JAMES dressed next morning in an atmosphere of doubt. As soon as he
recognised this he disliked it extremely; doubt of any kind was
uncongenial to his simple, impetuous mind. He could not, looking quickly
back over what had happened, find any particular reason for blaming
himself, but as the unhappy little mother had been upset he was ready to
admit that somewhere, on some delicate point of sentiment, he had erred.
It was a confounded nuisance; he didn't quite see, what was more, what
line he ought to adopt to put it right. When women get ideas into their
heads they are often--a wise man will recognise the fact--as obstinate
as men. Mercifully this seldom happens. Most women's minds move with
certainty only among the small values of social life where one can give
way to them with a shrug of the shoulders. Here, however, the unusual
had happened and something would have to be done. In the intervals of
dressing he pictured to himself, with a smile, poor Mary perched
precariously on the back of her great high horse of Utopian justice,
imagining, brave little soul, that she could control such an ancient
deceiver of man. It was a pathetic conception, and a trifle disquieting,
for if he knew Mary she'd be thrown off before she came off of her own
accord.
He sighed as he caught sight in the glass of the curious ungraceful
gesture of a man who is tightening the knot of his tie.
These ideas were in the air--even one's womenfolk weren't free from
them. Mary had certainly caught this excitement from Rosemary--he had
been, perhaps, rather blind not to foresee it. Trent had foreseen it all
right, for what that was worth. Well, Rosemary would be marrying before
long, and then her influence over her mother would be interrupted--James
could not conceive of Mary's defying him without somebody's sustaining
influence. In another year Rosemary would be busy with her natural
duties and Mary would have settled down to happy evenings for the girls
or something equally harmless. His line--that quick way out of a
difficulty which he always sought--was to hang the idea of a public
company over Mary's head, and suggest to Rosemary that it was time she
made her Hastings happy--James didn't believe in long engagements. He
might, too, turn Mary on to some sort of convalescent affair by the
seaside--she had suggested one herself, he remembered. He wished he had
thought of referring to that last night--then she would not have found
him unsympathetic.
It was Tuesday, his early day, when he went to East London, and he did
not expect to find anyone down to breakfast. Mary, after an illness she
had had two years before, had been forbidden to shorten her sleep.
However, Rosemary, for purposes of her own, was also up early, looking
as delightful as she was accustomed to look in the morning.
James kissed her with the pleasure which this act always inspired in
him, and told her that he was glad to have somebody to pour out his
coffee. "Though I imagine it won't be for very much longer," he added.
Rosemary did not allow this attack to ruffle her pleasing tranquillity.
She considered that emotion is wasted on the ordinary commerce of life.
"I wanted to speak to you about that, father," she told James. "Anthony
and I think we would like to get married soon, but of course it depends
upon you. Tony is making £400 a year now, and he doesn't think you will
think that sufficient. I know nothing about it, I'm afraid."
James accepted this challenge. "Oh, no, you wouldn't. You modern young
ladies take an interest in everything except your own business. Do you
intend, may I ask, to go on knowing nothing about it after you are
married?"
Rosemary turned calm eyes upon her father, who was helping himself to
some kidneys in his most brisk and efficient manner. "Oh, no," she told
him. "I expect when one's got to do it, it will be quite interesting,
only I don't think--do you?--that it's worth giving very much time to
beforehand. As a matter of fact I am having cooking lessons. I could
grill your kidneys for you better than this."
James was delighted to hear it, and assured her that he would be glad to
know of any definite amount that she and her Anthony would consider
sufficient.
Rosemary didn't know, but in any case she would prefer not to take more
than Anthony was earning.
This conflicted with James's common-sense. "If I may advise you," he
told her, "take what you can get. You know that we are giving Laura
£1000."
Rosemary considered a moment. "After all, Tony will soon be earning
more," she conceded, "and we could always do good with it."
"Tip our waitresses with it," suggested James.
Rosemary looked up. There had been something brutal in her father's
voice. She had long ago decided that he could be a brute if he liked,
though he seldom was.
