by F. M. Mayor
Mary recollected the whiff of triumph she had felt when Lady Meryton told her of the Herberts’ difficulties. She blushed as she said, ‘Everything is right now, though.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I see him screwing his mouth up. Mary, tell me –’ Now, at last, Kathy came to what had troubled her all night. ‘I want to know, and tell me what you think without bothering about my feelings. Is it – I expect it is really – just pity? He said it wasn’t, when I first came back, but he would say that.’
Mary had always thought Kathy’s eyes beautiful, but, like the eyes of a Greek statue benignantly satisfied with itself and the world. Her sufferings had put melancholy and longing into them. Now in Mary’s opinion they were irresistible. Pity indeed! Kathy had all Mr Herbert’s heart. If there could but have been one crumb left over for her! She had thought all dead and gone, it blazed up again.
‘It was never pity,’ she answered brusquely, almost violently.
‘Are you sure?’
She answered again, ‘Absolutely sure.’
‘Thank you, old Mary,’ said Kathy. ‘You’re a brick.’
They both bent forward, almost involuntarily. They kissed one another. Mary felt the tears on Kathy’s face, Kathy felt Mary’s on hers – tears partly for herself, partly, she could not tell exactly why, since Kathy had everything, in tenderness for Kathy.
‘It’s merely that I’m rather glad, every idiotic thing makes me howl now,’ said Kathy. She did not think of Mary’s tears at the time, she remembered them afterwards.
23
In due time Kathy had twin boys. Both throve, and the parents were engrossed with them. Old Mrs Herbert, one of the godmothers – Kathy’s bark was worse than her bite – was tearfully happy; her many anxieties about the marriage might cease.
It was unfortunate that Kathy chose this season of prosperity to apologize for her rude letters. Prosperity set up Mrs Herbert. It was better for her to be kept low; one should never let oneself be in her power.
The apology was not successfully accepted. The phraseology had grated. ‘I am most awfully sorry I have been so thoroughly beastly; those putrid letters, etc., etc. Of course I know Crab’s miles too good for me.’
‘I think indeed there was need for great sorrow,’ said Mrs Herbert, ‘and need for watchful care still, isn’t there? Though I can see my daughter-in-law, or let me say my daughter, is doing her best. But oh, my dear, why will you call your husband by that stoopid name? I can’t say I see any fun in it at all.’
Kathy had determined to eat humble pie, but this was too large a slice. She would not give Mrs Herbert the gratification of answering her. »
Mary was walking through the fields to Lanchester one day. She came upon Mr Herbert sitting on the trunk of a tree with his head in his hands. He heard her approach and greeted her. ‘This view is particularly delightful,’ he remarked in a small-talk manner. ‘Our eastern counties at their best, and that best is hard to beat.’
His thoughts were not with the eastern counties; the next moment he said quickly, ‘Have you seen Kathy? Has she told you?’
‘I’m just on my way to the Vicarage now.’
‘We’ve been up to the London doctor; he can set her face right. He doesn’t promise success, it might make matters worse, but we’ve made up our minds to it; Kathy is anxious for it. She’s going to the Nursing Home today.’
He had meant to hide away by himself like the animals in pain, after an evening and a morning of pretended high spirits and assurance of success, but once again in his life he could not resist the comfort of confiding in Mary. In the intensity of his feeling that other confidence was as if it had not been. That was not quite the case with her. But her heart was full of Kathy, as she answered, ‘I am glad.’ ·
‘Yes, I ought to be, it’s scandalous not to be. One ought not to mind risking something to bring back what she’s lost. But I’m a coward, a detestable coward.’ He struck the trunk of the tree in his misery again and again. ‘I can’t keep back these wretched doubts and fears. Think if it has to be another failure, after all she’s gone through. You don’t know –’ He broke off; he was recalling the despair on Kathy’s face when she came back from the Riviera. He had often woken up at nights, after he had dreamt of it. Kathy had not forgotten her despair, she would never forget it completely, but she did not dwell on it.
