DURING the next few months Mary renewed her youth. She had never known
before that it is delightful to possess, specifically, an intellect. It
was not that she had altogether neglected this faculty, but its use had
generally come in the form of worrying over something. Now she found an
instinctive pleasure in addressing it to the understanding of abstract
problems.
She had been looking forward to this autumn for other reasons, because
at the end of it she was to become a grandmother, but a little to her
surprise she found that it was not the new dignity, profoundly as it
stirred her, that took the chief place in her thoughts. She had expected
to be carried backward by Laura's motherhood to what she had felt to be
the flowering-time of her own life. This should have been a season of
memories, of echoes, of a faint, pleasant sadness. She had thought
therefore that she could watch the withering of her own present with
resignation now that her daughter's happiness had come, she had believed
that she could relinquish the future without sorrow now that a little
new inheritor was waiting to enter upon it. Perhaps when she looked at
Laura's child she would see again the youth of her own eyes, or her own
smile.
But as the autumn went by she found that respond as she might to the
past her hold on the present had never been more eager. It was a matter
for relief, not for the melancholy she had imagined that the nursery of
her line had passed from hers into Laura's keeping. She felt free as she
had never felt free before to come into contact with life, to try
experiments with it. There were no children to guard from misery, from
ugliness, from dangerous ideas.
A long forgotten curiosity woke in Mary and urged her to see for herself
what the world was like.
One after another, simply, she read Rosemary's books, finding in them
not so much facts and arguments as symbols of new freedom and a new
exultation. She realised from them, for the first time, that there are
passions in life other than personal love and personal ambition. She
recognised a passion for knowledge, for adventure, she experienced a
passion of sympathy for the poor.
She was not aware that she was reading the books for their emotional
effects. It did not occur to her that she was not approaching the
sources of wisdom in the most detached, intellectual spirit possible.
She was anxious to be thorough and she applied herself, like a clever
child, to tomes culled from the London library on account of the
correctness of the titles printed soberly across their backs, the
"Principles" or "Elements of Economics." She accepted the methods of
these volumes with engaging good faith and watched eagerly for their
smallest lapses from a rigid consistency. She made copious notes on the
theory of money, which she found evasive, for it had no bearing that she
could see on the problems in which she felt genuine interest. She
struggled with what seemed at first sight the needlessly complex and
technical procedure of banks. She prepared herself to pounce instantly,
when she found it in pamphlets and newspapers and other lax vehicles of
popular thought, on the least whisking tip of the tail of the wages fund
theory. But in her heart, if not consciously, her attitude towards such
accumulations of learning was tinged with a kindly toleration. It was
characteristic of men, she thought, to spend such an amount of energy on
what were often verbal differences, to pursue their points, through a
wealth of subdivided nomenclature, to a distance from concrete
usefulness that would have made any practical person slacken. Men did
become excited in that fashion over purely unimportant things; one knew
that when once they started arguing a wise woman bowed to the storm and
escaped if she could. She had realised this in early youth, on an
occasion when James and her father and Julius had argued for hours about
the month in which one particular fish became seasonable. They had
exhausted their knowledge of geography, of biology, and of travellers'
tales, they had ransacked their memories for the dates and the menus of
dinners, they had discovered in the recesses of the past hitherto
unproclaimed intimacies and conversations with fish merchants and with
sailors. And when her mother, in a naive belief that what they required
was wisdom, had laid before them the agreement of cookery books and even
fresh evidence brought by the maid from the fishmonger's round the
corner, they had not shown gratitude but had embarked on a fresh
discussion as to the modifications, if any, imposed by these cold facts
on their various previous statements and theories. Mary had felt then
that her kinsfolk were dears, if a little noisy, and she felt now that
the professors were wonderfully clever, if a little verbose. After all,
if you are a professor, and paid for it, you must fill in your time. So
she did not trammel her soul, even if she burdened her memory, with the
strict rigour of their conclusions.
She tried once or twice, when some work dealing in more concrete fashion
with the conditions of the poor had moved her beyond silence, to talk
about her reading with Rosemary. But Rosemary shrank a little from her
mother's enthusiasm, from the exhibition of her intimate emotion. Her
mother--she couldn't help recognising the fact--was very crude, and
though she regarded this crudity, solemnly, as a necessary stage in poor
Mary's development, she did not enjoy contact with it any the more for
that. It made her impatient, it disturbed the slightly romantic element
in her affection for her mother. She herself had read the books a year
ago, glowed over them, shuddered at the condition they revealed, and
inspired herself with a definite belief in Socialism. That being so, it
was useless to go on feeling idle emotion when one might be persuading
one's friends to join the Fabian Society. Rosemary imagined that she
disliked emotion that was not serving some definite useful end. If Mrs.