"No," she said, and waited for him to say more.
James could not easily resist a quiet concentrated attitude of
attention. "That's how your mother wants to spend her income," he went
on, "as I daresay you know."
Rosemary flushed with interest. "Does she?--I didn't know--how perfectly
splendid of her! Do you think she really will?"
James grunted, evading the question. "Oh, then it wasn't you who
suggested it?"
His daughter shook her head. "No, mother never--hardly ever--talks to me
about that sort of thing. And it isn't what I should have suggested if
she had. I should have advised her to give it to the Women's Trade Union
League, and tell them to spend it on forming a waitresses' union. Then
she would benefit all the girls in the trade. I don't think it's much
good tinkering with a business here and a business there. But what is so
splendid is that mother should want to give up the money, that she
should have thought of it all by herself!"
"I'm not going to discuss your mother with you," said James, whose
memory, in discussions, was short. "And I'm not going to give you a
thousand a year to spend in fomenting discontent among my employees, if
that's what you mean by doing good with it. But if you'll send Hastings
to me, I'll discuss the matter with him. It seems to me, my dear
daughter, that the sooner you're safely married the better."
He grunted again and went back to his breakfast. For some minutes they
continued to eat their food in silence. Rosemary never argued with her
father if she could help it. They were generally on excellent terms, for
she found him amusing, indulgent, and on the whole much more enlightened
and civilised than one had any right to expect from a father. She was
fond of him, and she enjoyed his stories, his quick superficial accounts
of his impressions. But he wasn't a person with whom she would ever have
become intimate, she had decided, if she had met him casually in the
world. He lacked, she felt, the detachment and reserve she admired in
her mother. She did not mean to judge him priggishly. She sometimes
reminded herself, if she thought she had been harsh, that before very
long some other young person would contemplate her failures as a parent
with equal detachment. But she did not realise the pitiful nakedness,
the defencelessness, of a parent's position. There was no wonder in her
mind even as to what poor James was thinking now. It seemed natural to
her that life should present itself to her and to her mother under
aspects that James could not approve. She knew that he did not like her
own ideas, he never had, although he had been charming about them. There
was no essential reason, that she could see, why he should like the
ideas of her mother. She was busy now planning an interview with Mary.
Whatever small support she could give would be at her mother's service.
Rosemary admired courage, and she admired all action dictated by
principle--she was stirred to find her mother so admirable.
Meanwhile James was thinking no less intently. The whole thing was a
nuisance which, lest it should worry him, must be dealt with as speedily
as possible. The public company idea was the thing. He would see his
solicitors and he would speak to Trent. As a matter of fact a little
extra capital would come in very well just now. It had seemed to him for
some time that a great deal could be done with picture palaces. Trent
was perfectly capable of running the present business by himself, and
he, James, was getting a little bored with the monotony of it. The time
had come for a new development. Why not cinema shows with your tea and a
biscuit free, as that was the custom, but cakes and pastries charged
for? There could be intervals when dainty little cakes would be handed
round. People who were taking other people out would be certain to buy
them. In the evening there could be sandwiches. He'd run the cinema part
under another name, and only announce that the Imperial had the contract
for the catering. The tea they gave you at most of these places, he'd
been told, was undrinkable; he'd look in some afternoon and try for
himself. Naturally these odd and end companies wouldn't do the thing as
well as the Imperial. If he decided that this was a good idea there'd be
no sort of difficulty about raising the capital. Their finances were
more than sound. He could practically float the thing at any figure he
liked--as long, that was, as Mary didn't land him with a strike on his
hands. What an extraordinary world it was--James didn't know what was
coming over women!
However, this plan would fix Mary right enough, as far as interfering
with wages went. Of course he couldn't prevent her from giving away her
own money, though he could discourage it. But they had always lived far
below their income--to spend less than he had was for James a matter of
pride--she could give away a good deal before it really mattered.
The idea of action, of taking risks, of starting something new, restored
his normal good humour. He wasn't a fossil yet--they needn't think it.
