MEANWHILE the unfortunate James was feeling lonely. He was a hasty, not
a vindictive, man, and his anger soon ceased to afford him company. He
missed his wife and he missed Rosemary; as for Trent, he felt that Trent
regarded him with suspicion. The boy's prospects were to some extent in
peril through his father's conduct of this wretched affair, and try as
he might, James could not think of an attitude that would make Trent's
doubts of him seem absurd or wrong. He did not live, during these ten
days, in a cheerful household, and he could not seek consolation among
his friends for fear they would ask him questions about Mary. He still
had hopes for the future--James's future was not in the habit of turning
traitor--but the immediate present was certainly depressing.
Amid this gloom he had one pleasure--he could contemplate his future
knighthood. There he had Mary, damn her! There she was done! There was
nothing she would hate more, he believed, than to be Lady Heyham--your
ladyship--the wife of an undeserving and unromantic knight. Well, if she
wanted her feelings considered she should not have run off in the way
she did. In this at least she was helpless and at his mercy--his sense
of supremacy was soothed.
His anger had also another enemy. He was anxious, against his will,
about Mary's safety, and worried about the safety of their secret.
Heaven knows whom Mary mightn't have found to be her confidante! She
wasn't accustomed to managing for herself; if she hadn't found anyone
she might well be in difficulties and too proud to admit it. It was her
own fault, of course--if she was unhappy she deserved it--but his
generosity could not remain unstirred by the thought of Mary struggling
alone with the problems of a callous world. Her head was not made, he
felt, for the task of thinking things out, a task which even he himself
had refused as too hard for him. At the same time it was becoming daily
more necessary that she should finish her thinking and come home. The
friends with whom he had discussed his scheme would be wondering why he
did not get on with it. If he had had no means of finding Mary, he
might, in despair, have taken to hating her, but in a few days more he
hoped to be able to discover where she was. He had found her pass-book
and he meant, when sufficient time had elapsed, to send it in. She was
accustomed to making payments by cheque, and sooner or later she was
likely to draw a cheque to the manager of her hotel. And if he could not
track her by her cheques he thought that he might track her through her
bills. She paid them in the middle of every month, and in another week
the accustomed date would have come. It was unlikely that she would
change such a habit as this merely because she happened not to be at
home. He would go presently to one of the shops where both he and she
were well known, and ask if Mrs. Heyham's bill was paid. If not, he
would pay it and tell them to return her remittance, if it came, to her
town address. If the bill was paid, he would ask on what date she had
paid and from what address the money had been sent. He could explain
that some of her letters seemed to have been stolen on their way to the
post. It might not work, but he was inclined to think that it would. The
bills were coming in, and he forwarded them carefully to show that he
expected her to deal with them herself. This being so he hoped in a few
days to be in a position to open negotiations, and as the need for her
return became more urgent his idea of the tone that he should take was
modified. He did not believe that he was any less angry with her than he
had been at first, but from a tactical point of view it would be no use,
he told himself, to say many things which he had morally a perfect right
to say. He must go softly and, injured and indignant though he was, he
must endeavour to move her by arguments rather than threats. He had not
the least intention of sacrificing his rights or his dignity, but
although he did not admit it to himself he was tired of his rage and the
thought of compromise relieved his nerves. He told himself that she had,
after all, one valid score against him, and it might be as well, on the
whole, to cancel their personal injuries.
It was in this frame of mind that he came home, on the tenth day after
Mary's flight, to find her letter waiting in the hall. He had meant, if
a letter came, to recognise her writing with complete indifference. That
little offering at least he would make to his dignity. He was annoyed
with himself, therefore, when his body seemed to grow tense, to prepare
itself, at the sight of the small white envelope. He picked it up with a
frown and carried it into the library. Clearly he was an old fool!
He tore the envelope at once, with the gesture, he tried to persuade
himself, that he would have used for the opening of any ordinary
business letter. It bore the date of that morning, and was headed by her
address.
"DEAREST JAMES:
"To-morrow, unless you've some reason for preferring me to wait a few
days, I am coming home. I only hid myself here in order to think in
quiet, and I believe I have decided the questions I wanted to consider.