Heyham had come to her and said, "I too am a Socialist, what would the
committee of the Fabian Society like me to do?" Rosemary would have
hidden sincere delight beneath a great show of cool common-sense, have
taken her mother to meetings, and introduced people to her who would
undertake her future education. But Mary had not become a Socialist, the
Socialism in Rosemary's books had slipped unheeded from her mind. She
had been accustomed all her life to dwell upon the importance of
individual action, and she had no experience of any need for collective
effort that might emerge in a world of great affairs. She had governed
her family, for over twenty successful years, by such appeals as she
could make to their ideals and their better natures. It did not occur to
her now to criticise this attitude, and the principal conviction she
gathered from her studies was a heavy sense of personal responsibility.
If things were bad then employers must sacrifice themselves to make
things better. She couldn't doubt that they would, if they only
understood how bad things were. And then when the men saw the masters
really striving for their good they would learn to co-operate with those
set over them and gradually the world would improve. Everybody nowadays,
professors and Socialists alike, united to praise Trade Unions, so Mary
was sure that they must be excellent things though at times she felt a
little anxious about them. But, after all, clever men like Trade Union
officials would soon see when an employer was doing his best--Mary
imagined the labour leaders of England with their eyes turned constantly
to James.
Poor James, the fact was that he was so busy with his work that he
hadn't time to read these books; he didn't really understand what the
lives of the poor were like. He had practically admitted that when he
asked her not to read for herself. He hadn't, as Mary had by now, spent
day after day visiting the homes of working-people. He had heard about
it, of course, but that isn't the same as seeing it for yourself. Mary
pictured a quickened, a glorified James, urging on a great employers'
movement for raising the standard of national life. She felt sure that
even James did not know how magnificent he could be. She had not formed
any clear plans of what she would say to James or even of what she
wanted him to do. Those would come later, when she had read more, and
when she had gathered more experience. She would like, she thought, to
work for a little on one of the great organisations that study and
benefit the poor. One ought to see the poor as a whole and not only in
the glimpses she obtained from the visits she paid with Miss Percival.
But after all the chief thing was a change of attitude. James would
think of the plans--that she could safely leave to him. Her task was to
lead him to realise for himself that the people really needed his help.
She had no doubt that he would begin with his own workers, but it was
very probable, all questions being so fearfully tangled together, that
it would be more complicated than she supposed.
There were bad employers, and the fact must be faced. Mary had known
people who were unkind and people who were untruthful and
dishonest--though it was generally because they had been badly brought
up--but everybody had good in them somewhere. She could hardly conceive
an employer so bad that he wouldn't respond to James at the head of an
army of enlightenment. They didn't know; if only they knew, they would
be different.
It was this optimism that Rosemary found hard to bear. It did not seem
credible to her that a woman of forty-five could be so simple. Naturally
Mary said nothing to Rosemary about her plans for James, and it seemed
to the girl that her mother was going to do nothing. She felt thwarted,
because she had been forming hopes. She herself was nobody, but if Mary,
the wife of a well-known employer, would join the Fabian Society, or
even the Independent Labour Party, it might do some good.
Meanwhile Mary was a little worried about Laura. She had found Laura
crying one Saturday about nothing at all. Harry had gone off for the day
to play golf with some friends. Golf was good for Harry, who worked hard
in the week; Laura herself had suggested that he should go. But Mary
felt that Harry was perhaps taking things a little too much for granted.
She had always been afraid that he was a selfish man. Everybody
couldn't, of course, be as unselfish as James, who would have gone off
with a shower of protestations that left Mary comforted. She had always
considered herself lucky, erected James in her mind as a shining
exception, and admitted that a certain amount of selfishness was natural
to other men. Now, seeing Laura unhappy, she wondered if it was. It
seemed proper that she should venerate James, but she hadn't brought up
her clever, beautiful daughters merely to please ordinary men like
Harry.
James, when she mentioned her fears to him, took them lightly. It was
natural that Laura should cry just now, Mary didn't remember perhaps,
but she used to be fanciful herself, though he didn't think he'd treated
her badly--he paused for his hand to be squeezed.