‘If it was merely myself, I would urge her to let well alone. What does it matter to me what she is? Of course it could make no –’ he broke off. He murmured, forgetting her presence, ‘She could not be dearer. But I have a notion she is doing it for my sake. Could you sound her, Mary? Of course she’s absolutely calm herself.’
He did not know he called her Mary. She noticed it; she was glad. She was glad he turned to her; there was a bitter-sweet satisfaction. He turned to her as he might to a sister, and this time she could do Kathy justice. She answered with a full heart. ‘I’ve never known any one so heroic.’
Rumour in the shape of Mansfield had transported the news to Dawson, and Dawson to Lady Meryton. Lady Meryton had come to Lanchester to sympathize, Jim-jam too had dropped in, and what with her, and Mansfield, and Dawson, and portmanteaux and kisses, hubbub reigned supreme, but for the cause of the hubbub, who was her usual imperturbable self.
‘Cheerio,’ cried she to Mary. ‘Come and join the crowd. We’re off to London to have another op. The last man said it was a howling success, and this one says it may fail, so it’s rather mixed. I don’t quite see how I can be more of a scarecrow than I am, but there seems a chance of it, which would be rough on Crab. Still, be must take the risk, it’s so damned hard on him to have me to stare at all day long.’
‘Don’t think of that now,’ said Mary, getting a private word with her under cover of the hubbub. ‘I know it makes no difference to him.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He told me just now.’
‘Cheek. Then all I can say is he told a lot of crams when we were engaged.’
‘I’ll tell you his exact words,’ said Mary with eager warmth. ‘What does it matter to me what she is? She couldn’t be dearer.’
But Kathy was well again, her nerves restored. Now she wanted no outsider’s assurance of Mr Herbert’s love. She spoke with a touch of dryness.
‘Still if Crab doesn’t mind, I’d as soon have a straight face as a crooked.’
The Hollings had practised the art of setting people in their place for many generations. Mary felt she had been intruding.
On the eve of the journey, Mary came to bid goodbye, and she received, to her astonishment, a warm hug from Kathy; she was usually cool and boyish in her farewells.
‘I shan’t forget what a trump you’ve been,’ said she; and Mr Herbert, escorting Mary to the gate, said, with both his hands clasping hers, ‘I can’t thank you for what you’ve done for her, ‘and for me.’ ·
She looked at him; she saw the wonderful brightness of his eyes. How fond he was of Kathy. She could be touched by it now. The sight of his emotion caused her tears to rise; they made her cut the interview short.
They returned from London; the operation was successful. Kathy’s face was restored to what it had been, but some slightest trace was left of the misfortune, which made her beauty less perfect, but more wonderful. She was radiant with health and delight at her babies, on the best of terms with all her friends and relations. ‘
It seemed that, contrary to her parting words, she had forgotten Mary. She welcomed her almost uproariously. Hilarity may create a wide gulf; before the visit was over, Mary felt as shy as on her first call. Kathy was not neglectful or ungrateful. She invited Mary cordially to tennis and bridge parties, and called her Towzer to Jim-jam, Claudia, and Cocky; Mary disliked being called Towzer to Cocky. She did not leave her out more than she could help, when she was surrounded with cheerful contemporaries, all wanting to talk to Kathy, and none to Mary.
Jim-jam took a fancy to her. They discussed High Church matters. Jim-jam did not like bridge,
she thought it took the mind off hunting. Under her smart clothes, she had some affinity with Mary, she was not formidable. Captain Wyndham always left Mary out.
Soon after the cure Lesbia proposed herself for a long visit, chiefly because there was nowhere else to go. Her friends knew her too well by this time, and Jack continued in Nigeria. Both thought of divorce now and then; they never quite worked themselves up to the expense.
It was the old business of debts and white-washing that brought her to the Rectory. Even she felt some embarrassment. The first night she said, taking Kathy’s hand, and speaking with real emotion:
‘Kath, I was an absolute cad about that letter.’
