Shortly after his marriage which took place in the Spring of 1901,
Edwin Greene found that the qualms which had shaken him at the very
moment of proposing to Dora Pilkington were amply justified.
His father had increased his allowance in order to make it possible
for him to marry and take a small house while waiting and hoping for
work to materialise. Dora, who had chosen the house in Maida Vale,
furnished it with the help of her mother who since the announcement
of the engagement had been her daughter's admirer and ally, and had
thrown herself with zest into preparations for the wedding.
It was an inconvenient little house, made still more inconvenient by
the profusion of small tables, ornaments and unnecessary objects
which cluttered up the floor space and made it impossible to cross
the room with any ease. To Dora these represented the perfection of
gentility; this picture was a signed water colour, that vase a
wedding present from the choir, the rug in front of the fire
superimposed on a larger rug of different pattern, had come from
Dora's own home which gradually acquired in her mind an aura of
sanctified sentimentality.
Three months after her marriage she referred to "my old home in the
country" in such languishing tones that Edwin, who had been the easy
victim of the old home's cruelty could not restrain himself, and
burst out, "My dear Dora, for goodness sake don't talk like that; you
know perfectly well you were utterly miserable at home."
Resentful of this plain-speaking, not even recognising its truth,
Dora shed a few tears through which she contrived to utter: "You do
exaggerate shockingly, Edwin. I really think you might try and spare
my feelings more."
"Well, I'm sorry, and I don't say it wasn't a better home than this."
Edwin looked gloomily round the crowded little drawing-room, but Dora
immediately flamed up in its defence.
"There you are, criticising again. You only do it because Mother and
I chose it. It's a lovely little house, and I'm sure I take enough
trouble to keep it nice. Look at the way I dust all the china myself
every morning."
Her sobs redoubled in vigour, but Edwin sat humped up in his chair.
He wondered if all young wives cried on an average three times a day
and if all women twisted every remark into an insult directed against
themselves, their taste, or their relations. There must be some who
don't, he thought drearily; some women that you can talk to without
having to remember not to say this or that. Oh well, it's my own
fault, I suppose; I must make the best of it.
He got up, came over to where Dora sat, and awkwardly patted her
bowed head.
"Don't cry," he said, and even as he said the words he wondered
savagely how often he had said them since the day of his engagement.
He pushed the thought away.
"Don't cry," he repeated mechanically. "I must go and do some work
in my study."
"But you do like the house?" Dora looked up at him plaintively.
"Of course I do," he answered reassuringly, and when he stumbled over
a footstool on the way to the door, he put it tidily on one side
instead of kicking it under the nearest table as he was tempted to do.
By 1904, when Dora was expecting her first child, their positions
were reversed. After one visit to her sister-in-law's new house in
Sussex Square, Dora came back to Maida Vale discontented and jealous.
She attacked Edwin that night after dinner with a complaint which
could not fail to arouse his annoyance.
"Oh, Edwin I went to tea with Edith to-day, and I do think it's
dreadfully unfair that she and Rodney should have so much more money
than we have."
Edwin felt completely helpless. He knew by this time that if Dora
felt a thing to be unfair, no amount of proof to the contrary would
convince her, but he felt constrained to reason gently with her
petulance which he supposed to be in part due to her condition.
"I don't think you see it quite clearly," he urged, "Rodney and I
both have the same allowance from Father, but for one thing he is
three years older than me, and then being in the Works with Uncle
Hugh he is bound to make more money than I am at first."
"I don't see why," said Dora rebelliously.
"The Bar's always slow at the beginning," explained Edwin. "You know
I've often told you it may be a long time before I make a decent
income."
"It seems very cruel to me," said Dora, her voice trembling with
self-pity. "Here am I boxed up in this little house, and there's
Edith with her lovely new drawing-room and two perfect nurseries."
"But I thought you liked this house?" Edwin was upset at the new
development.
"I don't; I hate it. It's a mean little house, and I know perfectly
well that Edith looks down on it, and me, and you, and everything.
But there's no use speaking to you; you won't do anything about it."
She left the room, holding her handkerchief to her eyes in a gesture
so familiar that Edwin did not notice it.
He sat still, oppressed by the bitterness of his thoughts. All his
youthful flamboyance was gone, and with its going he had gained
immensely in appearance.
Edwin Greene at twenty-nine was extremely good-looking in the austere
manner affected by young barristers. He looked older than his age
and the lines from nose to mouth were deeply carved, but the
modelling of his face, with its unmistakable resemblance to his
mother, was excellent.
I'm damnably handicapped, he thought, and there's no way out. I'm
beginning to get on now; with luck another five or six years will see
me with as much work as I can tackle, but what's the use of it all?
