TWO WOMEN
Bertha was very much surprised at Mary's wishing to see her. She thought
it most extraordinary and was much inclined to refuse, remembering the
strangely insulting way Mary had behaved at her party. Nigel had
apologised indeed; had implored for forgiveness; and she had written to
say it was forgotten. But it is not an easy thing to forget.
Percy had given a mild version of his interview with Nigel. He had also
told her now about the destroyed letters. Bertha was certainly vexed
that she had not been told before. It would have, at least, prevented
her going to the party. However, she was soon tired of the subject and
agreed with Percy not to mention it again. Bertha was, as she said
herself, nothing of a harpist. She could not go on playing on one
string. She made up her mind to forget it. She had begun to do so when
Mary's telephone message reached her.
Bertha was sitting by the fire when Mary was shown in. She looked at her
most serene, her calmest and prettiest. It was not in her nature to bear
malice nor even to be angry for more than a few hours about anything. By
the end of that time she was always inclined to see the humorous side of
anything, and to see that it was of less importance than appeared. She
had already laughed several times to herself at the mere thought of the
absurdity of a hostess asking one to her house and then behaving as Mary
had done. Also she saw a comic--though pathetic--side to the typewritten
letters. But it was painful, too, and she would very much rather have
avoided this visit from Mrs. Hillier. It must be embarrassing for her,
at least, and could hardly be other than disagreeable.
* * * * *
Mary came in looking very pale and rather untidy. In the excitement of
her mind and her general perturbation she had come out with two
left-handed gloves, and during the whole of her visit endeavoured to
force a left hand into a right-hand glove. It was maddening to watch
her.
Just as she started to go to see Bertha, poor Mary had gone to her
toilet-table and put what she supposed to be powder lavishly on her nose
without again looking in the glass. It was red rouge--the reddest and
brightest. Although she afterwards rubbed a little of it off, she never
saw herself in the glass again before starting. The result of this was
to give her that touch of the grotesque that is so fatal to any scene of
a serious nature but that in this case appealed to Bertha's kindness and
sympathy rather than her sense of humour.
"How are you, Mrs. Hillier? I have really hardly met you to speak to
until to-day."
"Good-morning, Mrs. Kellynch. ... It was kind of you to let me come."
Mary sat down awkwardly and began to put her left hand into the
right-hand glove. She sat near the light, and Bertha saw that she had
been covering her face with what she supposed to be powder, but what was
nothing else than carmine.
Should she tell her?
Could she let her remain in ignorance of this until afterwards? She
would find it out when she went home.
"I want to speak to you very much, Mrs. Kellynch. ... It is very
awkward, but I feel I must."
"Have some tea first," said Bertha, and while she poured it out and
passed it to Mrs. Hillier she felt she could no longer leave her in
ignorance of her appearance.
She pointed to the silver looking-glass that stood on a small table, and
said: "Mrs. Hillier, just look at that. I fancy you've put something on
your face by mistake. Do forgive me!"
Mary gave a shriek.
"Good heavens, how horrible! I must have put rouge on instead of powder!
I look like a comic actor!"
Both of them laughed, and this rather cleared the air.
"It was very good of you to tell me," said Mary. "Thank you. It's so
like me! When I'm agitated I become too appallingly absent-minded for
words. That's the sort of thing I do. How you must sneer--I mean, laugh
at me, Mrs. Kellynch!"
"Indeed not! What an idea. It could happen to anyone."
"Well, I came to see you for two reasons. One is this: Mrs. Kellynch, I
want to beg your pardon. I'm very, very sorry."
"For what, Mrs. Hillier?"
"For many things. I was horribly rude--I behaved shamefully at my party
the other day. I must have been mad. I was so miserable." She said this
in a low voice.
Bertha held out her hand. The poor girl--she was not much more--looked
so miserable, and had just looked so absurd! It must have been such a
humiliation to know that one had called on one's rival got up like a
comedian--a singer of comic songs at the Pavilion.
"Mrs. Hillier, don't say any more. I quite forgive you, and will not
think of it again. Don't let us talk of it any more. Have some more
tea?"
