TIME drew on towards the wedding, and James's contentment increased. He
felt very well that autumn--his summer holiday had agreed with him--and
he was vain of his vigour at an age when many men are already a little
wearied by life. Fate, too, was treating him kindly. Mary had settled
down, Laura's child was a boy, and a very fine boy, and here was
Rosemary marrying an exceedingly decent young fellow who was bound to
get on. Moreover business was booming. James went down to his office
every morning in an excellent temper. He had made up his mind now that
he would carry his cinema project through. He had consulted the various
people in whose advice he had confidence and matters seemed to be
shaping very well. He was not looking to the new company for enormous
profits--if it succeeded he would make his money through its effect on
the Imperial. He meant to keep all the Imperial's ordinary shares in the
family. If he was excited about the new company it was because he had
always had a liking for neat and amusing inventions, and he saw himself
now with two or three interesting years ahead of him, years during which
he could complain that he was being worked to death, and astonish his
admirers by the unclouded brilliance of his business capacity. Of course
the changes he proposed would bring him in two or three thousand a year,
but this did not mean so much to James--who, at bottom, had a sense of
the values of life--as the fact of success itself, the fact that his
influence would be extended, that his name and the name of his business
would be spoken and heard with more respect.
As for Mary, he would distribute her money between various classes of
shares in the two undertakings, and once she had grasped the
powerlessness of a shareholder he could rearrange her holdings if he
wished. Not that he anticipated any more trouble from Mary. The last few
weeks had shown her where her heart lay, dear little thing--as if
anybody who knew her could have doubted which she would choose when it
came to an issue between babies and Socialism--and James saw happy years
ahead for Mary as well, with two daughters to counsel and two families
of grandchildren to adore. She would need, of course, to be petted for a
week or so after the wedding. It might be a good thing, if he could
manage it, to take her away for a little trip somewhere. Why not? Why
shouldn't the old people have their honeymoon as well as the youngsters?
The days passed pleasantly and rapidly--he felt too good-natured even to
make a fuss about Rosemary's absurd arrangements for the wedding.
Rosemary said that she was going to be married by a registrar, and that
she did not wish to have anybody there when it happened. She regarded
the marriage ceremony, she informed her father, as the ratifying by the
State of a private contract. One did not invite all one's friends to
come and cry when one had a document stamped at Somerset House. But if
she and Anthony were allowed to go out in the morning by themselves and
be married with crossing-sweepers for witnesses, she did not object to a
party in the afternoon to say good-bye to her friends.
"Very kind of you!" said James, but he refrained from saying more.
To this programme Mary wanted to add a family lunch--she did not feel
that she could sit idle in the house all day, waiting for afternoon tea,
and as James would be at home she would be debarred from tiring herself
by helping with the preparations or the packing. But the idea of the
lunch pleased no one but Mary's aunts. Even James said that if they were
not to have the regulation affair they might as well get off as lightly
as possible.
As a matter of fact, when the morning came, James did not care to sit
idle about the house either. Rosemary had slipped away after an early
breakfast, and there seemed no reason why he should not run up to the
office for an hour or two. Mary took advantage of his absence to tire
herself a good deal altering the arrangement of the wedding presents.
She had insisted on displaying the presents because when people have
been kind it is only right that they should have the pleasure of seeing
what they have given.
In the middle of her unnecessary alterations a dreadful idea occurred to
her. Suppose Rosemary and Anthony had refused to have witnesses because
they did not mean to get married at all! Suppose they had decided that
marriage was contrary to their principles, and were only pretending to
marry in order to save their parents' feelings? It was the sort of
thing, she had heard, that Socialists did. She tried to dismiss the idea
from her mind, and for a time she succeeded, but when neither Rosemary,
Anthony, nor James appeared for lunch, her fears returned. It seemed
incredible that she actually did not know whether Rosemary was Mrs.
Hastings or not. She could not eat, and she returned to the presents,
where she made herself miserable for another hour. She had already
imagined Anthony lured away from the unhappy girl who was not his wife
by a tall dark woman with green eyes when, to her joy, she heard James's
voice in the hall.
"Hullo, you two, married?"
Rosemary's voice answered him, clear and excited, "Yes, I suppose
so--but I don't feel married a bit! The old man was perfectly charming.
He shook our hands and told us he always tried to give the young people
a good send-off. Here are my marriage lines--Tony said that as you
weren't there he must have a certificate to protect his reputation."
