Chapter XIII

TIME drew on towards the wedding, and James's contentment increased. He felt very well that autumn--his summer holiday had agreed with him--and he was vain of his vigour at an age when many men are already a little wearied by life. Fate, too, was treating him kindly. Mary had settled down, Laura's child was a boy, and a very fine boy, and here was Rosemary marrying an exceedingly decent young fellow who was bound to get on. Moreover business was booming. James went down to his office every morning in an excellent temper. He had made up his mind now that he would carry his cinema project through. He had consulted the various people in whose advice he had confidence and matters seemed to be shaping very well. He was not looking to the new company for enormous profits--if it succeeded he would make his money through its effect on the Imperial. He meant to keep all the Imperial's ordinary shares in the family. If he was excited about the new company it was because he had always had a liking for neat and amusing inventions, and he saw himself now with two or three interesting years ahead of him, years during which he could complain that he was being worked to death, and astonish his admirers by the unclouded brilliance of his business capacity. Of course the changes he proposed would bring him in two or three thousand a year, but this did not mean so much to James--who, at bottom, had a sense of the values of life--as the fact of success itself, the fact that his influence would be extended, that his name and the name of his business would be spoken and heard with more respect.

As for Mary, he would distribute her money between various classes of shares in the two undertakings, and once she had grasped the powerlessness of a shareholder he could rearrange her holdings if he wished. Not that he anticipated any more trouble from Mary. The last few weeks had shown her where her heart lay, dear little thing--as if anybody who knew her could have doubted which she would choose when it came to an issue between babies and Socialism--and James saw happy years ahead for Mary as well, with two daughters to counsel and two families of grandchildren to adore. She would need, of course, to be petted for a week or so after the wedding. It might be a good thing, if he could manage it, to take her away for a little trip somewhere. Why not? Why shouldn't the old people have their honeymoon as well as the youngsters?

The days passed pleasantly and rapidly--he felt too good-natured even to make a fuss about Rosemary's absurd arrangements for the wedding. Rosemary said that she was going to be married by a registrar, and that she did not wish to have anybody there when it happened. She regarded the marriage ceremony, she informed her father, as the ratifying by the State of a private contract. One did not invite all one's friends to come and cry when one had a document stamped at Somerset House. But if she and Anthony were allowed to go out in the morning by themselves and be married with crossing-sweepers for witnesses, she did not object to a party in the afternoon to say good-bye to her friends.

"Very kind of you!" said James, but he refrained from saying more.

To this programme Mary wanted to add a family lunch--she did not feel that she could sit idle in the house all day, waiting for afternoon tea, and as James would be at home she would be debarred from tiring herself by helping with the preparations or the packing. But the idea of the lunch pleased no one but Mary's aunts. Even James said that if they were not to have the regulation affair they might as well get off as lightly as possible.

As a matter of fact, when the morning came, James did not care to sit idle about the house either. Rosemary had slipped away after an early breakfast, and there seemed no reason why he should not run up to the office for an hour or two. Mary took advantage of his absence to tire herself a good deal altering the arrangement of the wedding presents. She had insisted on displaying the presents because when people have been kind it is only right that they should have the pleasure of seeing what they have given.

In the middle of her unnecessary alterations a dreadful idea occurred to her. Suppose Rosemary and Anthony had refused to have witnesses because they did not mean to get married at all! Suppose they had decided that marriage was contrary to their principles, and were only pretending to marry in order to save their parents' feelings? It was the sort of thing, she had heard, that Socialists did. She tried to dismiss the idea from her mind, and for a time she succeeded, but when neither Rosemary, Anthony, nor James appeared for lunch, her fears returned. It seemed incredible that she actually did not know whether Rosemary was Mrs. Hastings or not. She could not eat, and she returned to the presents, where she made herself miserable for another hour. She had already imagined Anthony lured away from the unhappy girl who was not his wife by a tall dark woman with green eyes when, to her joy, she heard James's voice in the hall.

"Hullo, you two, married?"

Rosemary's voice answered him, clear and excited, "Yes, I suppose so--but I don't feel married a bit! The old man was perfectly charming. He shook our hands and told us he always tried to give the young people a good send-off. Here are my marriage lines--Tony said that as you weren't there he must have a certificate to protect his reputation."

