Part 7

In writing this note Edith was actuated by perfectly pure motives. Her own words as to the honourableness of her sex had resounded pleasantly in her ears. Thinking the matter over afterwards it seemed to her no less than her duty, if rumours were gathering unpleasantly round Jim Turner's name, to repeat them to his wife, in order that Mrs. Turner might scotch them by some decisive action.

Only one form of decisive action occurred to Edith. She assumed that Mrs. Turner would behave as she, Edith Greene, would behave in a similar predicament--though such a thing was almost unimaginable. She would deal summarily with her husband, pointing out where his duty lay, and emphasising the necessity for a clean break from temptation in the form of the actress, and she would then arrange to be seen about on good terms with her husband, in public and at the houses of their various friends. The whole thing would then blow over, and Edith Greene decided that in that case Rodney would not be condoning a moral wrong by going for his usual holiday with Jim Turner.

Mrs. Turner came to tea. She chatted pleasantly till she had drunk a cup of tea and eaten a sandwich, and then, laying down her cup, she came straight to the point.

"I think you wanted to speak to me about something," she said quietly.

"I do, Mrs. Turner," answered Edith. "It is extremely awkward for me to do so; I don't even know you very well, but it seemed to me that as an acquaintance I owed it to you to repeat to your face what people are saying behind your back."

Mrs. Turner stiffened.

"Indeed," she said. "And what are people saying behind my back?"

Edith answered courageously.

"There is a great deal of gossip centring round your husband's name," she said. "You probably know nothing about it; the wife is often the last person to hear of these things. People suspect him of having an affair with an actress; in fact it is more than a suspicion. He has been seen about everywhere with this Miss Eaves, and my husband says he never even sees him at lunch at the club nowadays."

Mrs. Turner rose. She was pale and her mouth was drawn into a thin line.

"I had no idea of this," she said. "Thank you, Mrs. Greene, for telling me so much; I shall find out the truth and take steps about it at once. Believe me, I am grateful to you."

"I'm so glad you take it like that," said Edith cordially. "It was a very painful thing to speak about, but I felt it was the best thing to do, so I just took my courage in both hands."

Mrs. Turner ceremoniously took her leave, and Edith was conscious of the pleasant feeling of having carried out well an unpleasant duty, but the steps taken by Mrs. Turner proved not to be what she had so confidently anticipated.

She heard the results of her well-meant interference a week later. Rodney came home looking depressed, and sat in a glum silence all evening.

"What's wrong, Rodney?" asked Edith finally.

"Well I saw Jim at the club to-day at lunch, and there's been a hellish bust up. It seems some woman went and told Mrs. Turner about that affair of his, and she went poking about a bit, and found out it had been pretty serious and so on, and now it's all up. She's left the house, and she's been to her solicitors and is going to divorce him. It's a sickening business; Jim is very cut up about it all."

Rodney smiled bleakly. "Anyhow you'll be pleased," he said. "It puts the lid on our holiday all right; I don't think I'll go myself now."

Edith's eyes had widened with dismay at his first words, and as he went on her breathing grew hurried and her lips parted in an expression of annoyance and perturbation. She was sincerely upset.

"My dear Rodney," she said, "I'm very sorry indeed about this, especially as I am the woman you refer to who spoke to Mrs. Turner."

"By God, Edith," said Rodney angrily. "What the devil did you do that for? You've made a frightful mess of things."

"Do be calm, Rodney," urged Edith, her self-possession returning as she prepared to justify herself. "I had no option but to speak to Mrs. Turner. After all I had heard it would have been utterly base to have let things slide when a word might have helped to mend them."

"I simply don't understand you Edith; you're talking like an imbecile. You've never liked Jim Turner; you didn't want me to go away with him; and now that you've succeeded in putting a spoke in his wheel, you say it would have been utterly base to do anything else; you're beyond my understanding."

Edith stood up indignantly.

"You entirely misjudge me," she said. "I acted from the purest motives in doing this very unpleasant thing, and indeed, Rodney, you ought to know me well enough to realise that a petty personal consideration like your going away with Mr. Turner against my wishes, would never have influenced me either way."

Rodney looked at her; she returned his gaze steadily, and he knew that she was convinced of her own sincerity.

"I'm sorry," he said heavily. "I think you were terribly wrong in what you did, but I know you meant well."

"Thank you, Rodney," she answered. "It's generous of you to admit that at least; and I should like to say that I'm sorry things have turned out as they have. But you know, dear, I can't help feeling that since Mr. Turner's affair had apparently gone to such a shocking length, it is perhaps only right that it should be exposed."

Rodney made no answer; he only shrugged his shoulders and sat staring in front of him, his drooping attitude indicating acute mental depression.

Edith drew up a low chair, sat down beside him, captured one of his hands and patted it gently.

"Don't worry, my dear," she said, "I have a delightful plan. Instead of going off by yourself, why not take me with you this year. I can leave Geoffrey with Nurse, and we would thoroughly enjoy our few days together, just you and I."

Her voice was persuasive, her expression appealing, and the flickering fire lit up her rich colouring and wide dark eyes. Looking at her clear dark beauty Rodney felt that he could certainly enjoy a holiday with her and he pushed away the thought of Jim's betrayal as he put his arms round her and said enthusiastically, "I'd like it immensely, darling; we'll go where you like and when you like."