Mary sat down suddenly, overcome by ridiculous relief. They were still
talking and laughing outside, but she did not hear what they said. A
moment later James came into the library. He saw at once that she was
looking pale.
"Really, Mary," he scolded, almost vexed, "you are not to be trusted,
are you? You promised that you would not do anything to tire yourself,
and here you are as white as a sheet. Come upstairs at once, little
mother, and rest on the sofa, and I'll sit by you and keep you amused
until it's time to dress."
"But, Rosemary--" said Mary.
"She's gone out to give Giles a kiss from his married aunt. I hoped you
were lying down, and I told her not to disturb you."
He took her hand to lead her from the room, but Mary, moved by a sudden
impulse, threw her arms round his neck. "James--my dear--I do love you
so!" she told him.
James, surprised and pleased, stroked back her soft hair very tenderly.
"Little thing," he said, "we've not done badly, have we, to love one
another like this for so many years? If the young people are as happy as
we are they won't have much to complain of." He would have liked to say
more, but he never felt in the mood for making love so soon after lunch.
Mary, quite satisfied, let him take her upstairs and put her on the
sofa. She made him sit down on it too, where she could play with his
fingers, telling him that he ought to be glad, really, that she wasn't a
fine big strapping wife who would want all the room on the sofa for
herself.
James looked down on her affectionately. "I'm glad," he said, "that
you're just exactly what you are! I wouldn't change a scrap of you."
They both laughed.
Then Mary told him how silly she had been before he came in, how she had
pictured Anthony led to destruction by sinuous ladies with raven locks.
"They would have to be red-haired to tempt you, James," she added. "I
don't believe you'd look at a temptress unless she had red hair!"
James bent towards her, his handsome face bright with affection. "Since
I met you, little mother," he said, "I don't believe I've looked at
another woman. Your hair is the only hair in the world for me!"
Then, as he gazed at her, Mary saw a change come over his face. His
mouth fell open a little, his eyes left hers, he lifted his head. She
could see that in that moment James had remembered something.
Tired and overstrung as she was she could not control the fantastic
terror that shook her. "James," she cried, "tell me quickly--why did you
look like that?"
James turned back to her. His face expressed nothing now but surprise.
"Look like what? I don't understand you, my dear." Then he got up from
the sofa and walked across to the window. "They've got a fine day for
their wedding-day," he added.
As he left her Mary's bodily strength seemed to go with him. She sank
backwards against her cushions trembling. "Don't speak! don't speak!"
she whispered to herself, but she had lost control over the forces of
her mind. Fear, too strong for her, spoke through her lips. She called
him, "James!"
James swung round sharply at the unfamiliar ring of her voice. "My dear,
what is the matter? I----"
She interrupted him. "If I ask you a question, will you tell me the
truth?"
James came back to the sofa and stood beside it, strong and
authoritative. "Listen to me," he said, "you are working yourself up,
about nothing at all, into a state of hysteria. You must remember that
in another hour your guests will be here. Shut your eyes and try to calm
yourself. I am not going to answer any questions at all."
But Mary still stared at him, his words had not reached her. "James,"
she said, "you must tell me! Have you ever been unfaithful to me?"
Her question, though he had been expecting it, came to James as a shock.
But he answered her steadily, "I have never loved anyone but you."
Mary clasped her hands. "No," she said, "I don't-- James, you haven't
answered my question!"
James, standing by her, thought rapidly. He had been a fool to give any
answer at all. He had not meant to, but the words had come to his lips,
and for an instant he had thought they would fulfil his purpose. Now he
must tell her a lie. But he knew in his heart that a lie would be no
use--his folly had answered her. He looked at Mary. Her terrified eyes,
wide open, were searching his face. After all, she had a right to ask
her question--he turned away from her without speaking.
Then it was true--Mary pressed her hands over her mouth as if she were
preventing herself from screaming. For a moment her mind seemed a mere
confusion of struggling passions, then, from life-long habit, she made
an effort to command it. "I must be brave," she told herself, "and
just--it must not be more dreadful than it need----"
But she could not find any courage or any justice in her heart, she
could find nothing but horror. It was impossible--it was unbearable. She
tried to think calmly, but James's tread as he walked about the room
seemed to break down her attempts to reason, to excuse, to lift herself
above mere bitterness and suffering. She closed her eyes, but a moment
later she opened them again, because the sound of his feet had stopped.
