BEHIND THE VEIL
Marie heard Osborn come in and go to the dining-room and hit an
unresponsive mass of coal vigorously, but she gave no sign. In the
darkness she listened for all the sounds she had learned to know so
well; his movements in the dressing-room, his splashing as he washed
face and hands in the bathroom, his pat-pat tread in carpet slippers
along the corridor to their door. To-night he paused here, as if
listening; and it seemed as if her heart paused, too, while she also
listened for him. But he spoke no word, and she spoke none, and the
baby slept, so presently she heard the cautious turning of the handle
and his careful entry.
She feigned sleep.
He knew, by tiny signs he had learnt to discover, that she was not
asleep, but he feigned belief that she was.
His bed creaked to tell her that he was getting into it, in the
darkness, by her side.
Both Marie and Osborn were still angry, sore, insulted and resentful,
and, like other married people in small homes, they must intrude upon
each other intimately, sleep side by side, wake side by side, and
remain as closely conscious of each other as if they dwelt together,
by mutual desire, in a perpetual garden of roses. True, there was a
bed in Osborn's dressing-room, but it was an uncomfortable bed of the
fold-up family, and when he came in to-night it was folded against the
wall, and he did not know exactly where its particular blankets were
kept. He looked at it, thinking, "God! If I could only sleep here for
a night or two!" But he allowed himself to be daunted by the problem
of the blankets, and he went, as usual, to the room he shared with
Marie.
But each was too angry to speak, and the presence of each was fuel to
the other's anger.
Osborn was wakened in the morning by Marie's attentions to the baby.
Though he had gone to sleep turned as completely away from her as
possible, in the night he had rolled over, and now he watched her
quietly and sulkily in the grey dawn, with just one eye opened upon
her above the rim of his bedclothes. If she looked he meant to close
his eyes again quickly, pretending sleep.
But there was something about the frailty of her figure as she sat up
in bed, turning to the table with the spirit-lamp and saucepan upon
it, a quality of wistful charm in her little undressed head, which
went towards softening him. She was quiet, too; she spoke no word, nor
looked towards him. He watched her patiently waiting for the boiling
of the milk; he watched the care with which she mixed the food; and
then she got out of bed, not minding the stark cold, and gave the
bottle to the drowsy baby. She bent over it for a minute, smoothing
its downy head with her light fingers; then she propped the bottle
comfortably for the baby, by some ingenious management of its
bed-clothing, and looked at the clock by her bedside. After she had
looked at the clock she stood hesitating for awhile and he knew what
she was deciding.
She wanted five minutes more of that warm bed after a night broken, as
usual, by the baby's demands; but it was time to get up and sweep and
cook and light fires and lay Osborn's breakfast-table.
After all, it was Osborn who broke the silence between them, sulkily.
"I should give yourself five more minutes; you'll freeze out there."
Marie turned round quickly and looked at his long, comfortable outline
under his pink quilt. She hesitated, then spoke in her natural voice,
which he was secretly relieved to hear:
"It's half-past six; I'll have to dress."
"Poor old girl!" Osborn mumbled from his pillow. After she had gone
quietly out, and he listened to the sounds of running water in the
bathroom, and after she had come back, and he watched her again, one
eye cocked furtively over the blankets, while she moved about quickly,
he thought and considered and argued with himself about her. But,
after all, she did as other women do, didn't she? She had a home and a
husband and child, and she was bound to look after them, wasn't she?
He gave her all he could, and sometimes it seemed to him--though he
didn't mean to grouse--that she might have managed better. His mother,
for instance, grown grey and quiet in the service of himself and his
father, had worked wonders with the limited family money.
Had she been still alive, she might have given Marie a few wrinkles,
perhaps....
There is little doubt that Mrs. Kerr the departed could have given her
young daughter-in-law a few wrinkles had she met her--wrinkles of the
most unprofitable kind upon her fair face; but as it was, Mrs. Kerr
senior lay quietly afar off from No. 30 Welham Mansions, impotent to
reform, and Osborn lay thinking his thoughts in silence while Marie,
having dressed to petticoat and camisole, wreathed up her long and
lustrous hair.