Of course, Moorhouse was a man of the world, not a very sensitive
fellow, perhaps it didn't occur to him to adapt himself to women's ways
at these times. After all, every woman, so to speak, has children, it's
nothing unusual. He didn't suppose that Moorhouse was unkind, but he
wasn't the sort of person who makes a fuss. Probably he felt that he was
in the way, thought it would be kinder to clear out. Mary might make a
point of seeing a good deal of Laura, who, anyway, had chosen her own
husband for herself and must make what she could of him. James had
never, in his life, seen a young woman more in love. He preferred the
old style, on the whole, Mary's style. He had thought that perhaps Laura
was giving herself away. "If a woman lies down at a man's feet," he
finished, "she's likely to get trodden on when he's thinking of
something else. Laura can't expect Moorhouse to be ill too, whenever she
can't play golf. I've been afraid sometimes that she's given to making
her own unhappiness!"
It hurt Mary for a moment that James should talk of Laura like this,
then she was ashamed of feeling a little secret glow. How much James
loved her, how much more he loved her than he loved anybody else! Her
splendid James! She let her head fall, with a sigh, to its accustomed
place on his shoulder. Poor Laura, quite possibly James was right, and
it was all fancy. In any case she would feel differently when she had
the baby.
Meanwhile, however, it was clearly Mary's duty to see her, and if
possible to cheer her up.
Laura, when seen, was not easy to cheer up, if only because she refused
for some time to admit that anything of the sort was necessary. She lay
on a sofa and told Mary, in careful detail, what she thought of the
works of Dostoevsky. She did not blame Harry because he did not care
for Russian novelists, but merely stated the fact. There was a shade
more feeling, perhaps, in her subsequent declaration that he did not
seem to care for babies either.
Mary chose hastily between, "He will when he has one of his own," "I
expect he is too shy to admit it," and "Most men don't, they only like
them when they begin to talk." The last seemed most likely to be true;
she could not imagine Harry either shy or a baby-lover. So sorry did she
feel for Laura that she added, "You'll be glad enough presently, you
know, that he isn't always up in the nursery upsetting the nurses and
trying the most appalling experiments on the poor mite. Men have no
instinct about babies. Either they think that because they grew up the
baby will grow up and the more it eats the faster it will grow, and want
you to feed it whenever it cries, or they insist on having its toys
sterilised every time they touch the floor. I always think one should be
thankful when a man keeps to his own department."
Laura, who was moving restlessly, did not seem in a mood to profit by
these reassurances. When she spoke it was in a grudging voice. "I gather
that men think it all rather unpleasant," she said. "They're brought up,
aren't they, to have rather horrid minds in some ways. It's funny--we
don't find it unpleasant when they get wounded in battle. But then I
suppose we're trained to sympathise with their experiences, and they're
not trained to be interested in ours."
Mary, though she felt more sorry than ever for Laura, was a little
shocked at this. It was bitter and it was unjust. It certainly looked as
though Harry's mind might be rather horrid, but as for men--James had
been extraordinarily sympathetic, and so, Mary felt sure, had been the
husbands of most of her friends. Of course they were not interested in
the minutiæ of these affairs. Mary herself had realised instinctively
that a decent woman keeps the great experiences of her life to herself.
If she feels them deeply she expresses it in her altered outlook and in
her character. She does not talk about her emotions, nor exhibit their
details. Unless, poor thing, she is terribly unhappy, and then one
wishes she wouldn't. "That gives us the advantage," she told her
daughter, "of knowing men better than they know us."
Laura did not, in her heart, wish to discuss her uneasiness with her
mother. She wanted her mother to think--what was, after all, the
truth--that Harry and she loved each other very much, and were perfectly
happy together. She did not like Harry's attitude towards women, but
then he seemed to have known so few women who were worthy of anything
better. She turned the issue of the conversation. "Oh, do you think we
do?" she said. "Look at the women in men's books and the men in
women's!" There was no need to develop this ancient argument.
Mary thought it over. There was no doubt in her mind that most of the
wives she knew understood their husbands thoroughly, thus sparing them
the trouble of understanding their wives. It was obvious; one took it
for granted. But one did not put one's husband in a book--not as he was.
It would be treacherous. If Mary had written a book its hero would have
been not James, but the glorified creature that lay hidden in James.
What a hero he would make! "Of course," she said to Laura, "I suppose it
is difficult for women to know what men are like when they are
together."
Laura was busy accusing herself of having grumbled about Harry, and she
said nothing.