James, as he walked, could only abuse himself. Fool!--he'd been worse
than a fool! He could not imagine now what had kept him from speaking,
what had made him drag out all this. It was only a chance that he had
remembered it--red hair. Now he would have to explain, to tell her about
it, or God knows what infamy she would be imagining! But what good would
his explanation be--how could he make her understand? When a woman knows
as little of evil as Mary....
His heart sank, he felt a sudden fear of the unknown. By his minutes of
hesitation, of silence, he asked himself, what had he done? He turned
suddenly, and glanced across at the sofa. As he saw Mary lying there,
her eyes shut and her face contorted, he was shaken by a wave of nervous
anger. Why was she carrying on like that? he thought, in the phrase of
his boyhood--she had insisted on asking her question, why couldn't she
take the answer like a man? An instant later he was horrified with
himself for his brutality. How could he be thinking of anything now but
of how to make it easier for her? What had he better do? He went to the
sofa, and as he looked down on her, she opened her eyes. For a moment
they faced one another, but their gaze meant nothing--each was too
tormented to find access to the other's thought. Then James spoke. "I
think, if you don't mind, it would be better if I told you," he said; "I
don't want you to imagine----"
Mary still looked at him without knowing why. "Yes, I think so," she
agreed.
James did not find it possible to stand there, staring like that. He
started again on his restless walk. "It was a woman I'd known--before I
knew you--she wasn't a bad sort, I always felt kindly towards her. She
came to me years afterwards because she was in trouble, hadn't any
money, and asked me to help her. She was very unhappy because she felt
that she was getting old, and that she wasn't as beautiful as before,
and I--really--she seemed to expect it--I didn't want to hurt her
feelings--" He had been going to add, "It seemed so natural," but he
pulled himself up. A sudden horror had seized him of himself, of what he
was saying, of the conversation. It was appalling that he should be
speaking to Mary of things like this! It was indecent.
The story, the simple facts, restored some of Mary's self-control. She
could realise, as a definite event, what in the abstract had seemed
incredible. She drew a deep breath and tried to face the position. "Then
you never cared for her?" she asked him. James turned round again. "Of
course I never cared for her, I never dreamed of caring. Didn't I tell
you that I have never cared for anyone but you!" It seemed to him just
then that his not having cared for her was of vital importance. Whatever
else Mary did not realise she must realise that. "I'd forgotten all
about her, until you reminded me." Good God! that he should be standing
there, in front of Mary, justifying himself!
Mary shivered. She did not disbelieve James, but what he said seemed to
her incredible. How was it possible to do what James had done and not
care? It did not occur to her to feel sorry for James, for his
discomfort and his humiliation, but she found herself for a moment
pitying the woman who dwelt in so monstrous a world. To be a woman of
whom a man could say, "I never dreamed of caring!"
Then a new doubt assailed her. "When was it?" she cried. "Oh, James, was
it anybody I know?"
But James could bear it no longer. Every instinct of self-preservation
urged him to stop her questions. And he did not want her to know when it
had happened. She would not understand. "I don't think I need tell you,"
he said. "She wasn't much of a woman, but who she is, is her affair, and
the other is mine."
Mary did not understand him. "How do you mean, yours?"
James did not answer at once. The whole discussion still seemed to him
unnatural and disgusting. But since she insisted on probing into the
thing he might just as well, he told himself, state his case. "Look
here, Mary," he said, "I don't think we shall do any good by talking
about this just now. I don't think it will help either of us. But the
reason I won't tell you more about it, is this. That whole side of my
life is a side that you have never wished to think of or to know
anything about. You have had your own standards, and you have simply
taken it for granted that I should live up to them. You have never even
doubted, I imagine, that I found it easy to live up to them. Well, I
respected your delicacy, I never obtruded anything on you that you did
not care to know. Don't you see, Mary, you can't, now, simply because I
am at a disadvantage, expect me to break down a barrier which we have
chosen to keep up all our lives. You may say that I deceived you, and
that you have a right to know the truth. Well, I did conceal it from
you, but my concealment was the price I paid for your immunity from
contact with evil." As he spoke, the theme developed in his rapid mind.
He went on--"Those untroubled ideals of yours, your moral sensitiveness,
they're not things that survive a knowledge of the ugly, cruel side of
life. Well, we agreed, it seemed to me, that you should enjoy them, that
I should prevent them from being taken from you. In some ways they are a
luxury, luxuries have to be paid for--" He stopped, because he could see
that Mary was not following what he said.