The baby sucked intermittently at his bottle.
When Marie had put on her blouse and skirt, and a pinafore to protect
them, she went out without further conversation. Osborn wondered a
little whether she sulked, but she was not sulking; she was only
occupied much as he was, in thinking and considering and arguing with
herself about him. She was modern enough to remain proud and critical
and impatient after domestic experiences which would have gone far
towards cowing the generation of women before her. Her mother had
bowed beneath such experiences without so much as an inquiry or
expostulation. As Marie hurried about with brush and duster, with
black-lead and fire-fuel, as she stood over the purring stove, and
watched toast and eggs and coffee come to their various perfections,
each over its ring of flame, she was absorbed in wondering:
"It _is_ I who am right? It's I who have the harder time? It's
the woman upon whom everything falls? But can't it all be put right
somehow? Couldn't I make him see?"
Something definite emerged from her prospecting, at least; the resolve
to seek an understanding with Osborn, not now, over breakfast with its
time-limit and its haste, but perhaps to-night, after dinner, when
he'd come in, and been fed and rested, and had put on his warm
slippers. She faced Osborn over the breakfast-table with a brightness
which he was relieved to see; but after he had noted it with inward
approval, he hid himself behind his newspaper; he wanted to say
little; to get away very, very quietly.
He had known many men who had to fly before the domestic sirocco; he
had laughed at and despised them in his heart. But--poor beggars! No
doubt they had hidden themselves behind newspapers with a child-like
faith in the impenetrability of the shield, even as he was hiding.
Poor beggars!
It was no better than the ostrich habit of tucking your head into the
sand, to crowd yourself behind your morning paper. You felt awfully
nervy behind it, and you kept a scowl handy. There was something in
the tension which made you bolt your good food quickly, indifferent as
your lunch would be presently, and which made you glad when you were
ready to rise, and remark with a forced _bonhomie_:
"Well, so long, girlie! I must be off."
Marie followed Osborn out into the narrow hall, where now faint daubs
marked the cream distemper, and helped him on with his coat, and found
his gloves and muffler. "It's cold, dear," she said solicitously,
"wrap up well."
"Oh, that's all right! Take care of yourself and baby. Good-bye!"
He stooped and kissed her lips quickly, avoiding her eyes, and went
out whistling. A forlornness overtook her; she ran back through the
dining-room to the window, and, leaning out, watched for him to emerge
from the doorway below; when he came, and started down the street
towards the tramcar terminus, she made ready to wave as she used to do
should he look up.
But he did not look up, as he strode purposefully away. A few months
ago he would have lagged a little, glancing up and waving frequently
before he finally disappeared. This morning as she watched the thought
smote: "When did he forget to wave to me? When did we leave off--all
this?"
She remembered it was when she began to be so really busy, after the
baby came. Baby was crying sometimes as they finished breakfast; she
must hurry to him; it was time for his bath; he must have his bath,
mustn't he? She couldn't help that. But she rather thought that
perhaps this was the beginning of the end of all those dear smiles and
salutes right down the street back to the girl above. Perhaps Osborn
had looked up in vain many mornings, hoping to see her leaning out
there, and at last had ceased to mind whether she were there or not.
A surprise came for Marie after lunch. She was making herself ready to
carry her baby and her basket to the open-air market a street away,
where the thriftier housewives of the neighbourhood shopped, when a
delivery carman left at her door the handsome baby-carriage which
Julia's note had sent Desmond Rokeby out post-haste to buy. Such a
perambulator Marie had never hoped for, nor dreamed of; it boasted
every luxury of contrivance, from the umbrella basket, slung to the
handles, to its C-springs and its big, smooth-rolling tyres. In colour
it was French-grey, extremely dainty; and it came with Desmond's love
to his godson and a tactfully expressed hope that his gift had not
been forestalled. So Marie put her baby in, and her basket, too; and
after she had finished admiring her pink-and-white son among the
lavender upholstery, she wheeled him out proudly to the open-air
market, where the equipage drew forth delighted comments from the
vendors who knew her well. She did not come straight home, as she had
to do when carrying the baby; but, her purchases finished, she turned
towards the Heath, and wheeled about proudly there for a while,
envying no one, not the smart nurses who propelled their smart
perambulators, nor the few mothers who strolled beside them. She felt
that, with the finest baby in town in a French-grey and lavender
chariot, she could meet and beat any turnout of the kind.
