Chapter IX

DURING the next few months Mary renewed her youth. She had never known before that it is delightful to possess, specifically, an intellect. It was not that she had altogether neglected this faculty, but its use had generally come in the form of worrying over something. Now she found an instinctive pleasure in addressing it to the understanding of abstract problems.

She had been looking forward to this autumn for other reasons, because at the end of it she was to become a grandmother, but a little to her surprise she found that it was not the new dignity, profoundly as it stirred her, that took the chief place in her thoughts. She had expected to be carried backward by Laura's motherhood to what she had felt to be the flowering-time of her own life. This should have been a season of memories, of echoes, of a faint, pleasant sadness. She had thought therefore that she could watch the withering of her own present with resignation now that her daughter's happiness had come, she had believed that she could relinquish the future without sorrow now that a little new inheritor was waiting to enter upon it. Perhaps when she looked at Laura's child she would see again the youth of her own eyes, or her own smile.

But as the autumn went by she found that respond as she might to the past her hold on the present had never been more eager. It was a matter for relief, not for the melancholy she had imagined that the nursery of her line had passed from hers into Laura's keeping. She felt free as she had never felt free before to come into contact with life, to try experiments with it. There were no children to guard from misery, from ugliness, from dangerous ideas.

A long forgotten curiosity woke in Mary and urged her to see for herself what the world was like.

One after another, simply, she read Rosemary's books, finding in them not so much facts and arguments as symbols of new freedom and a new exultation. She realised from them, for the first time, that there are passions in life other than personal love and personal ambition. She recognised a passion for knowledge, for adventure, she experienced a passion of sympathy for the poor.

She was not aware that she was reading the books for their emotional effects. It did not occur to her that she was not approaching the sources of wisdom in the most detached, intellectual spirit possible. She was anxious to be thorough and she applied herself, like a clever child, to tomes culled from the London library on account of the correctness of the titles printed soberly across their backs, the "Principles" or "Elements of Economics." She accepted the methods of these volumes with engaging good faith and watched eagerly for their smallest lapses from a rigid consistency. She made copious notes on the theory of money, which she found evasive, for it had no bearing that she could see on the problems in which she felt genuine interest. She struggled with what seemed at first sight the needlessly complex and technical procedure of banks. She prepared herself to pounce instantly, when she found it in pamphlets and newspapers and other lax vehicles of popular thought, on the least whisking tip of the tail of the wages fund theory. But in her heart, if not consciously, her attitude towards such accumulations of learning was tinged with a kindly toleration. It was characteristic of men, she thought, to spend such an amount of energy on what were often verbal differences, to pursue their points, through a wealth of subdivided nomenclature, to a distance from concrete usefulness that would have made any practical person slacken. Men did become excited in that fashion over purely unimportant things; one knew that when once they started arguing a wise woman bowed to the storm and escaped if she could. She had realised this in early youth, on an occasion when James and her father and Julius had argued for hours about the month in which one particular fish became seasonable. They had exhausted their knowledge of geography, of biology, and of travellers' tales, they had ransacked their memories for the dates and the menus of dinners, they had discovered in the recesses of the past hitherto unproclaimed intimacies and conversations with fish merchants and with sailors. And when her mother, in a naive belief that what they required was wisdom, had laid before them the agreement of cookery books and even fresh evidence brought by the maid from the fishmonger's round the corner, they had not shown gratitude but had embarked on a fresh discussion as to the modifications, if any, imposed by these cold facts on their various previous statements and theories. Mary had felt then that her kinsfolk were dears, if a little noisy, and she felt now that the professors were wonderfully clever, if a little verbose. After all, if you are a professor, and paid for it, you must fill in your time. So she did not trammel her soul, even if she burdened her memory, with the strict rigour of their conclusions.