Mary sat down suddenly, overcome by ridiculous relief. They were still talking and laughing outside, but she did not hear what they said. A moment later James came into the library. He saw at once that she was looking pale.

"Really, Mary," he scolded, almost vexed, "you are not to be trusted, are you? You promised that you would not do anything to tire yourself, and here you are as white as a sheet. Come upstairs at once, little mother, and rest on the sofa, and I'll sit by you and keep you amused until it's time to dress."

"But, Rosemary--" said Mary.

"She's gone out to give Giles a kiss from his married aunt. I hoped you were lying down, and I told her not to disturb you."

He took her hand to lead her from the room, but Mary, moved by a sudden impulse, threw her arms round his neck. "James--my dear--I do love you so!" she told him.

James, surprised and pleased, stroked back her soft hair very tenderly. "Little thing," he said, "we've not done badly, have we, to love one another like this for so many years? If the young people are as happy as we are they won't have much to complain of." He would have liked to say more, but he never felt in the mood for making love so soon after lunch.

Mary, quite satisfied, let him take her upstairs and put her on the sofa. She made him sit down on it too, where she could play with his fingers, telling him that he ought to be glad, really, that she wasn't a fine big strapping wife who would want all the room on the sofa for herself.

James looked down on her affectionately. "I'm glad," he said, "that you're just exactly what you are! I wouldn't change a scrap of you." They both laughed.

Then Mary told him how silly she had been before he came in, how she had pictured Anthony led to destruction by sinuous ladies with raven locks. "They would have to be red-haired to tempt you, James," she added. "I don't believe you'd look at a temptress unless she had red hair!"

James bent towards her, his handsome face bright with affection. "Since I met you, little mother," he said, "I don't believe I've looked at another woman. Your hair is the only hair in the world for me!"

Then, as he gazed at her, Mary saw a change come over his face. His mouth fell open a little, his eyes left hers, he lifted his head. She could see that in that moment James had remembered something.

Tired and overstrung as she was she could not control the fantastic terror that shook her. "James," she cried, "tell me quickly--why did you look like that?"

James turned back to her. His face expressed nothing now but surprise. "Look like what? I don't understand you, my dear." Then he got up from the sofa and walked across to the window. "They've got a fine day for their wedding-day," he added.

As he left her Mary's bodily strength seemed to go with him. She sank backwards against her cushions trembling. "Don't speak! don't speak!" she whispered to herself, but she had lost control over the forces of her mind. Fear, too strong for her, spoke through her lips. She called him, "James!"

James swung round sharply at the unfamiliar ring of her voice. "My dear, what is the matter? I----"

She interrupted him. "If I ask you a question, will you tell me the truth?"

James came back to the sofa and stood beside it, strong and authoritative. "Listen to me," he said, "you are working yourself up, about nothing at all, into a state of hysteria. You must remember that in another hour your guests will be here. Shut your eyes and try to calm yourself. I am not going to answer any questions at all."

But Mary still stared at him, his words had not reached her. "James," she said, "you must tell me! Have you ever been unfaithful to me?"

Her question, though he had been expecting it, came to James as a shock. But he answered her steadily, "I have never loved anyone but you."

Mary clasped her hands. "No," she said, "I don't-- James, you haven't answered my question!"

James, standing by her, thought rapidly. He had been a fool to give any answer at all. He had not meant to, but the words had come to his lips, and for an instant he had thought they would fulfil his purpose. Now he must tell her a lie. But he knew in his heart that a lie would be no use--his folly had answered her. He looked at Mary. Her terrified eyes, wide open, were searching his face. After all, she had a right to ask her question--he turned away from her without speaking.

Then it was true--Mary pressed her hands over her mouth as if she were preventing herself from screaming. For a moment her mind seemed a mere confusion of struggling passions, then, from life-long habit, she made an effort to command it. "I must be brave," she told herself, "and just--it must not be more dreadful than it need----"

But she could not find any courage or any justice in her heart, she could find nothing but horror. It was impossible--it was unbearable. She tried to think calmly, but James's tread as he walked about the room seemed to break down her attempts to reason, to excuse, to lift herself above mere bitterness and suffering. She closed her eyes, but a moment later she opened them again, because the sound of his feet had stopped.