Marie sang during the rest of the afternoon when she reached home
again. She sang while she made a cup of tea; sang while she put her
boy to bed, and set about her preparations for her husband's return;
he heard her singing when he fitted his latchkey unobtrusively in the
lock, and stepped, still furtively, into the hall. He breathed freely
again and told himself that the storm had passed.
He sat down by the fire, before which his wife had set his slippers,
but he did not unlace his boots. He was hungry; he cast a short look
over the dinner-table to judge, by its arrangement, something of what
he might be given to eat. Before he had made a guess, Marie ran in.
"Guess!" she cried, "guess what's happened!"
"Dunno, old girl," said Osborn.
"That dear darling Mr. Rokeby has sent us the _most gorgeous_
baby-carriage."
"The devil he has!" said Osborn, with deep feeling, straightening his
shoulders as if a burden had been lifted from them.
"It's down in the lobby with the other prams; you must go down and see
it."
"I will after dinner. By Jove, that's good of Rokeby! I wonder what
made him think of it."
"I can't imagine; he _is_ thoughtful, isn't he?"
"What's it like?"
"It's pale grey, with ball bearings; and C-springs, and an umbrella
basket. There's no enamel; it's all nickel. And the upholstery...."
"By Jove, Desmond's done the youngster proud, what?"
"We couldn't _possibly_ have bought such a carriage for him,
Osborn!"
Osborn began to feel flattered as well as pleased. He had always
noticed, of course, the very particular attraction and beauty and the
early cleverness of his son, but he had not guessed that the little
beggar had so impressed that confirmed bachelor.
"Rokeby thinks no end of the kid, you know," he said, sitting down to
the table.
"That's not to be wondered at, is it?" replied the enthusiastic
mother.
Osborn caught her hand as she passed by him and kissed it.
"I've been thinking about you--about us--to-day," he confided.
"Have you?" she said timidly.
"We--we were both," Osborn hesitated, "both a bit--mad last night,
weren't we?"
He pressed her hand before he relinquished it so that she might
proceed to the kitchen to dish up the dinner. And she went with a
lighter heart because of his affection.
Opposite him, beneath the candles which she still lighted with
pleasure each night, she regarded him with a new earnestness. The
quarrel was over, it seemed; but it had opened for her a door through
which she had never passed before, the door into the darkness of human
hearts, and she felt as if she would never forget that horrific step
across the unveiled threshold. She watched Osborn steadily yet
unobtrusively while his mind was given to the meal; she saw him eat
with a great hunger, and the rather tired look which had marked his
face when he first came in disappeared as he ate. Men who perforce eat
lunch very frugally look forward keenly to a good meal, and Osborn had
no eyes or words for Marie until the edge of his appetite was
satisfied. She did not yet understand this very well; she was inclined
to a slight resentment in his absorption with his dinner to the
exclusion of herself. But she did not interrupt him by chatter; she
just sat there quietly observing until he should be ready for more
conversation.
Presently she brought his coffee round to his side, and he lighted a
cigarette with a sigh of satisfaction. He appreciated, indefinitely,
her gift of silence when a man came in sharpset for dinner; he had
spent a day among busy men, talking all the time, and he did not wish
to talk any more. After all, a man came home for quiet.
Marie had spent the day alone with the baby. There had been no voice
save her singing one uplifted in the flat since early morning; she
wanted to sit with Osborn by the fire in their dear old way, and to
talk and talk; and to hear him talk. After all, was not the
companionable evening the time for which the lonely household woman
lived through her silent day?