The door opened gently, and Dora came in and knelt by his side.
"Oh, Edwin, dear," she said. "I never meant to get so cross; I am
sorry. But I feel so ill and miserable these days, and it was just
too much for me to see Edith's beautiful new house."
At the recollection her mouth trembled again, and Edwin roused
himself from his abstraction.
"Don't worry," he said heavily. "We'll be able to have a house like
that later on. But in the meantime you must try not to make yourself
so wretched over things."
"Oh, Edwin, I do try, but I feel so terribly ill; you can't possibly
understand what I'm feeling."
"I'm sure it's perfectly rotten for you, but do you think you go out
enough? It's supposed to be good to take a little exercise, isn't
it?"
"I do go out a little of course, but I really don't like to be seen
very much."
"I think that's nonsense, Dora. Edith tells me that before her two
babies were born she used to go out every day, and just not think of
it, and she's having another now, isn't she, but she seems quite
bright."
Dora's face flamed. "It's all very well for Edith," she exclaimed
loudly. "She's got other nice things to think about, and anyhow
she's as strong as a horse. But it's very different for me."
She flounced from the room for the second time, and listening to the
sounds overhead, Edwin judged rightly that this second flight was
final and that she would now withdraw for the night.
Their son, Edwin Pilkington, was born and lived for the first five
years of his life in the same small house that had provoked so many
battles between his parents.
Dora was an injudicious mother, prodigal of caresses, bribes,
scoldings and injunctions. Nurses and nursery governesses succeeded
each other so rapidly that the little boy had no sooner got used to
eating, sleeping, and going for walks with one person than another
was immediately substituted. This was partly because no one could
put up for long with the suspicions and jealousies of such an
employer and partly because Dora suffered so intensely when she saw
her son developing any affection for whomsoever was in charge of him,
that she immediately trumped up some excuse for getting rid of the
interloper.
The small Edwin, living in this state of emotional bewilderment
gradually grew to rely on his quiet and repressed looking father as
the one normal steady person in an otherwise chaotic existence.
Edwin himself who had looked forward with foreboding to the birth of
the child was surprised and amused when he found what pleasure he
gained from his son's companionship.
By 1909 he was a busy man with a steadily increasing income, and Dora
was able to move to the larger house on which her heart had been set
since Edith's move to Sussex Square. For a time she was so happily
occupied in furnishing and decorating that life flowed more evenly
for both husband and son. The former was spared anything in the
nature of a scene for some months; days and even weeks went by
without Dora having recourse to her favourite weapon--tears--and the
younger Edwin for nearly a year enjoyed the ministrations of the same
nursery governess.
This tranquil state of things was only a lull. It occurred to Edwin
one day that the time had come for his son's education to begin. He
mooted the project very tentatively to Dora, hoping that the idea of
looking for a suitable kindergarten would prove some solace for what
he knew she would regard as a tragic break in her relationship with
the little boy.
His hopes were unfounded. As he mentioned the word "school," she
produced her handkerchief, and before the end of his sentence she was
sobbing bitterly.
"It's the beginning of the end," she wept, "the beginning of the end.
He'll never be mine again; once he goes to school he is lost to me."
In vain Edwin pointed out half-jocularly that it was the inevitable
destiny of mothers to lose their sons in this way; in vain he
attempted to console her by saying it would only be for a few hours
daily. She was inconsolable.
"It's the beginning of the end," she repeated. "You don't understand
how a mother feels, but at least you might postpone it for a year or
two."
But Edwin was determined that some consistent influence should be
brought to bear on his son's impressionable nature and he persisted.
A satisfactory kindergarten was decided on, and this in turn was
succeeded by a day-school.
The younger Edwin adapted very easily to school life, but retained an
immense admiration for his father which at times provoked his mother
to jealous annoyance.
"You're silly about your father," she would say. "It's all very well
for me to take you about with me, but it isn't manly to hang round
your father as you do."
However, Edwin, so easily swayed in many ways, presented a quietly
stubborn front to her on this point, and continued to seek his
father's company.
In the summer of 1914 when he was nearly ten, a severe battle raged
over his head.
He had been entered for a preparatory school for the Lent Term of
1915, but a vacancy had unexpectedly occurred and Edwin was anxious
for the boy to take advantage of it and go one term earlier than had
been arranged.
Dora set her face against it.
"You really are very unreasonable," said Edwin at last, thoroughly
exasperated.
"I may or may not be," answered Dora, always ready to complicate the
issue, "But Edwin's not looked so well lately, and after all I'm his
mother, and I ought to know whether or not he's ready for a boarding
school."