James, as he walked, could only abuse himself. Fool!--he'd been worse than a fool! He could not imagine now what had kept him from speaking, what had made him drag out all this. It was only a chance that he had remembered it--red hair. Now he would have to explain, to tell her about it, or God knows what infamy she would be imagining! But what good would his explanation be--how could he make her understand? When a woman knows as little of evil as Mary....

His heart sank, he felt a sudden fear of the unknown. By his minutes of hesitation, of silence, he asked himself, what had he done? He turned suddenly, and glanced across at the sofa. As he saw Mary lying there, her eyes shut and her face contorted, he was shaken by a wave of nervous anger. Why was she carrying on like that? he thought, in the phrase of his boyhood--she had insisted on asking her question, why couldn't she take the answer like a man? An instant later he was horrified with himself for his brutality. How could he be thinking of anything now but of how to make it easier for her? What had he better do? He went to the sofa, and as he looked down on her, she opened her eyes. For a moment they faced one another, but their gaze meant nothing--each was too tormented to find access to the other's thought. Then James spoke. "I think, if you don't mind, it would be better if I told you," he said; "I don't want you to imagine----"

Mary still looked at him without knowing why. "Yes, I think so," she agreed.

James did not find it possible to stand there, staring like that. He started again on his restless walk. "It was a woman I'd known--before I knew you--she wasn't a bad sort, I always felt kindly towards her. She came to me years afterwards because she was in trouble, hadn't any money, and asked me to help her. She was very unhappy because she felt that she was getting old, and that she wasn't as beautiful as before, and I--really--she seemed to expect it--I didn't want to hurt her feelings--" He had been going to add, "It seemed so natural," but he pulled himself up. A sudden horror had seized him of himself, of what he was saying, of the conversation. It was appalling that he should be speaking to Mary of things like this! It was indecent.

The story, the simple facts, restored some of Mary's self-control. She could realise, as a definite event, what in the abstract had seemed incredible. She drew a deep breath and tried to face the position. "Then you never cared for her?" she asked him. James turned round again. "Of course I never cared for her, I never dreamed of caring. Didn't I tell you that I have never cared for anyone but you!" It seemed to him just then that his not having cared for her was of vital importance. Whatever else Mary did not realise she must realise that. "I'd forgotten all about her, until you reminded me." Good God! that he should be standing there, in front of Mary, justifying himself!

Mary shivered. She did not disbelieve James, but what he said seemed to her incredible. How was it possible to do what James had done and not care? It did not occur to her to feel sorry for James, for his discomfort and his humiliation, but she found herself for a moment pitying the woman who dwelt in so monstrous a world. To be a woman of whom a man could say, "I never dreamed of caring!"

Then a new doubt assailed her. "When was it?" she cried. "Oh, James, was it anybody I know?"

But James could bear it no longer. Every instinct of self-preservation urged him to stop her questions. And he did not want her to know when it had happened. She would not understand. "I don't think I need tell you," he said. "She wasn't much of a woman, but who she is, is her affair, and the other is mine."

Mary did not understand him. "How do you mean, yours?"

James did not answer at once. The whole discussion still seemed to him unnatural and disgusting. But since she insisted on probing into the thing he might just as well, he told himself, state his case. "Look here, Mary," he said, "I don't think we shall do any good by talking about this just now. I don't think it will help either of us. But the reason I won't tell you more about it, is this. That whole side of my life is a side that you have never wished to think of or to know anything about. You have had your own standards, and you have simply taken it for granted that I should live up to them. You have never even doubted, I imagine, that I found it easy to live up to them. Well, I respected your delicacy, I never obtruded anything on you that you did not care to know. Don't you see, Mary, you can't, now, simply because I am at a disadvantage, expect me to break down a barrier which we have chosen to keep up all our lives. You may say that I deceived you, and that you have a right to know the truth. Well, I did conceal it from you, but my concealment was the price I paid for your immunity from contact with evil." As he spoke, the theme developed in his rapid mind. He went on--"Those untroubled ideals of yours, your moral sensitiveness, they're not things that survive a knowledge of the ugly, cruel side of life. Well, we agreed, it seemed to me, that you should enjoy them, that I should prevent them from being taken from you. In some ways they are a luxury, luxuries have to be paid for--" He stopped, because he could see that Mary was not following what he said.