‘What letter?’ asked Kathy.
‘That letter to Crab.’
‘What letter to Crab?’ said Kathy with unfeigned bewilderment.
‘When you left Nice.’
‘Oh,’ said Kathy. ‘That letter. Oh, you needn’t bother about that. He never opened it.’
Kathy had forgiven – even forgotten her injuries. Lesbia might have felt it more of a compliment if she had remembered them; forgetfulness showed her her power was gone. Kathy treated her with the same off-hand good-nature as before.
Mr Herbert, however, never either forgave or forgot the letter. He, the exhorter to Christian forgiveness in Church, struggled with himself before he could bear the thought of having Lesbia under his roof. It did not enter the head of the injured party to refuse her.
Mr Herbert sometimes let loose his irony on Lesbia. She did not like it, but it was less annihilating than Kathy’s good-nature. She put as good a face on things as she could. She had the old manner of impertinent condescension. Mary, knowing the circumstances, not from Kathy, but from Jim-jam, almost had it in her heart to pity Lesbia, who above all things loved to be of account.
‘Kathy’s much too good to her,’ said Jim-jam. ‘I know, because we’ve always known the Hollings so well. Mac’ (Mary, now one of the initiated, was to know instinctively that Mac was Jim-jam’s brother) ‘is Kathy’s trustee. He won’t let her have the money she wants for Lesbia. When he says anything, Kath always says, “The poor beggar has got to live,” and he says, “So have a few other poor beggars, you and your children, for instance.”’
Mr Herbert was not fond of Cocky. He said irritably one day, ‘I wonder why, when there are a number of satisfactory young men in the world, we should have to endure Captain Wyndham’s company for hours together. Couldn’t you consort with some one else?’
‘Oh, poor old Cocky,’ said Kathy. ‘He’s a pal of Jack’s, and he’s not half a bad shot.’
‘I think he’s worthless,’ said Mr Herbert hotly.
‘Crab, I really do believe you’re jealous. I shall tell Cocky. He’ll be tremendously bucked. I don’t think any husband’s ever been jealous of him before.’
‘Jealous is absolutely the last thing I am,’ said Mr Herbert, going out of the room and banging the door.
He came back shortly afterwards. ‘I told you what was not true just now,’ said he. ‘The fact is – is – I am jealous.’ He did not enjoy this confession, which he made with solemnity, nor did he care for her hearty laughter.
‘How quaint,’ said she, beaming with smiles. ‘I didn’t know a brainy person could be such an ass.’ She became serious, and said, looking at him very sweetly, ‘You needn’t ever bother to be jealous. Understand? You’re the only man in the world.’
‘I never, never will be,’ he said, seizing her in his arms. ‘I’m an ass. Don’t think brains make one less of an ass; I should think they make one rather more.’
This truth was deep for Kathy. It touched her when he ran himself down; he did it so fervently. She did not want to show any more feeling just now. She remarked, laughing, ‘It seems a mistake, when there’s only one man in the world, he should be such a guy.’
Kathy, in her happiness, looking back on her months of illness, could hardly believe she had passed through them. It seemed like a fever, particularly her openings of the heart to Mary. Her ordinary self liked steady affection for friends and steady love for your husband, without too much talk or confiding about either. She had wished she was like Mary! Now she saw her dispassionately. She would not forget her goodness, but perhaps she would have preferred never to meet her again; she recalled what was hateful. To Mary that time, though bitter, had been sweet. She would fain have brought it back.
She began one day hesitatingly. ‘Do you remember you said when you were ill –?’
‘I’m thankful to say I remember nothing,’ broke in Kathy. ‘I was completely dotty. Don’t let’s go back to that time. It’s over, thank God.’ She went on joyously to something else.
From that moment Mary found the barrier between them was impassable. She felt sore, and inclined to think Kathy deteriorated with prosperity. Perhaps people are less attractive in prosperity; certainly they are more unapproachable.
