A lady and her husband

ROSEMARY looked round her mother's drawing-room. It was a charming room, she thought, of its conventional kind, gay and luxurious, anxious to please, like some soft, pretty woman. She had never considered its origin before, but now she felt sure that her father must have planned it. It revealed his mind--large, cheerful, excellent--and showed the thorough competence of his taste.

She had chosen this room deliberately for an interview with her mother. She was going to tell her mother that she was in love, and she had found herself shy, afraid of the poor lady's emotion. In the publicity of the spacious room, where anyone might interrupt them, a display of feeling would be difficult.

She made sure, once more, of this train of thought. Then she looked anxiously at Mrs. Heyham. Mary was sitting in her usual place by the side of the hearth, and, for the moment, behind the glittering, fire-flushed tea-things, she seemed curiously unreal. She was wearing a chain that her husband had given her, set with pearls and crystals--that caught the light, and so did a brooch that was a present from Trent, her son. Behind these witnesses of masculine esteem there was the vagueness of grey stuff, of lace, of pale brown hair, and a face where the play of lights and shadows blotted out expression. Rosemary, seeking for some promise of immediate, cheerful sympathy, could see nothing but her mother's evident dignity and grace. On the point of speaking, she hesitated. She had not the least idea, after all, how her mother would respond to her.

At that moment Mrs. Heyham looked up and met her daughter's eyes. "Yes," she said, "I like your new way of doing your hair, my dear, it suits you, it gives you height. And I like your funny green frock." She smiled a little shyly. She could not tell the child how lovely she found her.

But the tenderness in her voice reached Rosemary, making her feel suddenly affectionate and ashamed.

"Mother, dear," she cried, "how selfish I am!--Am I very horrid to you?"

She had forgotten the ungenerous detachment which she had planned, and as she spoke she crossed the floor to the rug by her mother's knee. She had been fussing all day about her own feelings, she told herself, and she had hardly given a thought to her mother's!

Mrs. Heyham paused before she answered. It was her custom to consider what she said, with a view to her children's welfare, and her replies, in consequence, were sometimes evasive. Horrid to her? What had made Rosemary, she wondered, worry about such a thing? "I hope you don't think so, my dear," passed this scrutiny, but did not satisfy her daughter.

"You don't say I'm not," she insisted.

Her mother reassured her. "Of course you're not."

Rosemary sighed. "I don't think many mothers are like you!" she admitted, and for a moment her warmth made Mrs. Heyham anxious. These expansions from the children were apt to be connected with remorse. Well, whatever it was, she would hear it now--she put out her hand to smooth the soft hair pressed against her knee. But Rosemary, turning quickly, caught the wandering fingers. To Mary it looked almost as though she had taken fright. Her eyes were wide open and she was trembling a little. "Mother," she said, "I've something to tell you! I've promised--I'm going to marry Anthony."

Before she could stop herself Mrs. Heyham had pulled her hand away. Rosemary promised to marry! At eighteen! Rosemary who had been so careless of love! The girl, anxiously listening, could read nothing but disappointment into her "My darling!"

For a moment they looked at each other. Then came the amends, that Mary was never slow to make. This time she took her daughter's hand in hers. "You know how fond I am of Anthony--it isn't that. But you--you're so young--how can you know--how can you possibly know?"

Rosemary found no words that would convince her. Instead she turned away from her mother's eyes and stared into the fire. It was not a thing one could talk about, how one knew.

Mary looked down at her bright young head. She loved it too dearly, she thought, she could not lose it! "Won't you wait--" she began, but then she checked herself. It was passion, not happiness, that she had wanted to keep from the child for a little longer.

But Rosemary had heard her cry and was answering it. "We have waited ever since the summer. I didn't want to hurt you, mother, but I couldn't bear that anyone should know. Tony wanted to tell you at once, but I wouldn't let him."

Mary did her best to smile. She could not speak--she was humiliated. She had never intruded herself on her children or forced the delicate privacies of their minds, but she had stood apart only, she thought, to watch and direct them better because they were not conscious of her attention. And now, for months, Rosemary had known these new intimacies of love while she had seen no further--that was what it amounted to--than her charming manners!

Rosemary, from the tight grasp of her hands, guessed at Mrs. Heyham's suffering. "Mother, dear, don't mind!" she begged her. "Why should you mind so much?"

Why should she mind?--For a moment Mary struggled with tears. Then she turned resolutely from her painful thoughts. "My darling," she said, "I'm selfish, thoroughly selfish! You mustn't let me spoil your happiness. It's nothing, my dear--only a foolish instinct. You see, I feel that as each of you goes it closes one of the windows of my life!"