His picture palaces--if he decided to have them--should be as up-to-date
and as characteristic as his tea-shops. They should be really
dignified--to begin with--in the way of architecture--no tawdry stucco
and white paint. It was worth getting in a good architect for a uniform
elevation. Their own young men could fix it up for each particular site.
There is something about a good architect's work that you don't get in
any other way. Besides, there is patriotism. It would be pleasant to
feel that his fronts were well thought of, say at the club, whose
members talked a good deal about architecture. He was a poor man when he
started the tea-shops, but even then his taste had been good. One secret
of it--given good taste--was to see to the whole thing personally. He'd
run over to Paris and choose his own films--no agents for him. And he'd
look at those new American patents for coloured pictures.
He finished his breakfast and said good-bye to Rosemary without any
ill-feeling. Poor child--he could afford to be good-natured. He could
not seriously doubt his ability to manage a couple of women. Most men
would have harangued them, lectured them, put their backs up. James
preferred to preserve the amenities of life while out-manœuvring his
opponents. Scolding was a woman's game, a fool's game, it never paid. If
a man couldn't be the head of his own house without making a fuss about
it he deserved what ignominy came his way. James went upstairs in
excellent spirits to kiss Mary good-bye.
He found her still in bed, and he kissed her with the decision of an
affectionate husband and the caution of a man who does not want to get
fluff from the blankets on to his clothes. He was glad to see her
looking better, she mustn't do too much to-day, and he hoped she felt as
fond of him as he did of her. She was a vain old thing with her mob
cap--personally he liked to see her hair even if it did look untidy.
Nonsense--who minded if it was a little grey! He stroked her cheek with
his finger and was off. The room seemed to echo with his voice after he
had gone.
Mary did not get up for some time. She was feeling tired, and on
Tuesdays she generally had breakfast in bed. Besides, she had still to
take stock of what she was going to do. She knew that through the long
hours of the night, as she lay awake, she had pondered defiant plans of
incredible daring and yet so simple, so just, that only tyranny itself
could refuse consent to them. But now in the morning it was different.
It struck her, now, as monstrous that she should have thought of
flouting James. His authority, for her, appeared as an ultimate fact. If
he refused to increase the girls' wages the matter was settled. But her
own perception of justice and injustice--she saw that clearly--was also
an ultimate fact. The money belonged to the girls and it must be used
for them. Her task was now to think of ways and means. She had even come
to feel that she might do more with the money by controlling it herself
than by doling it out in shillings to ignorant girls. As for James,
whatever happened she must preserve her personal relation with him. It
could never again perhaps be quite what it had been, its foundation of
confident ignorance was gone. But what he was prepared to give her still
was all that he had ever given her. He had not changed. She could still,
if she chose, be as much to him as she had ever been. And she felt this
sunny morning an extraordinary thirst and hunger for his love, for his
tenderness and his esteem. When he had come just now into her quiet room
she had realised suddenly how strong he was, how much his strength and
his buoyancy meant to her; how precise, how small, how rigid her life
would have been without them. She had found, too, she thought, in the
pain of their recent intercourse, a new sense of the intimacy of
marriage. She lay, after all, very much at James's mercy, and he at
hers. It was no small thing, the affection that urged them to ease the
strain for one another. As she went through the day she touched at a
thousand points little whims of James's, little trivial extensions of
his personality. She met them with sympathy, with tolerance at worst,
because they were his. Under her care, in her hands, he moved freely, he
grew as he pleased; his delicacy, his sensitiveness, were safe. This
favouring atmosphere she had provided consciously--it would have been
her duty to do so, even if it had not been her pride--but she understood
now for the first time that James, whether consciously or not, must have
performed the same offices for her. If her growth had been pruned and
trained, her character disciplined, it was by her own set purpose, in
accordance with her own conscience, not by any harshness or cruelty of
outside pressure. She could see, she told herself, the sort of repressed
little woman she might have been, the narrow, dragging, timid creature a
dearth of kindness might have made of her. She had had full measure of
kindness all her life, it was only this kindness, this, impunity from
attack that made her able now to consult her own nature and believe in
what it told her. She did believe in it, she could not but be loyal to
that, but she could--she must--in addition be scrupulously loyal to
James. James's wisdom, his deliberate decisions, must come first; her
own little vanities and disappointments, her unrestrained longings, fell
naturally into a second place. As to the practical question, she would
tell Miss Percival that this money was at her disposal and they would
soon think of something to do with it. It was clear that a hundred
things needed doing--they had only to choose. Then she could throw
herself heart and soul into whatever it was. She told herself that she
would probably cease to worry when she was back at her familiar business
of organising and had left this difficult region of decision behind.
