Part 6

She came to the door with him and stood at the top of the steps as he got into the car, one hand resting lightly on the stone balustrade.

At the turn of the drive, Roger looked back.

The light was failing, and rooks were flying over the chimneys to reach home before dusk fell. Sarah Greene had come down the steps and was standing, looking up at them with her head thrown back as they flew over her roof. She stood quite motionless and absorbed, and did not notice when the car turned the corner and was lost to sight.

MRS. RODNEY GREENE

MRS. RODNEY GREENE

I

The birth, growth and development of Edith Beckett was in the nature of a prolonged prelude to the life of Edith Greene.

She was brought up with but one ideal: to be a good wife and mother, and to set about being the first, at least, at as early an age as possible. This concentration on a single aim amply repaid itself.

When Edith married in 1900 she was equipped with a complete knowledge of the usual faults of the young married man, of the dangerous tendencies which must be nipped in the bud by his loving and protective wife, and of the special points which she must remember to keep always in mind when building up out of the faulty material to hand a perfect specimen of the genus "husband."

She realised beforehand that even on the honeymoon a young wife could not afford to be contented with any lapse from these high standards which it was her duty to impose upon the man whom she had honoured with her hand; one must begin as one meant to go on.

In this Spartan mood Edith Beckett steeled herself to marry Rodney Greene, and it is fair to say that never once did she fall into the pitiful weakness of condoning in silence any breach on Rodney's part, of manners, morals, or good behaviour.

II

Their wedding was a successful one. Edith's undeniable good looks showed to advantage in their conventional setting of Chilly white satin, stiffly wired orange blossom and floating veils.

It was generally understood that the young couple intended to spend their honeymoon on the Continent, staying the first night at Dover, but a proper atmosphere of mystification hid their actual destination.

After the last guest had departed, Mrs. Beckett, subsiding into the nearest chair, indulged in a few tears of mixed emotion and fatigue.

"Wasn't the dear child looking lovely?" she said. "I thought the way she looked up at Rodney when he put on the ring was just beautiful. I told her to be sure and look up just then so that everyone could see her profile, and even in the midst of all the excitement she didn't forget."

Mrs. Beckett sighed contentedly.

"Very nice indeed," answered Mr. Beckett. "In fact it all went very well. Plenty of champagne, wasn't there? I ordered an extra six dozen to be on the safe side."

"Well, well," said Mrs. Beckett inconsequently. "Our little Edith's gone now. They must be in the train. I just hope Rodney will be good enough to her and take care of her."

A glimpse into the carriage of the train, rushing through the flat fields of Kent, would have reassured Mrs. Beckett.

Edith was leaning back restfully, very calm, very pretty, while Rodney leaned forward from the seat opposite and kissed her hand devotedly in the intervals of conversation.

"I really think it was a very pretty wedding." She spoke with a satisfied intonation. "Everyone admired my dress and thought my spray of flowers much more original than a round bouquet."

"You were wonderful, my darling. When I put the ring on and you looked up at me my heart missed a beat."

"Dear Rodney," said Edith affectionately, but suddenly her face stiffened. Rodney had taken out his cigarette case and was actually lighting a cigarette.

"Surely you aren't going to smoke now, Rodney," she rebuked him.

"Would you rather I didn't?"

"Yes, much rather. I don't think this is the time for smoking."

Rodney threw away the cigarette.

"Oh, well," he said good-naturedly, "I expect I can manage to wait till we get to Dover."

"You're surely not dependent on a trivial thing like a cigarette are you?" asked Edith, in a slightly shocked voice.

"Of course I am; dreadfully dependent on all sorts of trivial things. Cigarettes and you and good cooking and a glass of port every night."

He smiled at her, but her answering smile was a little formal.

"Of course I know you're only teasing, Rodney, but still there is a certain amount of truth in what you say. I've noticed you are apt to rely too much on things like smoking and port and so on, and I've always been brought up to believe that as soon as you feel yourself becoming a slave to a habit you should drop it at once."

Rodney looked blank for a moment.

"Don't let's bother about that now," he said. "Bad habits are very pleasant after all, and you don't want to change me the minute you've married me, do you?"

He spoke lightly, but Edith answered in a serious vein.

"Not all at once, of course, dear, but I do hope I shall be able to influence you a great deal."

Rodney missed the austere note in her voice, and laughed.

"Of course you will," he said enthusiastically. "You shall influence me as much as you like, Mrs. Greene. I love you immensely and you shall do just what you please."

"No, but seriously, Rodney," persisted Edith. "It isn't a case of doing what I please; we must try to improve each other. A marriage where both people don't improve is a failure."