Rosemary sighed a little with relief. Here was the matter on reasonable grounds where one could argue about it! She rather enjoyed discussing feelings, though she was shy of showing them. She relaxed her attitude, which had been a little strained, and started to make her point.

"But you haven't lost us, mother. We're still there, it's only that we're grown up. After all, having children is an experience, and you've got it there, so much to the good!"

Mrs. Heyham shook her head. She had not the habit of considering her life in terms of experience. Her mind had darkened again over Rosemary's words. Experience--that must be an idea of Anthony's--it was a wonder the child had not said "mental capital." She would never be rid of Anthony now--whenever she talked to Rosemary, Anthony would be behind her!

"And of course I'm not going to marry yet."--Rosemary reproached herself with not having made this clear. Her mother must think her callous. "I should feel sorry enough if I were really going away! You do know how much I love you, don't you, mother darling?"

She started to rise, so that she might reach her mother to kiss her, but Mary rose too. For a moment they clung together, trying each of them, to think of nothing but their mutual love. Then Mary made the need of wiping her eyes an excuse for freeing herself. "I'm going upstairs," she said, "and when I come down I shall be a much nicer, more satisfactory mother, and very glad that you have chosen such a dear boy. I'm delighted that it's Anthony, dear, you must tell him so from me. And now if I were you, I would go and see your father--he's in the library. You will be glad to get it all over." She smiled, pressed Rosemary's hand again, and turned towards the door.

Rosemary, left alone, did not go to her father at once. She was angry with herself. "I didn't do it right," she thought, "I hurt her. I don't see why she should have been hurt, but she was." For a moment, though she sought, she found no explanation; then she decided, "It is father, I suppose, he has kept her so wrapped up. And now, when she has to face a fact, she is not accustomed to it. But all the same I do wish I hadn't hurt her."

She sat down again in her comfortable chair and recalled the conversation. It had been self-conscious, she felt, and artificial, they had not really been open with one another. And yet she did not know what was wrong--it was very difficult.

But she could not keep her mind fixed for long on this distasteful subject. The fire-light and the solitude were pleasant, and her thoughts went back to Anthony and the summer. It was in the early summer at King's Leigh that she had first loved Anthony, though she had not known it. It gave her pleasure to remember the day. She had been bathing with Laura in the stream at the bottom of the garden, and on their way back they had met Anthony coming down the path with towels under his arm. It was blowing, and the wind blew back the folds of his thin shirt. He had asked them whether the river was clear again after the storm, and she had told him yes,--the water was still brown, but you could see the white stones on the bottom. Then absurdly, like a child, she had flushed with shame. Laura and she had been pretending that they were water nymphs, and she had twisted leaves into her hair. Anthony was looking at the green crown. It had seemed unbearable that he might think she was foolish--laugh at her--without waiting for Laura she had walked away. She had gone quickly through the rose-garden because she did not want Laura to follow her, and along the old stone wall. There was no one under the beeches at the end and she had stopped there, telling herself that it was beautiful. The lilies and the blue larkspurs shone in the sun, there was no wind tinder the trees and the still air felt warm. She had looked up to see the light coming down through the young leaves--it was bright and it glowed, like light in the trumpet of a daffodil. And then, as she stood, a little dazed by the shining leaves and the heat, something that hurt her seemed to stir in her heart--she had thrown herself down beside the trunk of the tree because she had found that she was crying.

She had only been a child then, afraid of love, afraid and exalted beyond any need of Anthony. She had been in love with the summer days, with poetry, with warmth and colour, and flowers. The world had become a place of caressing, delicate contacts, even the air seemed kind to her as she moved through it. Under her happy senses her spirit had quickened. Here, she had thought, was worship--if she could worship--here, in this awe and delight, this conviction that she was one with the flowering earth, with its light, its heat, its joy. Here was the new birth--she had lost her old self, her old hopes and desires, and had become instead a vessel filled with the wonder and the beauty of life.

This ecstasy had not stayed. It had been banished by something more personal, less diffused, by a return of her mind upon itself. It was a new troubling thing--she could remember the first surprise of its insurgence. It had been a hot afternoon and she had been walking by the river, slowly, without any thought of where she was going. A willow bush grew in the long grass by the edge of the water, and beside it she had seen Anthony's blazer lying on the ground. Anthony was playing tennis with Trent; he must have forgotten it. It was a pleasant, secluded place, and the patch of colour on the grass seemed to make a reason why she should stop. She had sat down in what shade the bush afforded--presently she would carry the blazer back to the house.