Dear Trent--to tell you the truth, though I wouldn't
care to admit it to Rosemary, I've only the dimmest notion of her
theories! It's a subject on which I've felt too ignorant for discussion.
But, seriously, James, how can I undertake the work you suggest if one
of the directors objects?" For a moment she felt grateful to Trent.
"I don't think we shall hear much more of Trent's objection, my dear,
and even if his manners were worse than I think them, it's of no
consequence. I made him a director because I thought it more fair to
him, but until I retire I, and not Trent, am at the head of the firm."
He spoke in his business voice.
There was nothing very hopeful in that, and Mary felt weakly inclined
for a compromise. "You'll give me a night to think it over, won't you,
James?" she asked. "It's just possible I might discover an argument that
would send you and your old plan packing."
James laughed and kissed her. "Oh, I'm quite ready to allow Rosemary her
share in the glory of convincing you. I'm sure that not even Anthony
could have lured her out if she had known that the assault was to be
made to-night. Think it over as much as you like, but I don't expect
you'll find your argument!"
There was nothing more to say, the matter was settled for the evening,
and James became aware of the fact that it was ten o'clock. Moreover, he
was in the drawing-room, whereas at ten o'clock, if they were alone, he
was accustomed to be in his study. Mary did not want him, she had turned
back to her knitting, and she would soon be going to bed. He waited a
moment, to be sure that she did not want him, but when it came she
seemed quite to expect his good-night.
Nevertheless, Mary did not go to bed. She lay back in her chair and
tried, in the interval that he had left her, to bring some pertinent
order into her thoughts. She had not only to decide what she should do,
but, equally difficult, how she should put the thing to James. She knew
that she was not good at sustaining an argument even when she had
thought it out carefully beforehand.
She tried to state the case very plainly to herself, James's side and
the other side. After all, that was the important thing, it did not
matter so much that he should be pleased with the answer he got from
her. Just now she had been cowardly; it was only fair to him that he
should know what was really in her mind. She had slid too much into the
habit of answering James's mood and not his arguments.
As she thought it seemed to her the case against her going was, in
substance, Trent's case. He, silly boy, tried to make it a shackle to
hold all women. She did not believe in these lofty generalisations, but
she doubted, all the same, whether she might not be wise to respect the
prohibition for herself. She was not one of the women who were fitted,
either by training or by an adventurous disposition to work with men, at
men's affairs, on a neutral footing. Men, for her, had been creatures to
be pleased and to be cared for, and men had loved her and been good to
her precisely because of this attitude of hers. To do what James asked
would be to approach them on a different basis, and she felt it was hard
she should be asked to risk what she had been so proud of--her
successful relations with her husband and her son.
She could see, as she thought it over, that all her life had been passed
in this cherishing of individuals. She had learned to study them, to
respond to them, to guide herself and them through intricate problems of
character and conduct. It had not been easy, she could remember times
when she had lost her way. But it had always been this person and that,
people she knew, people whose lives she understood. She had never been
called upon to deal with them in numbers, as classes, to rule them with
rough and ready decisions. Moreover, though there had been limits to her
time, her strength, her money, and even, she felt remorsefully, to her
good-will, she had at any rate been sure of the principles on which she
based her decisions. She had known what she wanted for them all, for
James, for the children, for the servants. These waitresses and factory
girls were beyond her ken. How was she to know what she wanted for them
or what she ought to want? If she found out how could she then count the
forces available to help her or discover what barriers stood in her way?
If it had been simple to arrange proper conditions it would not have
been left all this time for her to do.
She was returning to her old feeling of timidity and aversion when she
pulled herself up. She was not, she told herself, looking at the thing
squarely; she was arguing as if James had advanced his plan out of sheer
wantonness. He had started, and she must start, too, from the fact of
her narrowing life. She mustn't pretend that the alternative to
agreement was her old round of interests and activities. It was
something less and less important than that. Soon she would be an old
woman whose empty house waited for the children to open its doors. James
was right, she couldn't condemn herself to that. And if she went
forward, if she saved her life from this dreariness, then, James's plan
or another, she must take a risk.
She tried now to reassure herself. She knew that she was not a fool; and
these terrifying waitresses were, after all, human beings like other
people. Their needs were ordinary human needs for health and happiness.
It would probably amuse them, poor things, if they knew that their
employer's wife was frightened of them!
These painstaking reflections were suddenly scattered. Mrs. Heyham's
conscience, always partial to conviction of sin, had flashed upon her a
charge of unkindness to James. James's kindness and forethought, his
sympathy for her loneliness, the trouble he had taken, the trouble he
was prepared to take over her stumblings in the future, all were arrayed
against the wife who had never thanked him or shown that she recognised
them. It was perfectly true, he had been a dear about it, and she had
thought of nobody but herself!
Mary could not have slept with this upon her mind. Two minutes later
James, looking up from an article on the latest naval scare, saw her
crossing the floor of his study.
"James," she said softly, bending over him, "you must have been thinking
what a selfish creature I am! I never thanked you at all, and it was so
kind of you, my dear!"
James made her sit on the arm of his chair. "The absurd old lady!" he
scolded. "A moment ago she was worrying because she wasn't clever
enough, and now, Heavens above us, she's selfish! She will positively be
smothered with gratitude from all sorts of poor creatures presently, and
then will be time enough to hand on a little of it to me. Now, are there
any more deadly sins to be explained away?"
Mary bent over him until her cheek touched his head. "I want you to
promise," she said a little shyly, "promise that however silly I am you
won't think the worse of me for it. Please!"
James laughed. "Solemnly, on my honour, you funny old darling! May I die
in my shoes if I doubt that whatever you do is the most admirable thing
in the world! There, will that suit you?"
Mary kissed him, slipped from his arm and went to the door. "Sometimes,"
she told him, looking round before her final disappearance, "I'm rather
fond of you, James!" The door shut.
James found his place in the article with a smiling face. Germany or no
Germany, he felt that this is not a bad world. He liked to see Mary
scrupulous in matters of emotion; sometimes it was a little tiresome,
but it gave him a feeling that she was dependable. "That's the best of
her," he told himself, "she likes to think things out for herself, but
she always sees one's point of view in the end." He plunged into
statistics. He did not believe in this invasion, but to read of it
reminded him that he was doing his duty. He had said that if any of his
men cared to join the Territorials he would arrange about their
holidays. It was inconvenient, of course, having them all go together,
but he had done it. In this way, as he had pointed out, even the senior
men, whose holidays now had to wait, contributed their little sacrifice
to England's greatness. We cannot all die for our country, but dear me,
that's no reason for not doing something!
James slept well that night.