She had tried to follow, she had tried, as a mere matter of fairness, to
consider what he had to say. But she had not grasped, in the beginning,
what he was talking about, and she had soon lost the thread of his words
from mere weariness. The last thing that she wanted was to argue with
him. She could not argue--she would only say things that she did not
mean--they would squabble--it would all be vulgar and horrible! She
wished he would go away now so that she could cry--give way--not have to
think. She could not think about it----
She started, for someone was knocking at the door. A moment later her
maid came in, discreetly radiant. "I've put out the lilac dress, ma'am,"
she said, "and it's close on half-past three."
Mary stared at the woman until she heard James say, in his usual
pleasant voice, "Well, my dear, I'll leave you to dress. If I see
Rosemary I will send her to you." Then, with an effort, she smiled too,
but she thought to herself as she rose slowly from the sofa that it was
easy for James--he was accustomed to lying.
When Rosemary came in ten minutes later she found her mother completely
absorbed, to all appearances, in the process of putting on the lilac
dress. For a moment she did not turn round to greet her daughter; when
she did Rosemary was shocked by her white face. "How she minds!" she
thought, and then she felt a sudden shyness and embarrassment at the
idea that her mother should mind. They kissed one another then and
Rosemary disengaged herself and stroked the satin of her mother's
sleeve.
"I love you in fine clothes, mother," she said, "you are one of the
people who can wear them. You ought to have big flounced skirts and a
stiff stomacher embroidered with pearls."
Mary did not answer. She had seen Rosemary's hesitation and she could
not trust herself with speech.
A few hours ago she might have spoken to some purpose--she might have
warned the child, have told her what men are like, what marriage is. But
now it was too late. Rosemary was married. Beautiful, fresh, untouched
as she was, she belonged to a man, and in an hour he would take her away
into his cruel man's world. This lovely child whose body Mary had made,
who only a few years ago had lain, a little soft laughing thing, on
Mary's lap, was to be at the mercy of a man--she was to see the whole of
life through his love--her children were to be his children. She would
give herself to him, and in return, if he chose to sin, he would lie to
her. One of James's sentences, distorted, came back to Mary's mind,--a
woman's purity of thought, her serenity of soul, is her husband's
luxury--he likes to have that sort of woman about his house----
The tumult of her mind was stilled for a moment by Rosemary's voice.
"Won't you sit down, mother darling--you've been standing too much,
you're trembling. You'll have to stand presently----"
But Mary would not sit. She preferred instead to go downstairs and see
whether everything was ready for her guests. Rosemary followed her,
feeling a little indifferent and detached. One ought, she told herself,
to get married without telling people, then one would not have a
tiresome day like this, all odds and ends and fussing. She wished she
had not let all these people come to stare at her--even the hired
footmen looked her over as though she were a horse at a show. Regarded
reasonably, it was a disgusting idea. If one were to imagine a country
where all weddings were private, what would the inhabitants think of our
barbarous customs? One ought to get married on a mountain, or a cliff by
the sea, and smell the fresh wind instead of pink roses from a florist's
shop--though even pink roses were better than the millinery that was
coming.
When they went into the dining-room they found Anthony. He was standing
by the buffet, eating an enormous ice, while the maid who had served him
looked on in an attitude of romantic adoration. At the sight of him
Rosemary's dissatisfaction sank away. His absorption in his ice seemed
to her, suddenly, the most charming, touching thing she had ever seen.
What a baby he was--coming into the dining-room to eat ices before
anyone had arrived! What a ridiculous boy he looked with his bright fair
hair!--As she walked towards him she felt that there were tears in her
eyes.
Mary saw their friendly greeting and turned away, swept by a bitter
anger and jealousy. It seemed to her horrible that Anthony, the man, the
pursuer, the captor, should be eating ices. He might at least have had
the decency to exult over his prey. To Mary at that moment the whole
world was a vast sacrificial altar raised to the lust and the cruelty of
men. She did not remember that only yesterday she too had thought
Anthony a friendly and delightful creature.
A few minutes later cousins began to arrive, and Mary, found herself
standing by the drawing-room door, talking. "Well, Mary," all her old
friends began, "to think--" and to one after another of them she
answered, "We're all so fond of him!" "Yes, I'm sure they'll be very
happy."
