It was three years before Rodney fully appreciated the fact that
providence would always win Edith's battles for her, and would
moreover give such a twist to her victory that the loser was often
obliged to admit that he had been wrong.
One year after their marriage, when their son Geoffrey was a few
weeks old, Rodney was still fighting for supremacy in their common
life.
Edith was slow in recovering her strength; she was at the stage of
having breakfast in bed and a long rest in the afternoon, and the
doctor advised her to go with the baby for a change of air. At this
juncture a letter arrived from Rodney's mother inviting her
daughter-in-law and her new grandson for a long visit, as soon as
they were well enough to face the journey.
Rodney went cheerfully up to his wife's bedroom, carrying the letter,
and sat down on the edge of her bed.
"Here's a letter from Mother," he said. "She wants you and the boy
to go and stay for as long as you can, just as soon as you are able.
Isn't that nice and convenient?"
"Well, I don't quite know," answered Edith slowly. "I wonder why she
didn't write directly to me."
"Oh, no special reason; I suppose she just happened to be writing to
me so she asked me to send you down to her for a bit, and really it
fits in very well; the doctor seems to want you to go to the country
for a week or two."
"Oh I see," said Edith, "it's quite a casual invitation, is it?"
"Well, I don't quite know what you mean by casual. You know Mother
is awfully keen to see the baby, and you know she hasn't been well
enough to come to town, so in the circumstances it seems to me very
natural. Shall I write for you and say you'll be delighted to go
next week?"
"No, don't do that, dear," said Edith firmly. "I'm not quite sure
that it would be the wisest thing to do. As you say, your Mother
hasn't been well, and I'm not very strong yet, so it would really be
rather a houseful of invalids."
"I don't think you need worry about that. Mother's perfectly all
right now; it was only a sort of serious chill, I believe, and I know
she wants to see the little chap."
"Yes, of course she does," Edith's voice was rather noticeably
patient. "But I'm really not convinced that it would be a good thing
to go there now."
"Nonsense, Edith," said Rodney, "I don't know what all this fuss is
about; of course it's the obvious thing to do, but we won't discuss
it now. There's no need to write to Mother at once."
"Very well, Rodney dear," said Edith coldly and submissively, and the
subject was temporarily closed.
That evening Edith developed, along with a severe headache, a slight
rise in temperature.
"I think I'd like to ring up the doctor, Mr. Greene, if you don't
mind," said the monthly nurse. "Of course baby is three weeks old
and Mrs. Greene is really nearly well again, but still I don't like
her temperature going up."
"Please do ring him up, Nurse," urged Rodney. "It's worrying; I
can't think why she should get a feverish headache like this."
"I don't quite understand it either," admitted the nurse, "Mrs.
Greene has been looking worried and not herself all day, but I know
of nothing to account for it."
Rodney's heart sank. He was oppressed by grim forebodings, and it
was no surprise to him when the doctor came downstairs after
examining Edith and said to him:
"Well, there's nothing much wrong, Mr. Greene; only a nervous
headache and a little fever, but I'm afraid you'll have to give up
this plan of yours that Mrs. Greene is worrying herself into fits
about."
"What plan?" asked Rodney dully.
"I understand from Mrs. Greene that you wanted to rush her down to
the country to show the baby to its grandmother."
"That wasn't quite the idea," explained Rodney. "I understood on the
other hand that you wanted my wife to have a change of air, and my
Mother very kindly asked her to go down to their place for a bit."
"Oh yes, I see. But I'm afraid it won't quite do. Mrs. Greene has
worked herself into a state of nervous excitement about it. But I
shouldn't worry; there's very often a feeling of strain between a
young woman and her mother-in-law that works itself out in time, and
of course Mrs. Greene is sensitive and highly strung."
"Highly strung?" queried Rodney, "Edith you mean? But she's the
calmest, most determined person I've ever seen."
The doctor was putting on his gloves.
"Quite so," he agreed. "A splendid patient; lots of self-control,
but very sensitive none the less, and I think you'll be well advised
to give way to her over this. Goodnight, Mr. Greene."
He hurried out, and Rodney sat down to write to his mother.
While Edith was at Bognor with the nurse and baby, Mrs. Greene had a
second and more serious attack of pain which proved to be not a
chill, but appendicitis, necessitating an immediate operation.
Edith's first letter to her husband was full of sympathy for his
anxiety; her second expressed pleasure at her mother-in-law's
recovery; but on her return she could not refrain from saying: "And
wasn't it a blessing, darling, that you finally abandoned your absurd
plan of sending us to your Mother for a rest?"
To which Rodney could only answer lamely:
"Yes, as things turned out I suppose it was a good thing you didn't
go."
Two years after their marriage he no longer attempted to impose his
wishes on Edith, but he still fought to protect his own liberty of
action. In the house, in all matters pertaining to it, and in the
conduct of their joint life, he deferred to her completely. He
still, however, insisted on an annual fishing holiday without her, he
frequented his club in spite of her disapproval, and he was loyal to
several friendships which she deplored.
It was over one of these that Providence again played a hand for
Edith.