She brought her coffee to a place near him and sat down there.
"Osborn," she said, "I was awf'ly hurt that you were so angry last
night. I do want you to see that it isn't my fault."
He looked at her rather appealingly. "Let's chuck it," he suggested.
"If you will only understand! I don't believe men think; but if you
_would_ think over it for just a few minutes, dear old boy, you'd
know that I'm just as careful as a woman can be. You used to give me
thirty shillings a week for the housekeeping before we had baby; and
I've never asked you for any more since, have I? And his food's awf'ly
expensive too. I manage on just the same, Osborn."
"Yes, yes," he said, moving uneasily, "but where's all this leading? I
mean--"
"It isn't leading anywhere. I only wanted you to see that I can't help
anything."
After a pause, with a little line between his brows, he said:
"No, I know you can't. It's all right. You said some perfectly awful
things last night--"
"So did you, Osborn."
He rose slowly. "Well, dear, we won't go over it. We've seen things
with the gilt off; and that's that. Anyhow, there's nothing to worry
about, is there? We're about straight with the world, though it means
every penny earmarked before I earn it. And there's no question of
buying a pram now, thank God!"
He turned away and searched on the mantelpiece for matches. "It made
me shudder," he said very gravely, "three-pound-ten! Four pounds!
After all the expenses I'd had."
"Well...." she said, swallowing hard, "well, come and see Mr. Rokeby's
present. It's a ten-guinea carriage, Osborn; nothing less."
He swung round and looked at her, palsied in amazement.
"Ten guineas! _Ten!_ Good God! Why ... it takes me the best part
of three weeks to earn what that baby of yours just rides about in!"
"Aren't you coming down to see it?"
"I--I shall see it as I go out, thanks."
"When you--go out!"
She looked down quickly and noted that he had not taken off his boots.
She said in a changed voice: "You're going out?"
"I promised a man to look in and see the show at The Happy with him
to-night. Just in the prom, you know. We haven't got stalls like
giddy bachelors!"
"Osborn, can't you stay in? It--it's lonely all day, and I look
forward to your coming home."
"You didn't seem to look forward very kindly last night."
She cried with hot resentment: "I thought you didn't want that
mentioned again!"
"Oh, very well! And I shall be in to-morrow night; won't that do? A
man can't be always tied up to the kitchen table, you know. Besides, I
promised Dicky Vendo I'd go; his wife's away, and he's free."
"Yours isn't away."
"But she's been a damned little shrew, and doesn't deserve me to stay
in for her. There! that's what you get by arguing." He laughed a laugh
of vexation as much at his own ill-temper as at her pertinacity.
"Very well," she said, drawing back.
The light in the room was subdued, for the candles had not yet given
place to the incandescent glare. He cast a glance at her face, but she
had withdrawn to the shadow.
"Well," he hesitated, "night-night, in case you don't sit up."
"Good night," she replied. "I shan't sit up."
"You might make up the fire before you go to bed, though, there's a
dear girl."
She did not answer, and he went out; she followed him to the doorway,
and stood there watching him put on his overcoat and muffler again.
His pipe was between his teeth; he removed it for a second to kiss her
cheek hastily, then restored it. With a hysterical anger held
feverishly in check, she thought that male imperturbability, male
selfishness, were incredible.
"Night-night!" he said again, going out. "I'll bring you a programme."
The door shut. She was alone. She advanced passionately upon the
strewn dinner-table; it waited there to be cleared by the work of her
hands, as imperturbable as he.
She dashed off the candle-shades first.
"What a day!" she gasped.
Early morning and the awakening in the cold, the brushing of grates
and the lighting of fires, the sweeping and cooking, to get a man off
warmed and comfortable to business; the long, long hours of silence
and domestic tasks, waiting for his return; his return to his food;
his departure again; a desolate evening of silence and domestic
tasks--these were that span of hope and promise called a day.
Married life!