The pretty room, Mary's room, was filling with people, people who had
come there to laugh and look animated and say stupid things because
Rosemary was married. It did not matter much now what anybody said, one
could not hear it. It seemed to Mary that she was screaming, but as
nobody noticed her she supposed that she could not be talking louder
than anyone else.
Behind her left shoulder she could hear James's laugh. He was talking
too, everyone was telling him how well he looked. She heard him say,
"Yes--both gone now--it makes a man feel old--" and a sudden wave of
misery made her tremble. What did it matter to James--what were
daughters to a man! It was she who was old, she who was left lonely and
desolate, left to James who stroked her hair and lied to her.
There were fewer people coming now, and she crossed the room to speak to
Anthony's mother. Anthony's mother was sitting on a sofa, calm,
superior, but triumphant. Her eye travelled slowly over the chattering
crowd with an air of august approval. "See what a fuss these people
make," she seemed to say, "how they dress up, rejoice, invite their
friends, because their girl has succeeded in catching my son! See how
they have decked out the fortunate creature herself so that she may seem
beautiful and pleasing!" Mrs. Hastings was a tall lady with a dignified
nose, and she bent over Mary when she had made room for her on the sofa.
"How charming dear Rosemary looks!" she began. "Her frock suits her so
well"--the garment in question had been chosen by Laura--"everyone is
saying how ridiculously young they both are----"
Mary followed the lady's imposing eye to where, between groups of
people, she could see Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Hastings. It was true that
they both of them looked absurdly young. Something in Rosemary's flushed
laughing face sent the blood to Mary's heart. She was a child, only a
child, and here in this hot, noisy room she was saying good-bye to her
freedom. And there was nothing, nothing that anyone in the world could
do--Rosemary was married!
Mrs. Hastings, having received no answer to a further remark, turned
round again to survey her hostess. "Hysterical, poor woman," she
thought. "She has never struck me as a person with much strength of
will--one of your clinging little women." "I am sure they will be very
happy," she said, in a voice that was certain to arrest attention, "for
I have always thought that Tony would make an excellent husband."
An excellent husband--of course! What more could any woman want--an
excellent husband like James! Mary smiled faintly. "Oh, yes, I'm sure,
and they are so very fond of each other," she answered.
At this point someone else came up to Mrs. Hastings and Mary was able to
rise and to go in search of Anthony's principal uncle. Rosemary's future
depended on him too, for he was the head of Anthony's firm. As she
looked about the room Mary caught words and sentences from the roar of
conversation that echoed back from the walls and the ceiling. All these
people were busy over their own affairs, their clothes, their
engagements, their gossip. They did not care--Mary wished suddenly that
there had been a wedding in church. That, at least, would have been
serious, she could have prayed for her daughter. Then she laughed at
herself. What good would praying have been? Her own mother, who believed
in God, had prayed for her every day, and yet she could not spare her
this----.
The important uncle, who called Mary, "My dear lady," told her that she
looked thoroughly worn out.
At last the moment came when she was to bid Rosemary good-bye. As she
kissed her, Mary felt an impulse to throw her arms round Rosemary, to
hold her fast, to defy them all--it seemed impossible that she should go
away like this, while everybody laughed and looked curious and pleased.
But even while the thought was in her mind she found that she had let
the child go, that Rosemary was kissing James. "Of course--he's her
father," Mary said to herself.--A moment later Rosemary was gone.
Then Mary had to say good-bye to her guests, to thank them for having
put on their best clothes and made their well-meant noises. They all
decided, and told her so, that she needed a rest and a change--weddings
are trying affairs. Finally, last of all, Harry and Laura said they must
get back to Giles.
"Do lie down, mother dear," Laura said, "and we'll see you and father at
dinner later."
Mary had forgotten that they were dining with Laura--it seemed now a
very good opportunity for separating herself from James. She didn't
think that she would come after all, she told them, she would probably
go to bed early. But James would come.
James assented. It seemed to him, too, an excellent idea.
For a moment they all stood at the door, looking at the disordered room.
The floor was littered with the pink petals of the florist's roses, and
on a chair lay a white fur scarf that some woman had forgotten.
"I'll come round to-morrow and help you cut up the cake," Laura told
Mary, kissing her.
Harry shrugged his shoulders. "What we want in weddings," he said, "is a
little decent grossness!"
Laura turned to him. "Come, Harry, I can see that mother is exhausted--"
As they went, James on their heels, Mary laughed. Harry knew that he was
the captor, right enough.