And she did not repent the promise, nor did her mother's consternation
have any effect upon her, other than making her lend a willing ear to
Lee's entreaties for a speedy marriage. She agreed to marry him at the
end of the following month. She even came to accept his kisses without
shrinking much, and to offer her own in return for the jewellery that he
brought her. Only once during the engagement her reflections terrified
her. The thought crossed her mind that he might lose his voice. He might
lose his voice and she would have done it all for nothing! He would be
helpless; she would have yoked herself for life to a negro dependent on
her exertions. What a future! What a hell! In the moment of alarm it
even occurred to her--because she attended church punctiliously every
Sunday--that the disaster would be a fitting punishment for the sin she
was committing in stifling her better instincts. She was abasing herself
under a temptation--she might be bowed under a burden as the result.
Characteristically she ignored the fact that to afflict her husband
in order to point the moral would be a shade unjust; there are many
Christians who would figuratively fire the house to roast the pig, like
Ho-ti in the Dissertation. And quite as many who can reconcile their
interests and their conscience by judicious prayer. The name of "Vivian"
figured in Ownie's prayer. She prayed for strength to act a mother's
part to Vivian.
Also she determined that before she had been Lee's wife long she
would persuade him to assure his life. Experience teaches; and this
precautionary measure had been neglected during her first marriage. She
was naturally ignorant of the negro temperament, or she would have known
that there is nothing from which it is quite so averse as providing for
emergencies, and that she might almost as hopefully have begged him to
acquire a cream-and-roses complexion.
Meanwhile there were paragraphs in the papers; and presents were
delivered from his fellow-artists, and from some of the Musical
Societies; and there were presents from the Public. Even Mrs. Tremlett
began to say, "It might be all for the best," now. A man who received
big silver teapots from total strangers, she felt, was entitled to more
respect than she had shown to him. Her grandchild and the adolescent
nurse were to remain with her until the honeymoon was over. The wedding
took place in London, and Ownie and Lee departed for Paris, where he was
to sing.
If Mrs. Lee had kept a journal at this period, it would have been one of
the most fascinating of human documents, though much of its fascination
would have lain between the lines, since she inherited nothing of her
father's gift for expression. It would have been the gradual diminuendo,
that told the tale, the change of key. They stayed in Paris nearly five
weeks, and before a fortnight had passed, the outcry in her heart was
still. She was resigned. She did not acknowledge it to herself yet; that
would not have been written in the diary; she did not look it; but her
avaricious little soul was gratified, although her eyes claimed sympathy.
Strangers gave it to her. She was prettier still in the extravagant
gowns that Lee paid for--that true loveliness unadorned is adorned
the most is as silly a thing as the poet of "The Seasons" could have
said--and the Englishmen and Americans in Paris spoke feelingly of
"that pretty woman married to a nigger." There are women to whom pity
is as sweet as noise to the masses, and Ownie Lee's abortive conscience
found all the anodyne it needed in the perception that she was held
a pathetic figure. The appealing smile which had always become her so
well, gained in intensity. Lucretia might have worn that expression in
time, if she had taken drives in the Bois instead of stabbing herself.
And Lee? Lee was intoxicated. If he had wooed her in a fool's paradise,
at least the shadow of the tree of knowledge had been in it; he had had
no illusions. He had not looked for passion, or for tenderness, or for
understanding. It was enough for him as yet to squander devotion on
indifference. He shook at the touch of the languid woman who accepted
his transports with such sovereign calm. To pour out money for her
adornment, to buy diamonds to flash on her fingers and her breast,
was his delight. He had a contract for a six weeks' tour in England
at six hundred a week, and he spent a fortnight's fees on jewels for
her one morning. In the foyers and the streets, when he read the men's
eyes, exultance swelled him; they envied his possession of her, these
blatant fools who were consequential because they had been born with a
white skin. He cursed them cheerfully in his thoughts, arrogant with
power--the woman who attracted them was his wife!
Yet there was one occasion before the honeymoon ended when he seemed
almost to stultify himself, when the admiration that she roused enraged
him instead, and was responsible for a burst of resentment. They had
met a Londoner of his acquaintance, a singer; and Lee the elated had
presented him to her gaily. The singer, who was a handsome man, and not
a gentleman, was too bent on being gallant to remember to be polite as
he ogled her, and curled his moustache, and propped his elbows on the
café table. His shoulder excluded Lee more and more; the conversation
became frankly a duologue. The art of rebuffing a man without gaucherie
is not known to every woman; it is, in fact, the peculiar attribute of
the well-bred. Still Ownie was to blame; she regarded such impertinence
as a compliment, and she made no attempt to check it with dignity
or otherwise. Lee's scowl grew fiercer and fiercer, his lips bulged
appallingly; and the Englishman had no sooner bowed himself away than
she beheld her husband in a new light.
He rose from his chair, and put his hand on her arm. She could feel that
he was trembling, but he said nothing until they had walked some steps.
She turned to him, half frightened and half defiant.
"What is it?" she asked. "What's the matter with you?"
"Don't you ever speak to that fellow again," he exclaimed hoarsely. "Do
you hear? I won't have it. Don't you ever dare to speak to him again.