It was a day on which Miss Percival did not come until the afternoon,
and Mary, after she had dressed, spent the morning pretending to read a
pamphlet on the dangers of street trading. She agreed with the pamphlet,
and for the moment she found agreement a relief. Soon after twelve
Rosemary came into her room. She had, she informed her mother when she
had kissed her, been out with Tony trying his electric motor-bicycle. It
was quite different from all other motor-bicycles and very much better,
because Tony had invented a new kind of accumulator that was very small
and light. If it worked it was going to revolutionise all sorts of
things, not merely motor-bicycles, but it wasn't really quite finished
yet, so it couldn't be a matter for wonder that something had broken
down. Tony had had to come back by train in order not to be too
appallingly late at the office, and she had had to get an old farmer to
shelter the motor-bicycle, and then come back by herself. He had been a
dear old farmer, and he had produced a charming daughter, a little
person with pink cheeks and black hair. She and Rosemary had smiled at
each other with the friendly pleasure young women feel in one another's
beauty. Rosemary wished she knew more about engineering, it was the
subject of all others that she found most difficult. She never could
carry three dimensional ideas in her head.
Rosemary had thrown down her hat, and was sitting now on a stool at
Mary's feet, looking up at her while she chattered. It was not often
that she talked like this to her mother, freely and childishly, without
any thought of effect or consequences, and Mary's heart grew light as
she listened. This wise young Rosemary was a child still, a dear, happy
child; love-making and lovers' vows had not checked the development of
her mind or impaired its freshness. Her mother could laugh without a
second thought at the old farmer's astonishment, at his scorn of a woman
left in charge of a motor-bicycle, and at the sad plight of that
distinguished and ingenious machine stowed away between a harrow and a
dilapidated cart.
"I know all the little boys in the place will be trying to make it go,"
Rosemary was saying, "and Tony will be dreadfully cross, but it was the
best that I could do." She did not seem afraid of Tony's crossness.
After she had finished neither of them said anything for a moment or
two. Then Rosemary, overcoming a sudden unusual shyness, put her hand on
Mary's arm.
"Mother, father says you think you feel we're taking too much money from
the business. Tony and I think so, too; I mean, we'll willingly take
less allowance than father has offered us, if it'll make things any
easier for you." Her glowing face, upturned, wore a look of passionate
sincerity. "It's so splendid of you, mother--don't think me horrid--you
know that anyhow I couldn't love you more than I do, but it is so--so
jolly to feel we're on the same side." She dropped her eyes hastily.
An impulse surged through Mary to stoop and take the child in her arms,
to press her cheek against her daughter's cheek, to tell her, now that
she could, what a world of unsatisfied love had been satisfied by her
words. But she was afraid of Rosemary's shyness, of her own shyness, she
was afraid of this Tony who might ask what "your mother" had said, and
how she had taken it. The impulse was checked--she could find no words
detached or restrained enough, and when she did speak she only brought
out a little absurd denial.
"My darling, I'm afraid I'm still a conservative old thing, you young
socialists are too revolutionary for me, but I certainly do feel that
something must be done."
She paused, and Rosemary, with a gleam in the eyes her mother thought so
beautiful, broke in on her. "Don't talk like father, mother, you're not
an old thing, you're young and you're brave, and you're a darling!" She
came closer and laid her head against her mother's knee.