In the first place, James, about our personal relations, I feel that I
was wrong. I did not want to hurt you, or to revenge myself, but as a
matter of fact I was hard and uncharitable. I was ungrateful too, I
forgot all I owed you and only remembered the wrong you had done me. I
was miserable, and I forgot that I loved you--I did not realise that
even my suffering was only the other side of love. Now I want you to
forgive me and to let me forgive you, and to agree with me to bury the
whole thing. I have thought it all over,--why you did it and what my
share and blame in the matter was, and I see that I was angrier than I
had any right to be. But please, James, if you don't mind, I had rather
not discuss it with you. I had rather that we neither of us mentioned it
again."
So far so good--James looked up from the letter. He was pleased that
Mary had forgiven him, and he had not the least desire to discuss the
matter. His dominant feeling was one of great relief. Only that morning
he had been saying to himself that he couldn't be expected to stand this
sort of thing indefinitely. If Mary chose to go off and neglect her
duties she couldn't complain of what he might do in her absence. She
need not think that whatever sort of fool she might make of him he would
go on taking it lying down. Now he was glad that his protest had gone no
further. She was coming home, and the sentimental values of his position
were unimpaired. He could greet her and feel fond of her, if he chose,
without reservations. As for forgetting the past--it was clearly the
best thing, on the whole, that he could do. She had had no business to
go, but no particular harm had come of it. And, after all, she had been
an injured wife and a fuss was within her rights. He had got off with
only ten days of it and with a minimum of scenes. On the whole he was
decidedly pleased to cry quits.
The rest of the letter was more serious.
"As to the business, I am afraid that I have made up my mind not to
consent to the sale. I have thought it over very carefully, and if I
haven't asked anyone for advice it is because I felt sure you would
rather I decided entirely by myself."--James grunted.--"It isn't that I
doubt the soundness of your schemes from the point of view of making
money, but I cannot consent to anything that will make it more difficult
to obtain proper conditions for our employees. It is hard enough, as you
explained to me yourself, to do anything for them when no one would
suffer for it but ourselves, but it seems to me that if there were
outside shareholders to consider, it would become impossible."
James looked up again. He was making a hasty search for an argument that
would prove that employees in public companies are necessarily better
off than those who are employed by an individual master. He did not find
the argument he desired, and he returned to the letter.
"I don't want you to think that I am blaming you, James, or that I think
you are a bad employer. I know our girls are better treated than plenty
of others. All the same, the work is too hard for them, and they are not
paid enough. But the person I blame for it is myself. I have been taking
half the profits and doing absolutely nothing for them. You have done
your work of building the business, and done it splendidly, but I have
neglected mine. If I had taken an interest in the girls from the
beginning, as I should have done, it would not be necessary to make an
upheaval now. But late as it is I feel that I must make it. Now that I
know what their lives are like, I cannot live happily without trying to
alter them, and that can only be done by altering the conditions of
their work. I haven't decided this because I am obstinate or because I
want to get my own way. Believe me, I would far rather come back to you
without a shadow of difficulty between us. But it would not be right.
Your loving
Mary."
James put the letter down. It was final. She had done her worst. For a
moment he was filled with pity for himself. His scheme was ruined! The
wonderful scheme of which he had been so proud! Those columned
cinematograph palaces of his dream would never be built--they were
doomed by a woman's caprice. The builders and painters they might have
employed would go empty away. The public that might have enjoyed his
first-rate films would continue to enjoy the films of other people. The
money that might have made him a rich man would continue to flow into
other people's pockets. And all because Mary-- He pulled himself up. He
must think, and think quickly, not of his grievances but of what he had
better do. There must be some way among all the devious ways of commerce
of getting round a mere woman's decision. He could, of course, leave
Mary out of it and carry out his projects by himself. He could sell his
share of the business to the Afternoon Tea Company, or he could persuade
Mary to buy him out. Then she could wreck the Imperial with her damned
philanthropy if she wanted to--without him to manage for her she would
wreck it fast enough, whether she tried philanthropy or not.