She tried once or twice, when some work dealing in more concrete fashion with the conditions of the poor had moved her beyond silence, to talk about her reading with Rosemary. But Rosemary shrank a little from her mother's enthusiasm, from the exhibition of her intimate emotion. Her mother--she couldn't help recognising the fact--was very crude, and though she regarded this crudity, solemnly, as a necessary stage in poor Mary's development, she did not enjoy contact with it any the more for that. It made her impatient, it disturbed the slightly romantic element in her affection for her mother. She herself had read the books a year ago, glowed over them, shuddered at the condition they revealed, and inspired herself with a definite belief in Socialism. That being so, it was useless to go on feeling idle emotion when one might be persuading one's friends to join the Fabian Society. Rosemary imagined that she disliked emotion that was not serving some definite useful end. If Mrs. Heyham had come to her and said, "I too am a Socialist, what would the committee of the Fabian Society like me to do?" Rosemary would have hidden sincere delight beneath a great show of cool common-sense, have taken her mother to meetings, and introduced people to her who would undertake her future education. But Mary had not become a Socialist, the Socialism in Rosemary's books had slipped unheeded from her mind. She had been accustomed all her life to dwell upon the importance of individual action, and she had no experience of any need for collective effort that might emerge in a world of great affairs. She had governed her family, for over twenty successful years, by such appeals as she could make to their ideals and their better natures. It did not occur to her now to criticise this attitude, and the principal conviction she gathered from her studies was a heavy sense of personal responsibility. If things were bad then employers must sacrifice themselves to make things better. She couldn't doubt that they would, if they only understood how bad things were. And then when the men saw the masters really striving for their good they would learn to co-operate with those set over them and gradually the world would improve. Everybody nowadays, professors and Socialists alike, united to praise Trade Unions, so Mary was sure that they must be excellent things though at times she felt a little anxious about them. But, after all, clever men like Trade Union officials would soon see when an employer was doing his best--Mary imagined the labour leaders of England with their eyes turned constantly to James.

Poor James, the fact was that he was so busy with his work that he hadn't time to read these books; he didn't really understand what the lives of the poor were like. He had practically admitted that when he asked her not to read for herself. He hadn't, as Mary had by now, spent day after day visiting the homes of working-people. He had heard about it, of course, but that isn't the same as seeing it for yourself. Mary pictured a quickened, a glorified James, urging on a great employers' movement for raising the standard of national life. She felt sure that even James did not know how magnificent he could be. She had not formed any clear plans of what she would say to James or even of what she wanted him to do. Those would come later, when she had read more, and when she had gathered more experience. She would like, she thought, to work for a little on one of the great organisations that study and benefit the poor. One ought to see the poor as a whole and not only in the glimpses she obtained from the visits she paid with Miss Percival. But after all the chief thing was a change of attitude. James would think of the plans--that she could safely leave to him. Her task was to lead him to realise for himself that the people really needed his help. She had no doubt that he would begin with his own workers, but it was very probable, all questions being so fearfully tangled together, that it would be more complicated than she supposed.

There were bad employers, and the fact must be faced. Mary had known people who were unkind and people who were untruthful and dishonest--though it was generally because they had been badly brought up--but everybody had good in them somewhere. She could hardly conceive an employer so bad that he wouldn't respond to James at the head of an army of enlightenment. They didn't know; if only they knew, they would be different.

It was this optimism that Rosemary found hard to bear. It did not seem credible to her that a woman of forty-five could be so simple. Naturally Mary said nothing to Rosemary about her plans for James, and it seemed to the girl that her mother was going to do nothing. She felt thwarted, because she had been forming hopes. She herself was nobody, but if Mary, the wife of a well-known employer, would join the Fabian Society, or even the Independent Labour Party, it might do some good.

Meanwhile Mary was a little worried about Laura. She had found Laura crying one Saturday about nothing at all. Harry had gone off for the day to play golf with some friends. Golf was good for Harry, who worked hard in the week; Laura herself had suggested that he should go. But Mary felt that Harry was perhaps taking things a little too much for granted. She had always been afraid that he was a selfish man. Everybody couldn't, of course, be as unselfish as James, who would have gone off with a shower of protestations that left Mary comforted. She had always considered herself lucky, erected James in her mind as a shining exception, and admitted that a certain amount of selfishness was natural to other men. Now, seeing Laura unhappy, she wondered if it was. It seemed proper that she should venerate James, but she hadn't brought up her clever, beautiful daughters merely to please ordinary men like Harry.

James, when she mentioned her fears to him, took them lightly. It was natural that Laura should cry just now, Mary didn't remember perhaps, but she used to be fanciful herself, though he didn't think he'd treated her badly--he paused for his hand to be squeezed.