"Darling, you're quoting your mother, and anyhow it's nonsense," said Rodney. "Besides I want to kiss you."

The rest of the journey was tranquil, and in the bustle of sorting our their luggage at the Station, Rodney forgot to light a cigarette. It was with a genuine sigh of relief that he followed Edith into their bedroom at the hotel, strode over to the window, drew back the curtains to look out over the dark harbour and fumbled again for his cigarette case. Edith noticed the gesture. She came and stood beside him and gently took the case out of his hand.

"Darling Rodney," she said, "I know you like me always to say what I think, even if it's a little difficult."

She stopped and Rodney flung an arm round her and said encouragingly:

"What is it, dear?"

"I must say, Rodney, that it would seem to me quite wrong and not respectful, for you to smoke in my bedroom."

"But hang it, darling, it's my bedroom, too," Rodney expostulated.

Edith blushed deeply.

"Yes, of course," she murmured. "Yes, in a way it is, but still it wouldn't be quite nice for you to smoke in it."

Her confusion was attractive. Rodney felt an ecstatic thrill at the thought that this was the first time that they had shared a bedroom together, and he held her to him and kissed her passionately.

But all Edith's rebukes did not lead to kissing. When they returned from their honeymoon Rodney found himself enmeshed in a net of feminine dislikes, restrictions and vetoes.

The details of Edith's campaign for mutual improvement outlined themselves one by one; but it struck Rodney as a little hard that on his side the improvement was to be carried out by definite acts of self-denial, by giving up old habits and forming new ones, whereas on Edith's side apparently the foundation was perfectly sound, and all that was necessary was to cultivate virtues already in existence.

"You know, Edwin," he said to his brother one evening, a few months after his marriage and a few months before Edwin's, "there's a Hell of a lot of difference between being a bachelor and a married man. I never realised how much I'd have to change. I used to think I was pretty harmless, but according to Edith, I'm a mass of poisonous habits. Not that she isn't a wonderful woman," he added loyally, "clever and capable and all that. But she certainly has got a bee in her bonnet about drink and smoking and language."

"Women are like that," said Edwin gloomily. "You know it's funny how helpless and bullied Dora used to be, with old Mrs. Pilkington giving her no end of a bad time, but now they are running about together as thick as thieves, choosing the furniture, choosing the house, and if I happen to suggest anything you may be sure it doesn't fit in with their scheme."

"That's just it. They've always got a scheme. Now Edith's scheme is that I should gradually be weaned away from drink. You know how little I drink, Edwin; less than most of the men I know, but she thinks it's a habit and I'm a slave to it or something like that, and you know I believe she'd put one of those stinking pills they're always advertising into my coffee if she thought it would make me give up port."

Edwin laughed morosely.

"I can just see her dropping it in," he said. "All for your own good, you know, and it pains her more than you."

His face grew serious, and he added rather diffidently: "I say, Rodney, I haven't had an awful lot of experience, you know; you might just tell me, does Edith cry a lot?"

"Cry?" repeated Rodney, looking startled. "Oh, cry. No, she doesn't. Why, does Dora?"

"Well, yes she does, rather a lot. She bursts into tears pretty easily and takes offence, but then of course she's always had such a rotten time."

"Edith takes offence a good deal, but she doesn't cry. It makes her sort of cold and dignified. In fact I think she feels she's getting on with her self-improvement campaign when she just reasons gently with me instead of getting angry."

Rodney suddenly felt guilty of disloyalty to his good-looking and adequate wife. He adopted the hearty tone of the happily married man and clapped his brother on the shoulder.

"Edith's all right," he said, "and you'll find Dora'll be all right, too. Don't worry, Edwin; things settle themselves nicely."

That same evening he took a less optimistic view. He was undressing slowly, sitting in his shirt with one shoe in his hand, luxuriously enjoying a cigarette, when Edith came into his dressing-room.

"May I come in, darling?" she asked, shutting the door behind her without waiting for permission. Rodney looked with pleasure at the two long dark plaits falling over her pink dressing gown, and at the white swansdown lying softly at the base of her white throat.

"Do," he answered heartily. "Do come and sit down and talk to me; I know I'm being slow."

Edith bent to kiss him, but drew back with a look of disgust.

"Oh, Rodney," she said gently, "smoking again! I thought we had arranged that all the upper part of the house was to be kept free from the dirt and smell of your cigarettes."

"We never arranged anything of the sort. I don't bring the dirt and smell as you call it into your bedroom or the drawing-room, but damn it, I don't see why I shouldn't occasionally smoke a cigarette in my own dressing-room."

"Just as you please, of course," said Edith turning away.

"Don't go like that," urged Rodney, putting out the offending cigarette. "Surely it isn't worth quarrelling about.