For a moment or two he turned over these possibilities. They would dish
Mary all right, as far as her schemes of coercing him went, but that, as
he considered them, seemed their only attraction. For one thing everyone
would want to know why he had given up the Imperial and Mary would no
doubt supply an explanation. That wasn't good enough for a man well
known to have a liberal mind. In the next place he could not afford to
smash the Imperial, as Mary would certainly smash it. She would never
allow herself to be guided by Trent. The Imperial was his life's work,
it stood for his life's credit--besides it was one thing to invest in
this new venture with another business safe and sound at his back; it
was a different thing to go into it, at his age, when he might come out
a beggar. No, Mary had got him cornered. His only hope, it seemed, was
to appear to consent to her plans and then to wear her down. Plans of
hers were certain at some point to be impracticable.
He was cornered, but he could not believe it. As he paced the floor his
brain worked feverishly--as actively, with as great a strength and
sureness, he felt, as it had ever worked in the great days of the
Imperial's expansion. It was impossible that he, with his brilliance,
his reputation, his knowledge of business, could be brought to a stop by
a scruple of his wife's. He went back to the thought of deserting the
Imperial--he was proud of the Imperial, but he was also wearied of
managing it. It had been all right while new openings were presenting
themselves every day, but now the thing had established itself in a
routine. For twenty Marys he wasn't going to spend the rest of his
working life like an old horse at a wheel....
What he wanted, he told himself, was an idea--one of his famous ideas.
He had always before, in moments of crises, been able to depend on his
wits--why should he fail himself now! He must have an idea, if only to
present it to Trent when Trent came home....
The idea, when it came, was so little the idea for which he had been
hoping that he did not welcome it as it deserved. But in ten minutes he
had almost accepted it. It was new, it was interesting, it was exciting.
Mary, it seemed, was set upon making him one of your model employers.
Very well then, let them be the most model employers in England, the
most blatantly, spotlessly, ostentatiously model, and then he would go
into Parliament as the nation's hope. That could be his reason for
dropping his other scheme. He had been persuaded at last, he could say,
that it was his duty to stand. And in a way, after all, why shouldn't it
be his duty?
"For of all the political problems that vex our age, what is more
pressing and more difficult than the urgent problem of labour? It cannot
be postponed, gentlemen, it cannot be ignored! The recent strikes have
brought it home to the heart of every honest Englishman. And how is it
to be solved, apart from violence and class hatred and mob law--which as
my hearers know are not a solution--except by a new spirit on the part
of both employers and employed? A less grudging spirit--a less material
spirit! And moreover, like all movements that are worth anything, this
change must spring not from the ignorant masses but from the enlightened
few. We, if only to shame them by our example, must take the first
step--" He was already deep in his speech when Trent came in.
James turned to his son with a benign and serious air. "I've had a
letter from your mother, Trent," he said, "and she says that she is
coming back to-morrow!"
Trent halted for a moment midway between the fireplace and the door.
Then, continuing his way, he answered soberly, "I'm very glad to hear
it. Does she say what she has decided about the reconstruction?"
"I am sorry to say, my dear boy, that she refuses."
For a moment neither of them spoke, then James went on-- "She wishes
certain reforms to be carried out which would hardly be agreed to by the
shareholders of a public company."
Trent nodded. "Rosemary's Socialism!"
But James did not agree. "Well, of course," he said, "it's very easy to
call a thing socialism merely because it's inconvenient, but after all a
great deal depends upon the way in which it is done. At bottom, Trent,
I'm not really convinced that some of your mother's notions aren't just!
One's ideas get fixed, you know, one's too apt to look at things from
one's own point of view!"
Trent stared at him. "Do you intend to put these notions into practice
then? And what about the new scheme?"
James's mild air rebuked his son's impatience. "The new scheme, I'm
afraid, must be abandoned for the time. And as for these reforms, I
don't tie myself down to any particular plan, but I intend to devote a
certain amount of attention to the health and the conditions of our
employees. After all"--his voice became brisk--"there are more ways of
attaining an influential position than money alone. And I take it that
what you really need, my dear fellow, in your own affairs, is not so
much more money as a more important name. I say 'you need' because I
feel that as the responsibility for this situation rests to a certain
extent with me, it is particularly my duty to see that you do not suffer
by it."