"No, thank you, Mrs. Kellynch. This isn't all. I have something else to
tell you, and then I want, if I may, to consult you. I did a dreadful,
dreadful thing! I don't know how I could! Oh, when I see you--when I
look at you and see how sweet and kind you are----"
Bertha, terrified that Mary would begin to cry and get hysterical, tried
to stop her.
"Don't, Mrs. Hillier. Don't tell me any more. It might--I guess what you
are going to say--I know it might have caused great trouble. But it
didn't. So never mind. You were upset--didn't think."
"Oh no, Mrs. Kellynch; you must let me confess it. I sha'n't be at peace
till I do. I want to tell--my husband--that I confessed and apologised.
I actually wrote----"
"Really, all this is unnecessary. You are giving us both unnecessary
pain," said Bertha. "I know it--I guess it. Won't you leave it at that?
All traces of--the trouble were destroyed, and, if you want to be kind
to me now, you'll not speak of it any more."
Mary had begun to cry, but she controlled herself, seeing it would
please Bertha best.
"Very well, I'll say no more. Only do, _do_ try to forgive me."
"I do with all my heart."
"Then you're angelic. Thank you." After a moment's pause, Mary put away
her handkerchief.
"Have a cigarette," suggested Bertha, who hardly knew what to do to
compose her agitated visitor.
"No, no, thank you. Mrs. Kellynch, may I really ask you a great, _great_
favour?"
"Please do."
"May I consult you? I'm _so_ miserable--I'm wretched. Nigel has gone
away and left me!"
"Gone away."
"Yes."
"But he'll come back? Surely, he means to come back?"
"I _hope_ so. But he never left me before. Never since we have been
married! And I am miserable. What shall I do--what can I do to make him
fond of me?"
This pathetic question brought tears to Bertha's eyes. She was truly
sorry for the poor little creature.
"Is he angry with you then?"
"He's not exactly angry, now. He has been very kind. He has behaved
beautifully. But he said he must go away for a time, and when he came
back he would not refer to--to the subject of our quarrel again."
"Well, that's all right then. There is no cause for being unhappy. It's
nothing his going away for a week or two."
"He says six weeks. Six long, dreadful weeks!"
"Even _six_ weeks--it's nothing. After, you'll both be much happier, I'm
sure," said Bertha consolingly. "Sometimes there is a sort of strain and
a change is needed. It will be all right."
"But, Mrs. Kellynch, you don't know--you don't understand. I have always
been so terribly, madly jealous. I have worried him into it. You see--I
can't help it, I love him so much! I do love him. You can't imagine what
it is!"
"Indeed I can!" cried Bertha. "I care _quite_ as much for Percy. You
can't think how much."
"Really and truly? But that's so different, because _he_ cares quite as
much for you."
"Indeed, I hope so," said Bertha seriously.
"Yes. But Nigel doesn't--he's kind, but I don't think he cares much
about me. What shall I do?"
Bertha paused, deeply sorry. Then she said:
"Nonsense! Of course he does, but you--if you'll excuse my saying
so--you seem to worry him, to bother him with imaginary grievances, with
unjust suspicious. What man will bear that?"
"Then will you tell me what to do?" she asked, like a child.
"First, don't beg him to come back. Write kindly, unselfishly,
cheerfully."
"Cheerfully! Oh, I can't."
"Yes; you must if you want it to be all right. What man wants to be
deluged with tears and complaints? Dear Mrs. Hillier, I'm speaking as a
genuine friend. I'm speaking frankly. I'm advising you as I would my own
sister. Write to him cheerily, and take an interest in his doings, but
not _too_ great. Show less curiosity. Above all, no jealousy, no
suspicions. It's the worst thing in the world."
"Is it? Go on, dear Mrs. Kellynch. Tell me more."
"Talk of the children--show interest in them--make him proud of them.
There you have an advantage no other woman has. You're the mother of his
children."
"Does he care for that?"
"Of course he does--and he will more, if you do. Show an interest and a
pride in it, and you will be what no one else can be to him."
Mary thought, and seemed to see it. "Go on, go on!" she said, putting
out her hand.