"It's very nice that men are so talkative," Mary went on, to break the
silence. "Their lives are exciting, and, I suppose, as they're not
forced back upon subtleties, they find ours dull." Mary was not at her
ease talking in this fashion about men. When she thought of them as a
sex it was kindly, with a mingling of forbearance and admiration. They
were not to be criticised, but gently influenced in the right direction.
Nor could she be candid upon a subject that led her constantly to
consideration of James.
She left Laura with a feeling of misgiving. It wasn't right or natural
that Laura should be thinking of such things. It must, in some way, be
Harry's fault--Laura was such a fine creature. Even if she loved Harry
too much, too passionately, as James seemed to think, so that she was
defenceless against him, there shouldn't have been any need for her to
defend herself. Perhaps she was a little undisciplined, with more
discipline she might have borne it better--whatever it was. But after
all one came back to this, it was not right that she should have
anything to bear.
Mary was glad now of the element of serenity, of detachment, that she
had sometimes regretted in her love for James. She respected love too
much to lose herself in it. It had never been for her a new vision, a
mystical flame, but a safe shelter and a tranquil happiness. When she
thought again of Laura her heart sank.
She arrived home to find that Miss Percival was waiting for her. Miss
Percival had been to see how Florrie was getting on at her new work, and
she reported that Florrie was doing well and being a good girl, but that
there was a man sending notes to her of whom Miss Percival's friend
didn't quite like the looks. He might be all right, but then on the
other hand he might be up to no good.
Miss Percival's demeanour seemed to indicate that good was the last
thing any such man would be up to.
A flicker of protesting thoughts rose in Mary's mind. Why did men exist?
Why couldn't they be trusted? Why couldn't they keep away from girls?
Why did girls ever want to have anything to do with them? Always these
troubles on account of men! She told herself, with necessary sternness,
that it was all perfectly natural, and it was to be hoped that some day
Florrie would marry some nice man and settle down happily. Not that a
workingman's wife has much chance, after a bit, of doing anything
happily. Perhaps Florrie would marry above her--but to do that the poor
child must run such terrible risks. She might get fond of one of these
men--Mary wouldn't have answered for Florrie if once her emotions were
thoroughly roused. Not that one wanted her to marry without being fond
of her husband--why was it that life was so difficult for poor girls?
She forced her thoughts back to the conversation, for she noticed
suddenly that Miss Percival seemed to be waiting for her to speak. "Is
there anything to be done? What can we do?" she asked.
Miss Percival shook her head. "There's nothing to be done. Of course,"
she went on, "it ought to be as safe for Florrie to have men friends as
it is for your daughters. Only men, especially rich men, don't want it
to be."
Mary looked at her with some surprise. Miss Percival did not usually
produce opinions of this sort; something must have upset her. Here was
this attitude of resentment again! First her daughter and then her
secretary! Really, the poor puzzled lady felt, it almost looked as if
men must be dreadful people.
In the meanwhile she turned her attention to Miss Percival, who was
reporting on two girls whom Mary had sent to the seaside because they
showed a tendency to consumption. They were getting along very nicely at
the seaside, but the doctor did not think they ought to go back to the
tea-shop.
"Not even if we provided them with thicker things to go home in?"
Miss Percival allowed that it might make a difference, but one would
have to go on supplying the thicker things for the rest of their lives.
And meanwhile more and more girls would be wanting them.
It looked a little as if Miss Percival were in a bad temper that day.
Nevertheless her argument was sound, and Mary knew it. The girls
couldn't have afforded proper clothes even if they had kept all their
wages for themselves, and most of them didn't. Not what Mary would call
proper clothes--women's garments are apt to be so shoddy nowadays.
The truth was, they ought to have higher wages. But then it was quite
possible that the business couldn't afford it. Those pretty tea-shops
were expensive to decorate, and expensive to keep up. Of course, it paid
to have them pretty, because customers preferred them to other
tea-shops. Mary supposed that it wouldn't be possible to get the whole
trade to agree not to spend so much on decoration. Probably some of the
employers didn't care two pins about their girls' wages. They were men,
they didn't understand. And now the big drapers were all starting
tea-rooms, and taking away custom.
If James could have afforded higher wages he would probably have given
them. But--she felt her way to it slowly--that didn't relieve her from
the duty of finding out. James had admitted that he didn't know as much
about the girls as he would have liked when he set her to make
inquiries. After all, even James was a man.