Trent moved uneasily. He always disliked his father's serene assumption
that he could not manage his own affairs for himself. He would have
shown his dislike more definitely if he had not known that as a matter
of fact the assumption was more or less true. Lady Hester's mamma had
recently forbidden her to write to him.
"Well," James went on, "I've been thinking it over, and I've almost
determined to go into Parliament. First we'll reorganise the
business--put it on to a more philanthropic basis. Then I'll attend to
that knighthood, and at the same time start work on a constituency.
After all I'm not a bad speaker, when it comes to speaking, and I really
feel that we business men don't pay sufficient attention to politics.
One owes, after all, a sort of duty to the nation. When I have put our
relations with our employees on to a thoroughly sound footing, it seems
to me that my presence in Parliament might have a real, though of
course, only a small, value---"
So that was it! Trent permitted himself a moment of irony. "It's very
good of you, sir, to adopt such a strenuous career on my account, though
I've not the least doubt that you'll make a success of it. But as far as
I'm concerned, of course, the effect depends upon what side you are on.
The Iredales are naturally Conservatives."
James was taken aback. "Well, well," he said, "it's a great pity that
our leisured classes are so bigoted. They'd have far more real power,
believe me, if they looked beyond their immediate prejudices! Look at
this land legislation! Should we ever have had it if more of our
landowners were Liberals? Still, of course, that doesn't help you, my
boy." He thought for a moment, and then his face brightened. "After
all," he said, "I'm not going into this as a party man. It's a definite
mission--something, in its way, above party. There might even be
advantages in starting the thing from the least likely quarter--I don't
want at all to create the impression that I'm attacking the established
order. My ideas are definitely constructive. Now that you put it to me
I'm not at all sure that it wouldn't create less ill-feeling--though of
course there's their damn-fool protection-- And the knighthood--no, I'm
afraid it wouldn't do!" he sighed.
At that moment the clock struck half-past six. A new idea occurred to
James. "Look here," he said, "I'd brought home these papers from
Carter's to look over--but I've thought of something that I want to do.
I'd be very grateful if you'd go through them for me--if there's
anything I really ought to see I'll tackle it after dinner."
It was one of Trent's good points that he did not object to work, he
believed in efficiency and perseverance as James believed in energy and
enterprise. He nodded. "Certainly, I'll go through them as soon as I've
changed--" He went over to his father's desk.
James left the room without saying anything more. In the hall he met one
of the servants, and with her he left a message that Mrs. Heyham might
possibly be in to dinner. Then he went out and took the first taxi he
met. If there was to be a reconciliation, he considered, it was foolish
to put it off until the morrow. If he was going to see Mary again he
might just as well see her gladly and at once. He was feeling glad and
perfectly forgiving. His new excitement left no room in his mind for
anger or bitterness. The idea of Parliament delighted him. Thirty years
of business is enough for one lifetime, and Trent could manage well
enough with an occasional prod from his father. James was not a very
ambitious man. He did not imagine himself Prime Minister. But he liked
to think of his maiden speech--the House would surely listen with
attention to one who came not as a professional politician, but as the
very voice, so to speak, of England's backbone--a solid successful
self-made business man, and one, moreover, who was unassuming and not
without a certain personal charm. He would be popular in the House, he
felt it. It did not occur to him that his ideas of labour conditions
might be a little old-fashioned.
It was not until the taxi drew up that he turned his mind seriously to
his interview with Mary. He did not look forward to it with any anxiety.
It would be all right, he told himself as the lift mounted, particularly
as she didn't want to discuss things. She had been ill when he saw her
before, but now she was well-- The dear little thing, in a few minutes
more it would be all right again!