Of course, Moorhouse was a man of the world, not a very sensitive fellow, perhaps it didn't occur to him to adapt himself to women's ways at these times. After all, every woman, so to speak, has children, it's nothing unusual. He didn't suppose that Moorhouse was unkind, but he wasn't the sort of person who makes a fuss. Probably he felt that he was in the way, thought it would be kinder to clear out. Mary might make a point of seeing a good deal of Laura, who, anyway, had chosen her own husband for herself and must make what she could of him. James had never, in his life, seen a young woman more in love. He preferred the old style, on the whole, Mary's style. He had thought that perhaps Laura was giving herself away. "If a woman lies down at a man's feet," he finished, "she's likely to get trodden on when he's thinking of something else. Laura can't expect Moorhouse to be ill too, whenever she can't play golf. I've been afraid sometimes that she's given to making her own unhappiness!"

It hurt Mary for a moment that James should talk of Laura like this, then she was ashamed of feeling a little secret glow. How much James loved her, how much more he loved her than he loved anybody else! Her splendid James! She let her head fall, with a sigh, to its accustomed place on his shoulder. Poor Laura, quite possibly James was right, and it was all fancy. In any case she would feel differently when she had the baby.

Meanwhile, however, it was clearly Mary's duty to see her, and if possible to cheer her up.

Laura, when seen, was not easy to cheer up, if only because she refused for some time to admit that anything of the sort was necessary. She lay on a sofa and told Mary, in careful detail, what she thought of the works of Dostoevsky. She did not blame Harry because he did not care for Russian novelists, but merely stated the fact. There was a shade more feeling, perhaps, in her subsequent declaration that he did not seem to care for babies either.

Mary chose hastily between, "He will when he has one of his own," "I expect he is too shy to admit it," and "Most men don't, they only like them when they begin to talk." The last seemed most likely to be true; she could not imagine Harry either shy or a baby-lover. So sorry did she feel for Laura that she added, "You'll be glad enough presently, you know, that he isn't always up in the nursery upsetting the nurses and trying the most appalling experiments on the poor mite. Men have no instinct about babies. Either they think that because they grew up the baby will grow up and the more it eats the faster it will grow, and want you to feed it whenever it cries, or they insist on having its toys sterilised every time they touch the floor. I always think one should be thankful when a man keeps to his own department."

Laura, who was moving restlessly, did not seem in a mood to profit by these reassurances. When she spoke it was in a grudging voice. "I gather that men think it all rather unpleasant," she said. "They're brought up, aren't they, to have rather horrid minds in some ways. It's funny--we don't find it unpleasant when they get wounded in battle. But then I suppose we're trained to sympathise with their experiences, and they're not trained to be interested in ours."

Mary, though she felt more sorry than ever for Laura, was a little shocked at this. It was bitter and it was unjust. It certainly looked as though Harry's mind might be rather horrid, but as for men--James had been extraordinarily sympathetic, and so, Mary felt sure, had been the husbands of most of her friends. Of course they were not interested in the minutiæ of these affairs. Mary herself had realised instinctively that a decent woman keeps the great experiences of her life to herself. If she feels them deeply she expresses it in her altered outlook and in her character. She does not talk about her emotions, nor exhibit their details. Unless, poor thing, she is terribly unhappy, and then one wishes she wouldn't. "That gives us the advantage," she told her daughter, "of knowing men better than they know us."

Laura did not, in her heart, wish to discuss her uneasiness with her mother. She wanted her mother to think--what was, after all, the truth--that Harry and she loved each other very much, and were perfectly happy together. She did not like Harry's attitude towards women, but then he seemed to have known so few women who were worthy of anything better. She turned the issue of the conversation. "Oh, do you think we do?" she said. "Look at the women in men's books and the men in women's!" There was no need to develop this ancient argument.

Mary thought it over. There was no doubt in her mind that most of the wives she knew understood their husbands thoroughly, thus sparing them the trouble of understanding their wives. It was obvious; one took it for granted. But one did not put one's husband in a book--not as he was. It would be treacherous. If Mary had written a book its hero would have been not James, but the glorified creature that lay hidden in James. What a hero he would make! "Of course," she said to Laura, "I suppose it is difficult for women to know what men are like when they are together."

Laura was busy accusing herself of having grumbled about Harry, and she said nothing.