"Dear Mrs. Hillier, I have envied you so for that! All these years, I've
never had that great happiness. At last"--she paused--"I'll tell you, if
you care to know--at last, after ten years, I am going to have my wish."
"Really! And you are pleased?"
"I'm divinely happy, delighted!"
"Then I'm very glad for you, Mrs. Kellynch. But can't you
imagine--you're so pretty and charming and good-tempered and clever. I'm
none of all these things. I'm not pretty, and I'm very bad-tempered and
terribly jealous by nature and not clever."
"You are his wife and he chose you. And he is a charming, pleasant man.
You ought to be very happy together."
"To tell the truth--I don't mind what I tell you--I feel you're kind and
good and sincere--I have always had a horrible feeling that he married
me--because--because he was hard up. And I had money! And yet----"
"Oh, Mrs. Hillier, don't talk nonsense! It's dreadful of you to say so.
You ought to be very glad to be able to have everything you want,
without having to consider for your children. It's a great thing, I
assure you, to have no money troubles. It's another very big reason for
you and Nigel to be happy. You don't know what it is. It's agony! I do,
because before I was married I was one of a very large family, and my
father was a very popular preacher and all that, but it was a terrible
struggle. To send the boys to public schools and Oxford, the girls had
to be really dreadfully pinched! And always worries about bills! I was
brought up in that atmosphere, and I know that to be entirely free from
it is a most enormous relief and comfort. You will probably never know
how fortunate you are."
"You are right. Of course Nigel is not the man to endure money troubles
well."
"Exactly. Well, now, can't you see that you've every possible chance of
happiness together?"
"May I call you Bertha?" answered Mary. "You've been a real angel to me,
I might have expected you to refuse to see me, or at least to be cold
and unkind--and instead you're as sorry as you can be for me and want to
see me happy! You are sweet."
"Of course I'd like to see you happy," said Bertha. "You understand now
that I also care for my husband? You're not the only one in the world,
though I admit we're rather exceptions nowadays!"
"Yes; and I thought because you were so pretty and sweet that you _must_
be a flirt--at the very least."
"I don't say I'm not, all the same. But I would never wish to interfere
with other people's happiness."
"I sometimes think it might be better if I were a little of a flirt,"
sighed Mary. "But I can't--it's not my nature--or, rather, I'm too busy
always looking after Nigel!"
"Well, don't do that so much and he'll look after you all the more. Show
interest in your appearance and society--let him be proud of you--and
_don't_ be afraid of being fond of the children!"
"I'm really tremendously fond of them," said Mary. "Only I was always so
afraid he would think they would do instead of him! I have such a horror
of his sending me off with them and thinking they will fill up all my
life, while he was living like a gay bachelor! And when he was very
sweet to them I really was jealous of them!"
"But all this is absurd. If you show your affection for them he will
love you far more, and when _he_ is devoted to them it shows he's
devoted to you. Don't be foolish, Mrs. Hillier, you have had a sort of
crisis. Do let it end there. Let things be different. He will be
delighted to see you cheerful and jolly again. It's all in your own
hands, really."
"Thank you. It was a shame to bother you."
She got up to go.
"May I tell you, later on ... how things are? I shall follow your advice
_exactly_!"
Mary was looking at her now in a kind of worshipping gratitude and
trust.
"Yes, do. But I know it will be all right. Only be a little patient just
now. ... He will miss you awfully, I know," said Bertha, smiling.
"Oh! Will he _really_? How _sweet_ of you to say that! Good-bye, Bertha.
Dear Bertha, you have been kind. I'm _so_ sorry." Tears came to her eyes
again, but as she passed the little mirror she began to laugh. "To think
I should have come to see you for the first time got up like a dame in a
pantomime. How grotesque!"
They both laughed. Laughter altered and improved Mary wonderfully. It
was a faculty she never exercised. She was always much too serious.
"Do you know, I haven't one woman friend," said Mary.
"Yes, you have, _now_." Bertha pressed her hand.
"Good-bye! ... Oh, Bertha, do you _really_ think he'll miss me?"
"Of course he will! Awfully!"
"Thanks. Good-bye!"
* * * * *
"Poor girl!" Bertha said to herself as Mary left the house.