Mary could say nothing, but her hand trembled with tenderness as she
laid it on her daughter's hair.
Rosemary spoke first. It was pleasant to her to find herself in such
intimate, such affectionate accord with her mother, but she was not
accustomed to accept or enjoy an emotional state without analysis and a
following out of its implications.
"I don't suppose we should agree about the exact thing that ought to be
done," she began presently, "but after all it isn't that that matters.
Tony says I'm hopelessly dogmatic, and I do feel that I know the best
thing to do, and I can't really see why other people shouldn't agree
with me. Of course I know I've got to refrain from trying to make them,
but still"--she sighed, and arranged herself more comfortably on the
stool--"I can't help feeling I'm right and they're wrong. But after all,
I tell myself, it's the feeling that's important. If enough people want
to alter a thing badly enough it will be altered in the long run." She
ended on a somewhat doubtful note.
"What is it you want me to do, little daughter?" Mary smoothed back a
tress of fine brown hair as she spoke.
The light touch on her forehead seemed to soften Rosemary's desire to
impose her conclusions on the world. "Honestly, mother," she said after
a moment's thought, "I don't want you to do anything. I want lots of
people to give money for starting a waitresses' union, but I want you to
do what you feel you ought to do. You see, I didn't suggest the whole
thing to father simply because I wanted you to be free, to see for
yourself and trust yourself--do you mind my talking like this?" She
broke off suddenly.
Mary was conscious of confused emotions, but not, so far as she could
tell, of minding. She laughed.
"I suppose it was partly just my curiosity," her daughter went on
relentlessly, "but mostly it was because I loved you, and because I had
a feeling, that day when I told you about Tony, that you were much
stronger, much more important--I don't know how to put it--than anybody
knew. And I think too that I wanted to prove to myself that marriage
isn't a grave--that one can come up out of it." She ended, and sat
quietly looking down at the carpet.
Mary did not answer her, no answer seemed necessary. She had been
conscious all that morning of some queer disturbance in her mind, a
check to her reasoning, a deepening and strengthening of her emotion.
Now when the moment came for speaking to Rosemary she felt suddenly
detached from herself, lifted above the thoughts that troubled her. Down
there James's Mary, Rosemary's Mary, struggled with plans and decisions,
with things that were good or bad, and kind or cruel. Here, where she
was, these values fell away. She had drawn back into some state of her
being too simple, too fundamental, for the labels and measurements of
experience. "They are names," she thought, "love and pain, sorrow and
happiness--tricks of thinking, empty, arbitrary...."
Presently she noticed Rosemary's voice, a quivering sound that came
towards her from a long way off.
"Mother, it's time I told you, Tony thinks that he and I ought to get
married--do you mind very much?--will it hurt you?"
Mary felt Rosemary's warm skin now against her hand. A moment later she
heard herself speaking. "My dear, why should it hurt me? Be happy. If it
will make you happy, why should I mind? After all--" She did not finish
her thought, she had not the strength or the will, she felt, to go on
speaking.
A moment later she became conscious of a confusion of noises. A bell
rang--she was certain of that--then someone was touching her. She roused
herself to take in what her maid was saying. "Fetch Dr. Tanner at once,
I should say, Miss, and shall I telephone to the master? Her hands are
like ice----"
Mary could not quite make out whether she was succeeding in speaking or
not. She was perfectly all right, she wanted to tell them, there was no
need to worry James. She only felt a little giddy. She must have said
something, for she realised later that Rosemary was reassuring her. They
would see first what the doctor said--now they were going to carry her
on to the sofa. She felt a vague pleasure, after a period of extreme
discomfort, at finding herself on the sofa.
By the time the doctor came Mary was feeling better, and the doctor
himself did not think there was anything serious the matter. He had
always suspected Mrs. Heyham, he told her, of being one of your nervous
high-strung people who will not listen to advice. She must go to bed for
the rest of the day, and she must be careful. We have all of us to be
careful when we aren't as young as we were--she mustn't excite herself,
and she must eat more, she was thin; he would tell Mr. Heyham, when he
saw him, to keep her quiet.