If you meet him, you're to pass him by. Is that the way you think a
respectable woman ought to behave? Sitting there and----Blast him, I
wish I'd thrown the glasses in his face!"
She was alarmed and angry too now. She tried to subdue him by her tone.
"Have you gone out of your mind?" she said, as steadily as she could
speak. "I think you forget who it is you're talking to."
"I'm talking to you," he gasped; "I'm talking to my wife; don't you
forget it either! You flirted with him, you know you did. You sat there
flirting with him--and in front of your husband; you sat flirting with
a skunk you'd never seen before, in front of your husband." He came to
a standstill, gesticulating excitedly. "You weren't so ready with _me_,
were you? I suppose any man may make love to you if he's white, eh? But
take care--you don't know me yet. By God----"
"Hush," she said, "for Heaven's sake; the people are staring at you."
She signalled nervously to a cabman, and gave him the name of the
hotel. In the cab Lee's reproaches were so furious that she drew up
the windows to muffle his voice from the passers-by. The distance
between the café and the hotel was short, and in less than five minutes
the courtyard was reached. She sprang out, and hurried to the bedroom
while he paid the fare. When he tried the door he found that she had
locked it. He called to her, but she made no answer. Then he beat at the
panels, and to avoid a scandal she turned the key.
"Is this going on all night?" she demanded, running to the bell-pull.
"If you try to hit me, I'll ring for the manager." Her dread of
receiving a blow was of the slightest--such fear of personal violence as
she had known had faded during the drive--but it was the cruellest thing
that she could invent to say on the spur of the moment. She clung to the
bell-pull, a picture of agitation.
The threat, the idea that she thought him capable of striking her,
sobered him. He entered shamefacedly.
"You needn't be afraid that I shall hurt you," he muttered.
"Needn't I?" she said. "How do I know that? I don't know what you might
do, you bully, you--you coward!"
He winced, and stood looking at the ground in silence. Then:
"I didn't mean to bully you," he said huskily. "I--I'm sorry, Ownie,
I'll never do it again."
She saw that she was mistress of the situation. Her hold on the
bell-pull relaxed; her tone acquired a tinge of shrewishness.
"You won't ever have the chance again," she retorted, "don't flatter
yourself! You've shown me what I might expect--I won't live with you."
Though the words were empty enough, they frightened him. He took a step
towards her in a panic.
"Ownie!" he cried. And again: "Ownie, I'm sorry!"
"It's not the least consequence whether you're sorry or not," she
sneered; she was quite composed now. "I'm sure _I_ don't care. It's very
easy to say you're sorry after you've shouted at me, and insulted me as
much as you want to. Yes, insulted me, you----Ah, it's what I might have
expected! I'm ashamed of having married you. Only a man--a man _like
you_ would talk so to a woman."
She saw him shiver. She was reminded suddenly of a dog that Harris used
to beat. There was a pause, in which she observed the effect of her
taunt with satisfaction. After a few seconds she turned away, and began
to unpin her hat at the toilet-table.
"It was because I was jealous," he stammered; "I couldn't help it--I
didn't mean to insult you. Ah, take that back--don't say you're ashamed
of me! Trust me, and you shall see how good I'll be to you in future. I
love you, I love you, you don't know how I love you. Look at yourself
in the glass. See how beautiful you are. How can you wonder that I'm
jealous? Look at your hair--how soft it is! And your skin--it feels like
a flower. I'd die for you. It drove me mad to see you look at another
man like that. I know, I know you didn't mean anything by it, but I
couldn't bear it. Ownie, forgive me!"
She made no answer. She moved carelessly across the room, tossing her
cloak on to the bed. Her slippers lay by an armchair, and she sat
down in it, bending over her boots. He was on his knees before her in
an instant, trying to seize her hands. She snatched them away with a
gesture of aversion, and clasped them behind her head.
"I _am_ ashamed," she repeated. "You've disgusted me. I'd let any white
man make love to me, would I? Anyhow no white, man would be beast enough
to say such a thing."
He put out his hands again--not to caress her this time, but as if to
ward off the daggers she was planting in him. The tears welled into
his eyes, and, with a thrill of power, she watched one trickle down the
black face.
"Forgive me," he implored.
"It serves me right for not listening to advice," she went on. "I ought
to have known what you would be. You can't help being jealous? What
right have you got to be jealous--how dare you use such a word to me?
Do you suppose that I'm never going to speak to any other man again
because I married you?"
"I was wrong," he cried, "I know I was wrong--don't say you're
'ashamed'! It's just because I'm a coloured man that the jealousy comes.
Oh, can't you understand? Try to make allowances for me. Don't you see,
don't you see?--I remember my colour all the time, I never forget it;
and when you sat there talking so--talking like that to him, I hated him
because he was white. But I'll never complain any more, I swear I won't!
You shall do as you like--I know how good you are."
"There aren't many women who would forgive such behaviour, I can tell
you," she said sulkily. She thrust out her foot, and he began to
unbutton her boot. "How do I know you'll keep your word?"
"Trust me," he begged. "Be kind to me--only trust me."
She lay back in the chair without replying; her pretty face was
stubborn still. He drew off her boots. "Be kind to me," he entreated,
"be kind to me." He covered her feet with kisses. He knelt there, suing
to her, until she said at last that she forgave.