"I know he isn't looking too well; that's another reason why I'm keen
for him to start next term. He'll be better out of town."
"You mean he'll be better away from me?" asked Dora on that rising
note which preceded a hysterical outburst.
"I mean nothing of the sort. I mean precisely what I say; that he'll
be better out of town, and I've decided once and for all that he is
to go at the end of these holidays."
"So I'm to have no say in it; I'm only his mother to be pushed aside
and ignored."
"I'm extremely sorry you take it like this, Dora, but I'm not open to
changing my mind this time," answered Edwin, and left the house for
Chambers before the storm of tears, which was the conclusion of all
arguments, burst over the household.
The subject was not, however, finally disposed of till the evening in
August when Edwin, who had felt it impossible to leave London at the
outbreak of war, came home and said rather abruptly:
"I'm afraid you won't approve of what I've done, Dora, but I felt I
really couldn't keep out of things so I applied for a commission a
few days ago, and have got it all right."
To his surprise, Dora answered quietly: "Oh, Edwin, that's splendid,"
and then fell silent.
He eyed her distrustfully. He could have understood a manifestation
of emotional patriotism that would have culminated in a fit of
sobbing on his breast, or a paroxysm of sentiment and pride, but what
he really expected was an impassioned reproach for his cruelty and
selfishness in being willing to abandon her.
This quietness and restraint was the one attitude he had not dared to
hope for.
Dora was obviously making a determined effort at self-control. She
stood in front of him, twisting her hands a little, but showing no
signs of hysteria.
"I'm glad about it," she said at last, "I think it will be good for
us to have a big break like this. You know, Edwin, things haven't
gone quite as I meant. I know I've never really pleased you and yet
I meant to try so hard when I married you. But I think perhaps after
this it will be different."
Edwin looked at her curiously.
"It's been my fault," she continued simply, "so it's I who must
change myself and in the meantime I'll do all I can to help instead
of hindering."
"You've helped me enormously by the way you've taken this," said
Edwin warmly. "I was afraid you'd be very upset. You see, dear----"
he hesitated and then plunged, "I'm afraid it means I must be off to
a training camp the day after to-morrow."
Dora's newly discovered composure appeared unshakable.
"We'll have a good deal to do getting you ready," she said, "but
don't worry, we'll manage all right."
Throughout the three months of Edwin's training in England, even
during the trying days of his last leave, she maintained this
admirable self-command.
It lasted indeed until the Spring of 1915 when she received news of
Edwin's death.
At that her resolution broke. It seemed to her that Providence had
played her an unwarrantable trick. She had vowed to be a different
woman; she had been a different woman, and this was her reward: that
her husband had been taken from her.
She sat looking dumbly at the telegram, while floods of self-pity
rolled over her. Suddenly she realised that nobody knew yet, that
Mr. and Mrs. Greene and Rodney ought to be told at once. At the
thought of Rodney working hard but in safety at his engineering
works, she was suddenly seized by a fervour of hysterical resentment.
Unclenching her damp hands she went to the telephone and rang up his
house.
"I want to speak to Mrs. Rodney, please," she said, "Mrs. Hugh
speaking."
In a moment she heard Edith's voice.
"Hullo, Dora, did you want me?"
"Edwin's dead," she stated baldly into the telephone.
"What did you say?" asked Mrs. Rodney, for once at a loss.
"Edwin's been killed," said Dora, her voice rising dangerously.
"My dear Dora," she heard, "This is terrible. I'll come round at
once. I'm dreadfully sorry."
"Oh, are you?" shouted Dora, "It's an easy thing to be. You've got
your husband at home safely tied to your apron strings. You can
afford to be sorry for me, can't you?"
"Hush, Dora," Mrs. Rodney's voice sounded authoritatively down the
wire. "You must control yourself. I'll come round to you at once."
But it was too late to stop the outburst.
"Come if you like; I won't see you," Dora was screaming now. "You've
always done your best to spite me, and you needn't pretend now that
you've ever cared for Edwin or me. You've always had more luck and
more money and now I've lost Edwin too, and I know perfectly well you
think I deserve it, but at least my husband doesn't hide like a
coward in his engineering works."
Her voice died away, as it dawned on her that Edith had rung off.
She was speaking to nobody.
As she hung up the receiver she caught sight of the parlourmaid's
scared and anxious face looking over the banisters.
"When Mrs. Rodney calls, tell her I can't see her," she said harshly.
"Mr. Greene's dead; he's been killed."
She pushed past the maid on the stairs, and burst into her own room,
wringing her hands and crying loudly.