"Careful--careful--careful"--with a hundred voices whispering the word
in her ears, Mary, when she had been put to bed and fed on beef tea and
toast, fell asleep.
She woke, later on, with a sense that something was happening in the
house. She did not remember that she was ill, or stop to inquire why she
found herself in bed, but rang the bell to discover what this disturbing
thing could be. A moment later the door opened cautiously, and James
appeared. At the sight of his face she understood at once. Of
course--she hadn't been well, and James was upset about it.
"My darling," she told him, "I assure you I'm perfectly well--come and
kiss me----"
James came to kiss her, guarding an unusual silence. He had so much to
say, that if he had spoken at all he would have spoken too much. He had
all his fears to tell her--his regrets, the remorse with which he
remembered that he had had to be firm with her the night before. He did
not blame himself--what he had said had been necessary, and he knew that
he had not said it unkindly. Nevertheless he felt remorse. Poor little
thing, wasn't it his duty to keep her well and happy, and wasn't she, on
the contrary, lying here ill? Very well then--James's heart was full as
he sat down on the bed by her side and took her hand in his.
Mary, whose sudden moment of lucidity had left her feeling giddy again,
was nevertheless impressed by his silence. Poor James--he must be
suffering! She touched his arm with her free hand and looked up at him
anxiously. "James," she implored him, "please, please don't think this
has anything to do with you. I'm not ill at all really. I was just
feeling rather tired!"
James, who had been staring across the room, turned round to her.
"You're not to talk, little thing, and you're not to think either. Hold
my hand, and be still and go to sleep!" He spoke with a new, a
compelling authority. Mary willingly laid aside the burden of speech and
lay looking peacefully at the ceiling. The light on the ceiling was
mellow, it must be late in the afternoon. She wanted to know the time,
but she did not want it enough to turn her head towards the clock. With
James so close to her there was really no need to know anything.
James, who had seen her face relax at his words, was prepared to sit by
her all night. She could not have appealed more directly to his love and
tenderness than by showing him, as she had done with her eager grasp on
his fingers, that she found rest and comfort in his presence. As he
waited there with his wife, debarred from talking to her, James thought
her over, and among his thoughts, though he did not know it, was a new
conception of her. She was a queer little thing, and brave, he
recognised that there was a fine element in her obstinacy. She would do
what she thought right, follow out her dreams and her foolish big ideas
and not care if she suffered for them. He saw her suddenly under the
type--familiar to him in obituary notices--of a lofty, restless spirit
wearing through its frail envelope of flesh. James was not often
mistaken in a man whom he had decided to be capable and honest, and he
thought himself therefore a good judge of character. This description of
Mary pleased him. He must take great care, he told himself, of his
little idealist. He must see that she didn't break her bright wings over
the hard facts of life. He must teach her that she wasn't just her own
to wear out and throw away if she pleased.
He'd already spoken seriously to Rosemary, when he came home and found
out what had happened. He'd speak to that secretary too--he never could
remember the woman's name--and tell her that she wasn't to let Mrs.
Heyham get tired or excited. Perhaps Mary would take the doctor's
warning to heart of her own accord, take it to heart somehow she must
and should. He'd think it over before he decided, and he wasn't sure
that it wouldn't be better to stop this philanthropic business
altogether.
At this point, before he could tell himself that he had thought it over,
the maid came in with a cupful of something on a tray. Mary, roused from
her comfortable indifference, regarded it with dislike. It was some sort
of thick white stuff which had been carefully prepared by the cook
according to the directions on the tin, and Mary felt certain, as soon
as she saw it, that she would not be hungry again for several days, and
that meanwhile there was nothing in the world so difficult and
disagreeable as the task of swallowing this pasty, ignominious
preparation. Every inch of her quivered under the impulse of resistance.
"No, James, I can't," she told him as he took the cup.