They never talked intimately again. Mary was disappointed; she had lived too long in the world to be surprised. Because one has once been intimate, one does not remain intimate.
She was not offended with Kathy, but she was hurt that Mr Herbert should talk to her so seldom. Civility in his own house demanded more. He still kept to her instructions, and visited her father only on Thursdays. She asked him to come other days more than once, but he did not come. So it happened that, though she and Kathy met fairly often, she hardly ever saw him. There was not merely no love left, but not a spark of friendliness.
‘I suppose men are like that always,’ she thought. ‘They care for a short time, and then it is done with, and they forget entirely.’
24
The Herberts’ was a happy marriage. It was not what the tie with Mary would have been. They did not know what each was going to say before the words were uttered, but presumably not one husband or wife in a million do. Indeed, they were often completely astray as to what the other was driving at. The union was quite unequal intellectually. The language he spoke to her was not the language in which he thought; the life of his mind was apart from hers. He had soon given up reading English classics to her; they laughed now at the recollection.
It was owing to this intellectual disparity that Mr Herbert kept up his old friendships more than is generally the case with men who are happily married. He went now and then for a night or two to Cambridge, and his relish of the talk in the Combination Room after Hall was rather too much the joy of seeing rain after drought. Mary would have been wounded. Kathy would have thought, ‘Of course he wants more than I can give him, bless him’, regarding intellectual conversation as a sort of rocking-horse for a beloved child.
One sees every day that the unequal marriages, on whichever side the inferiority may be, are as happy as any other, possibly happier. Mary was the one person Mr Herbert had met who was truly akin to him. In their marriage, therefore, something would have been wanting that he had now – high spirits, geniality, light-hearted courage, which neither dreaded troubles before they came nor brooded over them when they were past; a good, tough, reasonable insensitiveness, which sometimes repelled him, but attracted him also, and fortified him. He leaned on the calm and steadfast Kathy. She was more of a mother than Mary would have been, not by any means more tender. While still feeling him above her, she found he required much protecting and looking after.
‘You are quaint, Crab,’ she would say. ‘Sometimes you seem as if you’d been in the nursery all your life.’
Her eye detected in an instant the lapses to which the ‘brainy’ are particularly liable – losing their notes of invitation, looking out the Sunday train when they are travelling on Monday. The efficiency, tempered by sweetness, of Kathy’s motherliness was such that Mr Herbert at times was on the verge of being afraid of it. Few people have a better opinion of themselves than the efficient, successful married woman; but Kathy remained what she had always been, boundlessly proud as a Hollings, but in herself as humble as Mary.
She bore with Mr Herbert’s moods, s
arcasm, and irritability much better than Mary would have done. Mary would have been too indulgently sympathetic over them, and then would have felt them too much. Kathy often did not observe them, and when she did, disregarded them. Once she was sure Mr Herbert was what she called ‘all right inside,’ she did not mind them.
When they had to start life together again after her return from the Riviera, both had determined, whatever happened, the marriage must now be a success. During Lesbia’s long first visit Kathy had sucked in insinuations continually from her, now here, now there. That was ended for good and all.
Habit helped them. It helped Mr Herbert, for instance, to get on with Kathy’s jokes; not to listen to them, but to listen to her ringing laugh, which to his ears was one of the pleasantest sounds in Nature, not musical, but delightful, like the cawing of rooks.
What helped their marriage most was the children. They had another boy when the twins were eighteen months old. Kathy managed her sons – one was fractious and slow in developing – as easily as she managed Bimbo. Her time of trial might come later, when she had a daughter with Mr Herbert’s difficult nature, but without his sex to plead for her. In the children’s service she gave up hunting and sold Taffy. She was dutiful, though she would have felt uncomfortable if duty had been talked about. She called it ‘going hard at one’s job.’ If there is any unpleasant American phrase for duty, she used that too. After her marriage she did what few of her former set were capable of – grew up.