"It isn't only that, Rodney," said Edith gravely. "It's much more serious and fundamental than that. Your language really horrifies me, it's so terribly coarse."

Rodney was aghast.

"Coarse," he repeated, "how do you mean, coarse?"

"Why, there you are, darling," said Edith more kindly. "You see you don't even know you've just sworn at me."

"I never meant to swear at you, Edith. I'm sorry if I did. But look here, dear, let's just talk out once and for all, this matter of not smoking upstairs. It really is nonsense that I shouldn't smoke in my own dressing-room."

Edith smiled tenderly on him and laid her hand over his mouth.

"Don't say any more," she urged, "I don't want you to have anything to be sorry for to-night, and I know that what I have to tell you will make you look at things from my point of view. Listen, dear; I came to tell you some wonderful news: I don't know whether you've looked ahead or not, and thought about all the responsibility of having a child, but you'll have to now, darling; you're going to be a father."

Her voice dropped to a reverent whisper as she added, "It's almost too marvellous to be true, isn't it, Rodney?"

Rodney's feelings were mixed. His genuine pleasure at the thought of having a child was impaired by Edith's manner of imparting the news to him. He perceived already that the child would be used as a goad to further Edith's schemes for a less easy-going, more disciplined, habit of life.

"I'm very glad," he said heavily. "Dear Edith." But even as he stood up on one stockinged foot, to kiss her, he thought gloomily that it was a little hard on him that an extraneous circumstance should step in and win Edith's battle for her.

"You're really pleased, aren't you?" she asked, and an unusual note of wistfulness in her voice banished his resentment.

"Of course I am, my darling," he said warmly. "I'm delighted. I'll toe the line all right from now onwards. You won't catch me smoking up here again I promise you."

Edith unbent completely. The opposition had wilted; she could afford to be generous.

"Dearest Rodney," she said affectionately, "you know how much I care for you. I only speak about these depressing things because I feel I ought to. And now I must go to bed."

She disengaged herself gently from his arms, and moved towards the door.

"You'll come at once, won't you?" she said. "I do get so tired of waiting while you loiter over your undressing. Don't be long, dear."

She shut the door quietly and Rodney hurried out of his clothes into pyjamas, determined not to risk another reproach merely for the pleasure of ending the day in that atmosphere of contented leisure which he found so congenial.

III

It was three years before Rodney fully appreciated the fact that providence would always win Edith's battles for her, and would moreover give such a twist to her victory that the loser was often obliged to admit that he had been wrong.

One year after their marriage, when their son Geoffrey was a few weeks old, Rodney was still fighting for supremacy in their common life.

Edith was slow in recovering her strength; she was at the stage of having breakfast in bed and a long rest in the afternoon, and the doctor advised her to go with the baby for a change of air. At this juncture a letter arrived from Rodney's mother inviting her daughter-in-law and her new grandson for a long visit, as soon as they were well enough to face the journey.

Rodney went cheerfully up to his wife's bedroom, carrying the letter, and sat down on the edge of her bed.

"Here's a letter from Mother," he said. "She wants you and the boy to go and stay for as long as you can, just as soon as you are able. Isn't that nice and convenient?"

"Well, I don't quite know," answered Edith slowly. "I wonder why she didn't write directly to me."

"Oh, no special reason; I suppose she just happened to be writing to me so she asked me to send you down to her for a bit, and really it fits in very well; the doctor seems to want you to go to the country for a week or two."

"Oh I see," said Edith, "it's quite a casual invitation, is it?"

"Well, I don't quite know what you mean by casual. You know Mother is awfully keen to see the baby, and you know she hasn't been well enough to come to town, so in the circumstances it seems to me very natural. Shall I write for you and say you'll be delighted to go next week?"

"No, don't do that, dear," said Edith firmly. "I'm not quite sure that it would be the wisest thing to do. As you say, your Mother hasn't been well, and I'm not very strong yet, so it would really be rather a houseful of invalids."

"I don't think you need worry about that. Mother's perfectly all right now; it was only a sort of serious chill, I believe, and I know she wants to see the little chap."

"Yes, of course she does," Edith's voice was rather noticeably patient. "But I'm really not convinced that it would be a good thing to go there now."

"Nonsense, Edith," said Rodney, "I don't know what all this fuss is about; of course it's the obvious thing to do, but we won't discuss it now. There's no need to write to Mother at once."

"Very well, Rodney dear," said Edith coldly and submissively, and the subject was temporarily closed.

That evening Edith developed, along with a severe headache, a slight rise in temperature.

"I think I'd like to ring up the doctor, Mr. Greene, if you don't mind," said the monthly nurse. "Of course baby is three weeks old and Mrs. Greene is really nearly well again, but still I don't like her temperature going up."