James, bending towards her, was confirmed in his fears that she was
really ill. As a rule she ate with indifference any dish that the rest
of the household liked, though she sometimes expressed in private, as
though she were ashamed of them, faint likings for muscatel grapes and
for some little dry biscuits James used to bring her home from an
Austrian café. He could see now that she was working herself up. "Now,
my dear," he said to her, in the tone that he judged would be the most
effective, "we've got to feed you up, you know. I don't know what this
is, but it's what the doctor ordered, and I expect it contains as much
nourishment as a pound of beef-steak. Will you drink it, or shall I feed
you with the spoon?"
Mary's anxiety for her sheets reinforced her recognition that James
meant to have his own way. She held out her hand for the cup, though she
was nearly crying, and drank as much as she could. Then with a little
sob she put the cup back again. James examined it doubtfully, the
beverage was not finished, and he did not feel certain that she oughtn't
to finish it. But something in her face made him merciful. "Well, I'll
let you off this time," he told her, "but I'm going to see that you eat
every scrap of your dinner. If you're not good I shall telegraph for a
nurse. Now, shall I have my tea brought up here, or would you rather not
watch me eating?"
So it was only tea time--and they had sent for him. She turned puzzled
eyes towards him, the problem seemed too complicated for her single
solution. Then a way out presented itself. "I think I'll go to sleep,"
she told him, "if you don't mind."
He said something, but she did not remember what.
Next morning, when she woke, Mary's brain had cleared. The doctor came
and went, and after his visit everyone else appeared with smiling face
and told her that she was all right, that she had simply been run down,
and that all she had to do was to stay in bed for a day or two, and take
great care of herself. "At Mrs. Heyham's age," the doctor had said to
James, "she can't be too careful," and James had taken precious
possession of the phrase, though he would have been the first to scout
its importance if the doctor had used it of himself or of Mary's
charwoman.
"Now mind, no worrying," he told his wife, "and I've wired to that
secretary of yours that she's not to show her face here for a week."
He nodded cheerfully and hurried away, for he had stayed late at home in
order to hear the doctor's verdict.
Mary let him go without showing him the indignation that she felt. She
was forty-six, at an age when a man is considered in the prime of his
life, and they wanted to treat her as though she were delicate like a
child or a bent old woman. It was quite natural, a great many wealthy
women let themselves be treated like that. She herself had been far too
apt to talk of herself as old, to behave as though her faculties were
decaying. As she lay in bed with a bell under her hand and her maid in
the next room attentive to her slightest signal, Mary realised that her
attitude to life had changed. A year ago she would hardly have struggled
when they tried to rivet upon her these chains of infirmity. She would
have given up, gracefully, what they told her to give up, she would have
avoided worry and avoided excitement and remembered to be careful. She
would have begun to feel the weather, and soon have found herself with a
regular system of good days and bad days and indifferent days. Her
friends would have pitied James, and told one another how well she bore
her failing health. She could see herself, simply, without hypocrisy,
slipping into such a state. She was not strong with the robust and hardy
strength of some fortunate people, she was easily made to feel tired,
and to look a little pale. She had only to think about that and to be
alarmed about it, to get Dr. Tanner to give it a name, and mention it
with an air of resignation to James, and the walls of invalid habits
would build themselves round her.
But she wasn't an invalid, she told herself, she was strong, she had
more force than ten of these flourishing women. She was forty-six, but
her intellectual life was only beginning. She felt, as she looked at the
magazines provided by James's forethought, that she could not spare an
hour of it to illness. She did not shrink even from the task of making
James agree with her. She was feeling very fond of James this
morning--who could help it who had seen the cheer on his face after the
doctor's visit?--but she was not feeling emotional about him. As a
concession, to avoid fuss, she stayed in bed, but she rang for Penn, and
told her to find the pamphlet on street trading. It was not until she
had finished the pamphlet--without, it is true, gaining any very clear
understanding of its contents--that she recalled, as one recalls what
has happened in a dream, Rosemary's voice announcing that she was going
to be married.