Guinivere showed him into the sitting-room. Mary was lying on the sofa,
and as the door opened she turned towards it. Her face, when first she
caught sight of him, expressed nothing but surprise. She half rose--then
he saw the look of surprise change to trouble, almost to fear. Poor
little thing--poor little darling--she was afraid of him! He crossed the
room and took her into his arms. "Ridiculous little mother," he said,
"why did you look at me like that? I've not come to tell you anything
more dreadful than that I love you!"
Mary clung to him. "Oh, James," she said, "haven't you?" and for a
moment she was satisfied with his kiss. Then her doubts returned, she
drew herself a little away. "But did you read my letter?" she asked.
"The part at the end, about the business?"
James kissed her again. "Oh, yes, I read it," he told her, "and this
tyrant of a mother of ours is going to have it all her own way. The
girls shall have a nurse apiece and a lap-dog as well, if the money will
run to it, and you'll dress in black serge and I'll wear a celluloid
collar. Seriously, we can't sell the business if you object to it, and I
feel that I've no right to coerce your conscience in the matter of
wages. I won't pretend that I'm not disappointed at having to give up my
scheme, but to make up for it and keep myself amused I'm going to become
an orator and stand for Parliament. How will you like that?"
Mary smiled up at him. "I'm sure you'll be splendid," she said, "you
speak so well--but, James--just tell me first--aren't you angry with me
at all?"
He interrupted her. "I have been angry with you--I'm a bad-tempered
creature, and I must admit that I was awfully angry. But now that's to
be all over, isn't it? We've come back to one another, just as if I'd
been away on business." His arms tightened round her. "Look up at me,
Mary--I love you, my dear, more than I love anything in the world!"
When he had finished kissing her he told her to put on her hat. "I've
come to take you back to dinner," he informed her, "and we've only just
time. Trent and I have had dinner alone quite long enough. The young
woman who let me in can pack your things and I'll call for them
to-morrow. I'd like to see this place in daylight--do you know, I'm not
sure this scheme of colour wouldn't be worth trying in some of our new
shops. It's quite original--I'll tell young Price to come along and have
a look at it. Are all the other rooms as weird as this?"
Mary went into her room to put on her things, but her fingers trembled
so that their pins and their buttons were almost too much for her. After
all that had happened James still loved her, and she loved him again.
The resentment that had lain so heavy on her, the doubt that had stifled
her, were gone. He loved her, and she could respond with joy to his
kiss. She looked at herself in the glass and smiled happily. The soft
appeal of her youth was gone; no other man would ever care for her now,
but James cared.
She heard the door open and turned towards it. Again it was James. His
eyes were bright and he was holding out his hands. "My dear," he said,
"I'm impatient, I can't lose sight of you!"
In another moment he was bending over her, kissing her soft hair.
"James!" she said, but she did not go on; instead she found herself
crying on his shoulder.
James held her more closely. "Cry away, little thing!" he told her, "I
really believe that you are fond of me!"
She raised her face for a kiss. She was fond of him, but she knew that
it was not that that had made her cry. Her tears were for her vanished
youth and its young, foolish love.
In the taxi on the way back James held her hand and told her how much he
had missed her, and how all his schemes had lost their savour without
his old darling there to encourage him. She must promise to encourage
him in every possible way when he made his appeal to the terrible
elector. She must sit on his platform at meetings and smile at his
workers in her own irresistible way and be in the Ladies' Gallery when
he made his speeches. It was part of James's charm that he never said
pretty things without meaning them, and Mary listened to him in a state
of glad confusion. Underneath her content, she knew, there was something
else, some question unsatisfied, but this was not the time for attending
to it. This was simply the time for being happy--she had earned her
right to be as happy as she could. She lay against James's shoulder and
sighed with happiness. "We're home now," he said, as the taxi turned
into the square, "and do you know, from the moment you cross the
doorstep all this great adventure of yours will sink away like a dream!"
She did not agree with him, but she forebore to shake her head. The taxi
stopped--there were the familiar steps, in a moment she would see the
servant's familiar face. The entrance hall was more like a dream, she
thought, in its tall ugliness, than the queer red and orange room that
they had left to the windy night. But she was glad to see her house
again, her ordinary house.
On the table in the hall lay a letter from Rosemary. "There's no time to
dress," James called after her as she carried it up the stairs.