She had tried to follow, she had tried, as a mere matter of fairness, to consider what he had to say. But she had not grasped, in the beginning, what he was talking about, and she had soon lost the thread of his words from mere weariness. The last thing that she wanted was to argue with him. She could not argue--she would only say things that she did not mean--they would squabble--it would all be vulgar and horrible! She wished he would go away now so that she could cry--give way--not have to think. She could not think about it----

She started, for someone was knocking at the door. A moment later her maid came in, discreetly radiant. "I've put out the lilac dress, ma'am," she said, "and it's close on half-past three."

Mary stared at the woman until she heard James say, in his usual pleasant voice, "Well, my dear, I'll leave you to dress. If I see Rosemary I will send her to you." Then, with an effort, she smiled too, but she thought to herself as she rose slowly from the sofa that it was easy for James--he was accustomed to lying.

When Rosemary came in ten minutes later she found her mother completely absorbed, to all appearances, in the process of putting on the lilac dress. For a moment she did not turn round to greet her daughter; when she did Rosemary was shocked by her white face. "How she minds!" she thought, and then she felt a sudden shyness and embarrassment at the idea that her mother should mind. They kissed one another then and Rosemary disengaged herself and stroked the satin of her mother's sleeve.

"I love you in fine clothes, mother," she said, "you are one of the people who can wear them. You ought to have big flounced skirts and a stiff stomacher embroidered with pearls."

Mary did not answer. She had seen Rosemary's hesitation and she could not trust herself with speech.

A few hours ago she might have spoken to some purpose--she might have warned the child, have told her what men are like, what marriage is. But now it was too late. Rosemary was married. Beautiful, fresh, untouched as she was, she belonged to a man, and in an hour he would take her away into his cruel man's world. This lovely child whose body Mary had made, who only a few years ago had lain, a little soft laughing thing, on Mary's lap, was to be at the mercy of a man--she was to see the whole of life through his love--her children were to be his children. She would give herself to him, and in return, if he chose to sin, he would lie to her. One of James's sentences, distorted, came back to Mary's mind,--a woman's purity of thought, her serenity of soul, is her husband's luxury--he likes to have that sort of woman about his house----

The tumult of her mind was stilled for a moment by Rosemary's voice. "Won't you sit down, mother darling--you've been standing too much, you're trembling. You'll have to stand presently----"

But Mary would not sit. She preferred instead to go downstairs and see whether everything was ready for her guests. Rosemary followed her, feeling a little indifferent and detached. One ought, she told herself, to get married without telling people, then one would not have a tiresome day like this, all odds and ends and fussing. She wished she had not let all these people come to stare at her--even the hired footmen looked her over as though she were a horse at a show. Regarded reasonably, it was a disgusting idea. If one were to imagine a country where all weddings were private, what would the inhabitants think of our barbarous customs? One ought to get married on a mountain, or a cliff by the sea, and smell the fresh wind instead of pink roses from a florist's shop--though even pink roses were better than the millinery that was coming.

When they went into the dining-room they found Anthony. He was standing by the buffet, eating an enormous ice, while the maid who had served him looked on in an attitude of romantic adoration. At the sight of him Rosemary's dissatisfaction sank away. His absorption in his ice seemed to her, suddenly, the most charming, touching thing she had ever seen. What a baby he was--coming into the dining-room to eat ices before anyone had arrived! What a ridiculous boy he looked with his bright fair hair!--As she walked towards him she felt that there were tears in her eyes.

Mary saw their friendly greeting and turned away, swept by a bitter anger and jealousy. It seemed to her horrible that Anthony, the man, the pursuer, the captor, should be eating ices. He might at least have had the decency to exult over his prey. To Mary at that moment the whole world was a vast sacrificial altar raised to the lust and the cruelty of men. She did not remember that only yesterday she too had thought Anthony a friendly and delightful creature.

A few minutes later cousins began to arrive, and Mary, found herself standing by the drawing-room door, talking. "Well, Mary," all her old friends began, "to think--" and to one after another of them she answered, "We're all so fond of him!" "Yes, I'm sure they'll be very happy."