Her opening gambit was tentative. Rodney came home one evening with
a healthy colour in his cheeks.
"There's spring in the air to-night," he said. "I walked all the way
home and it was fine. By jove, I'll soon have to begin looking out
my rods if I'm going to get ready for Easter."
"You're not going with Jim Turner again this year, are you?" asked
Edith gravely.
"Well, I haven't said anything to him lately; I haven't seen him at
the club as a matter of fact, but of course it's an understood thing
between us that if we can get away, we go off together in April for a
week or so."
"I don't think he can possibly expect your company this year," said
Edith firmly.
Rodney looked at her cautiously.
"I don't know why you should say that," he said, "Of course Jim will
be expecting me to join up with him."
Edith plunged into her subject.
"Have you considered at all that if you go away with him it will look
as if you approved of his conduct these last few months."
"I don't know what you mean," mumbled Rodney, "I've known old Jim for
years, and he's all right."
"But you must know that he's been making his wife very unhappy all
this winter."
"I know she makes him pretty unhappy; she's a hard-mouthed,
bitter-looking creature."
Edith's colour heightened.
"Really, Rodney," she said, "you force me to be indelicate, and to
speak plainly. Do you not know that Jim Turner has been behaving
disgracefully with an actress."
Rodney looked uncomfortable.
"I don't want to know anything about his private affairs," he said.
"Jim's a jolly good sort anyhow, and, what's more, I'd like to know
how you got hold of all this stuff about him and his actress."
"It's enough that I do know," said Edith seriously. "Women are loyal
to each other, Rodney. I never can understand why people say we have
no sense of honour. It's really most unfair. Women tell each other
everything and help each other whenever they can."
"Well I hope to heaven nobody will go bleating to Mrs. Turner about
Jenny Eaves, that's all," said Rodney. "Jim's got enough to put up
with already, God knows."
Edith was quick to perceive his admission, but she let the subject
drop for the moment. A few days later, having cogitated the matter
from various angles, she asked Mrs. Turner to tea and added
mysteriously to her note of invitation, "I'm anxious to have a little
private talk with you. There is something I feel you ought to know,
and though it is a difficult topic for me to touch on, I feel I must
make the effort to do so."
In writing this note Edith was actuated by perfectly pure motives.
Her own words as to the honourableness of her sex had resounded
pleasantly in her ears. Thinking the matter over afterwards it
seemed to her no less than her duty, if rumours were gathering
unpleasantly round Jim Turner's name, to repeat them to his wife, in
order that Mrs. Turner might scotch them by some decisive action.
Only one form of decisive action occurred to Edith. She assumed that
Mrs. Turner would behave as she, Edith Greene, would behave in a
similar predicament--though such a thing was almost unimaginable.
She would deal summarily with her husband, pointing out where his
duty lay, and emphasising the necessity for a clean break from
temptation in the form of the actress, and she would then arrange to
be seen about on good terms with her husband, in public and at the
houses of their various friends. The whole thing would then blow
over, and Edith Greene decided that in that case Rodney would not be
condoning a moral wrong by going for his usual holiday with Jim
Turner.
Mrs. Turner came to tea. She chatted pleasantly till she had drunk a
cup of tea and eaten a sandwich, and then, laying down her cup, she
came straight to the point.
"I think you wanted to speak to me about something," she said quietly.
"I do, Mrs. Turner," answered Edith. "It is extremely awkward for me
to do so; I don't even know you very well, but it seemed to me that
as an acquaintance I owed it to you to repeat to your face what
people are saying behind your back."
Mrs. Turner stiffened.
"Indeed," she said. "And what are people saying behind my back?"
Edith answered courageously.
"There is a great deal of gossip centring round your husband's name,"
she said. "You probably know nothing about it; the wife is often the
last person to hear of these things. People suspect him of having an
affair with an actress; in fact it is more than a suspicion. He has
been seen about everywhere with this Miss Eaves, and my husband says
he never even sees him at lunch at the club nowadays."
Mrs. Turner rose. She was pale and her mouth was drawn into a thin
line.
"I had no idea of this," she said. "Thank you, Mrs. Greene, for
telling me so much; I shall find out the truth and take steps about
it at once. Believe me, I am grateful to you."
"I'm so glad you take it like that," said Edith cordially. "It was a
very painful thing to speak about, but I felt it was the best thing
to do, so I just took my courage in both hands."
Mrs. Turner ceremoniously took her leave, and Edith was conscious of
the pleasant feeling of having carried out well an unpleasant duty,
but the steps taken by Mrs. Turner proved not to be what she had so
confidently anticipated.
She heard the results of her well-meant interference a week later.
Rodney came home looking depressed, and sat in a glum silence all
evening.
"What's wrong, Rodney?" asked Edith finally.
"Well I saw Jim at the club to-day at lunch, and there's been a
hellish bust up. It seems some woman went and told Mrs. Turner about
that affair of his, and she went poking about a bit, and found out it
had been pretty serious and so on, and now it's all up. She's left
the house, and she's been to her solicitors and is going to divorce
him. It's a sickening business; Jim is very cut up about it all."