"It's very nice that men are so talkative," Mary went on, to break the silence. "Their lives are exciting, and, I suppose, as they're not forced back upon subtleties, they find ours dull." Mary was not at her ease talking in this fashion about men. When she thought of them as a sex it was kindly, with a mingling of forbearance and admiration. They were not to be criticised, but gently influenced in the right direction. Nor could she be candid upon a subject that led her constantly to consideration of James.

She left Laura with a feeling of misgiving. It wasn't right or natural that Laura should be thinking of such things. It must, in some way, be Harry's fault--Laura was such a fine creature. Even if she loved Harry too much, too passionately, as James seemed to think, so that she was defenceless against him, there shouldn't have been any need for her to defend herself. Perhaps she was a little undisciplined, with more discipline she might have borne it better--whatever it was. But after all one came back to this, it was not right that she should have anything to bear.

Mary was glad now of the element of serenity, of detachment, that she had sometimes regretted in her love for James. She respected love too much to lose herself in it. It had never been for her a new vision, a mystical flame, but a safe shelter and a tranquil happiness. When she thought again of Laura her heart sank.

She arrived home to find that Miss Percival was waiting for her. Miss Percival had been to see how Florrie was getting on at her new work, and she reported that Florrie was doing well and being a good girl, but that there was a man sending notes to her of whom Miss Percival's friend didn't quite like the looks. He might be all right, but then on the other hand he might be up to no good.

Miss Percival's demeanour seemed to indicate that good was the last thing any such man would be up to.

A flicker of protesting thoughts rose in Mary's mind. Why did men exist? Why couldn't they be trusted? Why couldn't they keep away from girls? Why did girls ever want to have anything to do with them? Always these troubles on account of men! She told herself, with necessary sternness, that it was all perfectly natural, and it was to be hoped that some day Florrie would marry some nice man and settle down happily. Not that a workingman's wife has much chance, after a bit, of doing anything happily. Perhaps Florrie would marry above her--but to do that the poor child must run such terrible risks. She might get fond of one of these men--Mary wouldn't have answered for Florrie if once her emotions were thoroughly roused. Not that one wanted her to marry without being fond of her husband--why was it that life was so difficult for poor girls?

She forced her thoughts back to the conversation, for she noticed suddenly that Miss Percival seemed to be waiting for her to speak. "Is there anything to be done? What can we do?" she asked.

Miss Percival shook her head. "There's nothing to be done. Of course," she went on, "it ought to be as safe for Florrie to have men friends as it is for your daughters. Only men, especially rich men, don't want it to be."

Mary looked at her with some surprise. Miss Percival did not usually produce opinions of this sort; something must have upset her. Here was this attitude of resentment again! First her daughter and then her secretary! Really, the poor puzzled lady felt, it almost looked as if men must be dreadful people.

In the meanwhile she turned her attention to Miss Percival, who was reporting on two girls whom Mary had sent to the seaside because they showed a tendency to consumption. They were getting along very nicely at the seaside, but the doctor did not think they ought to go back to the tea-shop.

"Not even if we provided them with thicker things to go home in?"

Miss Percival allowed that it might make a difference, but one would have to go on supplying the thicker things for the rest of their lives. And meanwhile more and more girls would be wanting them.

It looked a little as if Miss Percival were in a bad temper that day.

Nevertheless her argument was sound, and Mary knew it. The girls couldn't have afforded proper clothes even if they had kept all their wages for themselves, and most of them didn't. Not what Mary would call proper clothes--women's garments are apt to be so shoddy nowadays.

The truth was, they ought to have higher wages. But then it was quite possible that the business couldn't afford it. Those pretty tea-shops were expensive to decorate, and expensive to keep up. Of course, it paid to have them pretty, because customers preferred them to other tea-shops. Mary supposed that it wouldn't be possible to get the whole trade to agree not to spend so much on decoration. Probably some of the employers didn't care two pins about their girls' wages. They were men, they didn't understand. And now the big drapers were all starting tea-rooms, and taking away custom.

If James could have afforded higher wages he would probably have given them. But--she felt her way to it slowly--that didn't relieve her from the duty of finding out. James had admitted that he didn't know as much about the girls as he would have liked when he set her to make inquiries. After all, even James was a man.