The pretty room, Mary's room, was filling with people, people who had come there to laugh and look animated and say stupid things because Rosemary was married. It did not matter much now what anybody said, one could not hear it. It seemed to Mary that she was screaming, but as nobody noticed her she supposed that she could not be talking louder than anyone else.

Behind her left shoulder she could hear James's laugh. He was talking too, everyone was telling him how well he looked. She heard him say, "Yes--both gone now--it makes a man feel old--" and a sudden wave of misery made her tremble. What did it matter to James--what were daughters to a man! It was she who was old, she who was left lonely and desolate, left to James who stroked her hair and lied to her.

There were fewer people coming now, and she crossed the room to speak to Anthony's mother. Anthony's mother was sitting on a sofa, calm, superior, but triumphant. Her eye travelled slowly over the chattering crowd with an air of august approval. "See what a fuss these people make," she seemed to say, "how they dress up, rejoice, invite their friends, because their girl has succeeded in catching my son! See how they have decked out the fortunate creature herself so that she may seem beautiful and pleasing!" Mrs. Hastings was a tall lady with a dignified nose, and she bent over Mary when she had made room for her on the sofa. "How charming dear Rosemary looks!" she began. "Her frock suits her so well"--the garment in question had been chosen by Laura--"everyone is saying how ridiculously young they both are----"

Mary followed the lady's imposing eye to where, between groups of people, she could see Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Hastings. It was true that they both of them looked absurdly young. Something in Rosemary's flushed laughing face sent the blood to Mary's heart. She was a child, only a child, and here in this hot, noisy room she was saying good-bye to her freedom. And there was nothing, nothing that anyone in the world could do--Rosemary was married!

Mrs. Hastings, having received no answer to a further remark, turned round again to survey her hostess. "Hysterical, poor woman," she thought. "She has never struck me as a person with much strength of will--one of your clinging little women." "I am sure they will be very happy," she said, in a voice that was certain to arrest attention, "for I have always thought that Tony would make an excellent husband."

An excellent husband--of course! What more could any woman want--an excellent husband like James! Mary smiled faintly. "Oh, yes, I'm sure, and they are so very fond of each other," she answered.

At this point someone else came up to Mrs. Hastings and Mary was able to rise and to go in search of Anthony's principal uncle. Rosemary's future depended on him too, for he was the head of Anthony's firm. As she looked about the room Mary caught words and sentences from the roar of conversation that echoed back from the walls and the ceiling. All these people were busy over their own affairs, their clothes, their engagements, their gossip. They did not care--Mary wished suddenly that there had been a wedding in church. That, at least, would have been serious, she could have prayed for her daughter. Then she laughed at herself. What good would praying have been? Her own mother, who believed in God, had prayed for her every day, and yet she could not spare her this----.

The important uncle, who called Mary, "My dear lady," told her that she looked thoroughly worn out.

At last the moment came when she was to bid Rosemary good-bye. As she kissed her, Mary felt an impulse to throw her arms round Rosemary, to hold her fast, to defy them all--it seemed impossible that she should go away like this, while everybody laughed and looked curious and pleased. But even while the thought was in her mind she found that she had let the child go, that Rosemary was kissing James. "Of course--he's her father," Mary said to herself.--A moment later Rosemary was gone.

Then Mary had to say good-bye to her guests, to thank them for having put on their best clothes and made their well-meant noises. They all decided, and told her so, that she needed a rest and a change--weddings are trying affairs. Finally, last of all, Harry and Laura said they must get back to Giles.

"Do lie down, mother dear," Laura said, "and we'll see you and father at dinner later."

Mary had forgotten that they were dining with Laura--it seemed now a very good opportunity for separating herself from James. She didn't think that she would come after all, she told them, she would probably go to bed early. But James would come.

James assented. It seemed to him, too, an excellent idea.

For a moment they all stood at the door, looking at the disordered room. The floor was littered with the pink petals of the florist's roses, and on a chair lay a white fur scarf that some woman had forgotten.

"I'll come round to-morrow and help you cut up the cake," Laura told Mary, kissing her.

Harry shrugged his shoulders. "What we want in weddings," he said, "is a little decent grossness!"

Laura turned to him. "Come, Harry, I can see that mother is exhausted--" As they went, James on their heels, Mary laughed. Harry knew that he was the captor, right enough.