"Please do ring him up, Nurse," urged Rodney. "It's worrying; I can't think why she should get a feverish headache like this."

"I don't quite understand it either," admitted the nurse, "Mrs. Greene has been looking worried and not herself all day, but I know of nothing to account for it."

Rodney's heart sank. He was oppressed by grim forebodings, and it was no surprise to him when the doctor came downstairs after examining Edith and said to him:

"Well, there's nothing much wrong, Mr. Greene; only a nervous headache and a little fever, but I'm afraid you'll have to give up this plan of yours that Mrs. Greene is worrying herself into fits about."

"What plan?" asked Rodney dully.

"I understand from Mrs. Greene that you wanted to rush her down to the country to show the baby to its grandmother."

"That wasn't quite the idea," explained Rodney. "I understood on the other hand that you wanted my wife to have a change of air, and my Mother very kindly asked her to go down to their place for a bit."

"Oh yes, I see. But I'm afraid it won't quite do. Mrs. Greene has worked herself into a state of nervous excitement about it. But I shouldn't worry; there's very often a feeling of strain between a young woman and her mother-in-law that works itself out in time, and of course Mrs. Greene is sensitive and highly strung."

"Highly strung?" queried Rodney, "Edith you mean? But she's the calmest, most determined person I've ever seen."

The doctor was putting on his gloves.

"Quite so," he agreed. "A splendid patient; lots of self-control, but very sensitive none the less, and I think you'll be well advised to give way to her over this. Goodnight, Mr. Greene."

He hurried out, and Rodney sat down to write to his mother.

While Edith was at Bognor with the nurse and baby, Mrs. Greene had a second and more serious attack of pain which proved to be not a chill, but appendicitis, necessitating an immediate operation. Edith's first letter to her husband was full of sympathy for his anxiety; her second expressed pleasure at her mother-in-law's recovery; but on her return she could not refrain from saying: "And wasn't it a blessing, darling, that you finally abandoned your absurd plan of sending us to your Mother for a rest?"

To which Rodney could only answer lamely:

"Yes, as things turned out I suppose it was a good thing you didn't go."

Two years after their marriage he no longer attempted to impose his wishes on Edith, but he still fought to protect his own liberty of action. In the house, in all matters pertaining to it, and in the conduct of their joint life, he deferred to her completely. He still, however, insisted on an annual fishing holiday without her, he frequented his club in spite of her disapproval, and he was loyal to several friendships which she deplored.

It was over one of these that Providence again played a hand for Edith.

Her opening gambit was tentative. Rodney came home one evening with a healthy colour in his cheeks.

"There's spring in the air to-night," he said. "I walked all the way home and it was fine. By jove, I'll soon have to begin looking out my rods if I'm going to get ready for Easter."

"You're not going with Jim Turner again this year, are you?" asked Edith gravely.

"Well, I haven't said anything to him lately; I haven't seen him at the club as a matter of fact, but of course it's an understood thing between us that if we can get away, we go off together in April for a week or so."

"I don't think he can possibly expect your company this year," said Edith firmly.

Rodney looked at her cautiously.

"I don't know why you should say that," he said, "Of course Jim will be expecting me to join up with him."

Edith plunged into her subject.

"Have you considered at all that if you go away with him it will look as if you approved of his conduct these last few months."

"I don't know what you mean," mumbled Rodney, "I've known old Jim for years, and he's all right."

"But you must know that he's been making his wife very unhappy all this winter."

"I know she makes him pretty unhappy; she's a hard-mouthed, bitter-looking creature."

Edith's colour heightened.

"Really, Rodney," she said, "you force me to be indelicate, and to speak plainly. Do you not know that Jim Turner has been behaving disgracefully with an actress."

Rodney looked uncomfortable.

"I don't want to know anything about his private affairs," he said. "Jim's a jolly good sort anyhow, and, what's more, I'd like to know how you got hold of all this stuff about him and his actress."

"It's enough that I do know," said Edith seriously. "Women are loyal to each other, Rodney. I never can understand why people say we have no sense of honour. It's really most unfair. Women tell each other everything and help each other whenever they can."

"Well I hope to heaven nobody will go bleating to Mrs. Turner about Jenny Eaves, that's all," said Rodney. "Jim's got enough to put up with already, God knows."

Edith was quick to perceive his admission, but she let the subject drop for the moment. A few days later, having cogitated the matter from various angles, she asked Mrs. Turner to tea and added mysteriously to her note of invitation, "I'm anxious to have a little private talk with you. There is something I feel you ought to know, and though it is a difficult topic for me to touch on, I feel I must make the effort to do so."