Rodney smiled bleakly. "Anyhow you'll be pleased," he said. "It
puts the lid on our holiday all right; I don't think I'll go myself
now."
Edith's eyes had widened with dismay at his first words, and as he
went on her breathing grew hurried and her lips parted in an
expression of annoyance and perturbation. She was sincerely upset.
"My dear Rodney," she said, "I'm very sorry indeed about this,
especially as I am the woman you refer to who spoke to Mrs. Turner."
"By God, Edith," said Rodney angrily. "What the devil did you do
that for? You've made a frightful mess of things."
"Do be calm, Rodney," urged Edith, her self-possession returning as
she prepared to justify herself. "I had no option but to speak to
Mrs. Turner. After all I had heard it would have been utterly base
to have let things slide when a word might have helped to mend them."
"I simply don't understand you Edith; you're talking like an
imbecile. You've never liked Jim Turner; you didn't want me to go
away with him; and now that you've succeeded in putting a spoke in
his wheel, you say it would have been utterly base to do anything
else; you're beyond my understanding."
Edith stood up indignantly.
"You entirely misjudge me," she said. "I acted from the purest
motives in doing this very unpleasant thing, and indeed, Rodney, you
ought to know me well enough to realise that a petty personal
consideration like your going away with Mr. Turner against my wishes,
would never have influenced me either way."
Rodney looked at her; she returned his gaze steadily, and he knew
that she was convinced of her own sincerity.
"I'm sorry," he said heavily. "I think you were terribly wrong in
what you did, but I know you meant well."
"Thank you, Rodney," she answered. "It's generous of you to admit
that at least; and I should like to say that I'm sorry things have
turned out as they have. But you know, dear, I can't help feeling
that since Mr. Turner's affair had apparently gone to such a shocking
length, it is perhaps only right that it should be exposed."
Rodney made no answer; he only shrugged his shoulders and sat staring
in front of him, his drooping attitude indicating acute mental
depression.
Edith drew up a low chair, sat down beside him, captured one of his
hands and patted it gently.
"Don't worry, my dear," she said, "I have a delightful plan. Instead
of going off by yourself, why not take me with you this year. I can
leave Geoffrey with Nurse, and we would thoroughly enjoy our few days
together, just you and I."
Her voice was persuasive, her expression appealing, and the
flickering fire lit up her rich colouring and wide dark eyes.
Looking at her clear dark beauty Rodney felt that he could certainly
enjoy a holiday with her and he pushed away the thought of Jim's
betrayal as he put his arms round her and said enthusiastically, "I'd
like it immensely, darling; we'll go where you like and when you
like."
Three years after their marriage he was surprised to find how easy it
was to let Edith arrange their life and dispose of his leisure as she
pleased. Her looks were a constant delight to him; her manner in
general was restful, and their relationship was smooth and effortless
so long as he never opposed her. On the rare occasions when he did,
he always half expected some unforeseen hazard to intervene on
Edith's behalf; he had ceased to expect a fair deal.
When in 1904 she expressed a desire to move to a larger house he
demurred on the grounds of expense and ostentation.
"I think we owe it to ourselves to have a better setting now," said
Edith. "And really dear, you must acknowledge that we can easily
afford it."
"Well, I don't know about that. Business isn't bad of course, but a
move is an expensive thing. I'd rather leave it for a year or two."
"Now darling, don't be difficult about it," said Edith playfully.
"I'm quite determined to take the house in Sussex Square; it's just
right in every way."
"So you've even found the house we're to go to have you?" asked
Rodney a little bitterly.
Edith blushed. "I suppose it is rather tiresome of me to have chosen
it myself, but I do like to save you worry, dear, and after all the
house is my province and the business yours."
She smiled coaxingly, but Rodney shook his head.
"No Edith," he said, "I'm sorry, but I won't do it this year. Our
income doesn't justify it, and we'll do very well as we are."
"Of course we will if you have quite decided against a move; you're
sure you wouldn't just like to look at the Sussex Square house?"
"I'm quite sure," said Rodney emphatically, and Edith laughed
good-humouredly and only answered, "Well, that settles it, of course."
But a few weeks later she came into his dressing-room one night and
settled herself comfortably in an armchair.
"Rodney dear," she began, "I have something to tell you. We're going
to have another child, and I think that really does mean we must move
to the bigger house we were talking of the other day."
Rodney felt a definite sensation of shock as if some familiar string
had been twanged in his brain. As he congratulated Edith and
expressed his own gratification his thoughts were racing madly, but
it was not till Edith left the room, looking back from the door to
say with a plaintive accent, "Do hurry up, darling," that he
remembered the incident of three years ago.
It was difficult to imagine that there had ever been a time when he
had smoked upstairs, but for a moment the parallel stood out sharply;
both occasions had been used by Edith to gain some small point, and
to establish her ascendancy over him. As the recollection faded into
dimness he smiled contentedly. Edith had consolidated her position
as good wife and good mother, the naturally dominant factor in the
home.