"Dinner's ready and I've some work to do afterwards." She made him some
answer, and escaped to her room.
The letter was short.
"MY DARLING MOTHER,
"I just wanted to tell you how extraordinarily happy we are. It's
ridiculous that everybody can't always be as happy as this.
Your loving
ROSEMARY."
Here was a rosy world! Here, if she wanted it, she could seek her youth!
Then she sighed. Would Rosemary, she wondered, wake at last from her
dreams as she had done, or were things different now, did one never,
now, forget the world in love? She must not dawdle, she reminded
herself. James was waiting! Mary washed her hands and went downstairs.
In the dining-room Trent kissed her protectively. He too had missed her
although he seldom saw very much of her, but he thought it more tactful
not to tell her so. He watched her plate, however, during dinner, and
advised her on one occasion to alter her choice as the savoury was
particularly good. James, who liked to sit next her when they were alone
instead of at the end of the table, watched the uncertain glance of her
eyes, her quick smile, and the slight unsteadiness of her hands.
"It was rather sudden," he thought; "she's worked up--the poor little
darling." He laughed and made jokes and told them election stories.
"Trent wants to make a Tory of me," he told her. "What do you think of
that?"
Mary was surprised--her wits were not ready. "But I thought Trent was a
Liberal!" she said.
James leaned back in his chair and twisted the stem of his glass. "There
you are, Trent--what do you say to that?" He looked pleased.
Trent let his eyelids droop. "It seems to me," he said, "that our party
names have lost a great deal of their old reality. But in some respects
I am certainly prepared to support the present Government." In some
respects he would have been, as a matter of fact, prepared to support
almost any Government. It was his instinct to be on the governing side.
Mary looked at James. He thought he could see that she was a little
tired. "Well, well," he said, "we won't distress your mother with talk
about politics now. There's no need to decide at present; we must see to
the business first."
He turned to Mary for the grateful smile which she immediately gave him.
After dinner she went upstairs to the drawing-room as usual and walked
to her customary chair. James had a little work to do, but he had said
that he would come in and see her when it was over. She had hardly sat
down, however, and taken up the knitting that was waiting in the
work-box where she had left it, when the door opened and James appeared
at it. "You're sure you're quite all right?" he said and smiled. "I
thought I'd just have a look at you--to feel sure I've got you safe,
little thing!"
She managed to answer him. "Quite safe, my darling!" Then the door shut,
and she could hear him whistling cheerfully as he went downstairs.
He had got her back and now he was content. For a moment she listened to
his footsteps, then she rose to her feet in a vain protest against the
tears that were running down her face. She had everything she could
want, she told herself, and yet for a second time, absurdly, she wept.
What she hoped, after all, she admitted presently, was impossible. She
had hoped for her old blind worship back again in answer to James's
love. She could not have it back, it was gone, and she was afraid. She
had covered herself from the world with James's strength, with his
assurance and his love for her. His kindness had been her shelter from
suffering, from truth, from life. Now these gifts of his protected her
no longer; she stood alone.
She walked over to the window and pulled the curtains aside. The street
before her was empty under its shining lamps, but across the square,
through the bare tossing boughs of the trees, people moved down the
pavement, talking and shuffling their feet. Two taxis ran quickly past
them, blotting them out, but when the noise had stopped Mary knew that
they were poor people, men and women. As she listened to them her mood
changed. After all, she was not alone. Close to her were millions of her
fellow-men, huddled together in narrow streets because they too were
afraid of being alone, afraid of silence, of the cold empty night. And
they had brought with them the fruit of their knowledge and of their
labour--they had brought their suffering, their ignorance and
helplessness.
She leaned forward a little, resting her arms against the glass. There
about her lay the great violent city, and beyond it, beyond the downs
and the dark sea, down the curve of the world its other cities rang with
the pain, the defiance, the glory of man. Now she too was to share man's
task and his inheritance. She had left her ordered house for the clamour
and promise of life....
Behind her the lights burned steadily in the big gay room. Outside a man
laughed and the wind lifted the branches in the square.
THE END