Three years after their marriage he was surprised to find how easy it was to let Edith arrange their life and dispose of his leisure as she pleased. Her looks were a constant delight to him; her manner in general was restful, and their relationship was smooth and effortless so long as he never opposed her. On the rare occasions when he did, he always half expected some unforeseen hazard to intervene on Edith's behalf; he had ceased to expect a fair deal.

When in 1904 she expressed a desire to move to a larger house he demurred on the grounds of expense and ostentation.

"I think we owe it to ourselves to have a better setting now," said Edith. "And really dear, you must acknowledge that we can easily afford it."

"Well, I don't know about that. Business isn't bad of course, but a move is an expensive thing. I'd rather leave it for a year or two."

"Now darling, don't be difficult about it," said Edith playfully. "I'm quite determined to take the house in Sussex Square; it's just right in every way."

"So you've even found the house we're to go to have you?" asked Rodney a little bitterly.

Edith blushed. "I suppose it is rather tiresome of me to have chosen it myself, but I do like to save you worry, dear, and after all the house is my province and the business yours."

She smiled coaxingly, but Rodney shook his head.

"No Edith," he said, "I'm sorry, but I won't do it this year. Our income doesn't justify it, and we'll do very well as we are."

"Of course we will if you have quite decided against a move; you're sure you wouldn't just like to look at the Sussex Square house?"

"I'm quite sure," said Rodney emphatically, and Edith laughed good-humouredly and only answered, "Well, that settles it, of course."

But a few weeks later she came into his dressing-room one night and settled herself comfortably in an armchair.

"Rodney dear," she began, "I have something to tell you. We're going to have another child, and I think that really does mean we must move to the bigger house we were talking of the other day."

Rodney felt a definite sensation of shock as if some familiar string had been twanged in his brain. As he congratulated Edith and expressed his own gratification his thoughts were racing madly, but it was not till Edith left the room, looking back from the door to say with a plaintive accent, "Do hurry up, darling," that he remembered the incident of three years ago.

It was difficult to imagine that there had ever been a time when he had smoked upstairs, but for a moment the parallel stood out sharply; both occasions had been used by Edith to gain some small point, and to establish her ascendancy over him. As the recollection faded into dimness he smiled contentedly. Edith had consolidated her position as good wife and good mother, the naturally dominant factor in the home.

IV

The portrait entitled, "Mrs. Rodney Greene with Geoffrey, Lavinia and Hugh," exhibited in the Academy of 1910, was much admired by the public and favourably commented on by the Press. Edith herself, looking at it hung in her own dining-room after it had been returned from Burlington House, felt her eyelids prick with sudden tears at the revelation of her own triumphant motherhood.

She had been painted in a wine-red gown, sitting in a high-backed chair with her face turned a little sideways and downwards, brooding tenderly over Lavinia and Hugh who stood at her left knee, while her right arm was thrown affectionately round Geoffrey's shoulders, as if to compensate for the fact that she had turned away from where he stood on the right.

All three children were in white: Geoffrey and Hugh in sailor suits, Lavinia in a softly hanging silk dress. All three were upright and dark, with clear soft colour in their cheeks, but whereas both the boys were gazing out of the canvas, with serious dreaming faces, Lavinia had looked up at her mother, and her lips were parted in a smile over her small first teeth.

This happy, unstudied little pose was the starting point of all Edith's comments on the portrait, until the day when Mrs. Hugh Greene, her husband's aunt, came to tea and asked to have it shown to her.

"I only went once to the Academy this summer," she explained, "and though of course I saw the portrait and admired it very much, I should certainly like to see it again."

"It looks very nice in the dining-room," Edith answered as they went downstairs. "In fact we are extremely pleased with it, though I think perhaps it flatters me a little." She laughed deprecatingly.

"I didn't think that when I saw it," Mrs. Hugh answered simply. "You are very good-looking, my dear."

At thirty-one Edith Greene was strikingly handsome. Tall, robust, but not yet giving the impression of set solidity that increasingly marred her looks, she carried herself so well that the florid fashions of 1910 did not spoil the lines of her figure. Her colouring was lovely: dark hair and dark eyes deepened by the steady, warm glow in her cheeks; and her features were well marked but not heavy, though the mouth was set in lines of command and resolution.

Mrs. Hugh looking at the portrait of Edith and her children, and then turning to look at Edith standing by her side, noticed this accent of command, of over-emphasised self-confidence, but she only said, "Yes, I think it is an excellent piece of work."

"Of course Lavinia is really the keynote of the whole thing," Edith began eagerly. "You see how she's turned her little head to smile up at me, and how confident she looks. That was quite spontaneous. She was posed looking straight ahead like the boys, but at the second sitting she just put herself like that. It seemed almost a tribute to me, Aunt Sarah; it's wonderful when your child shows its confidence and love."

"Yes, I see," said Mrs. Hugh. "Lavinia is certainly a dear gay little creature."

"Would you call her expression gay?" asked Edith, disappointed. "It seems much more than that to me."

Mrs Hugh turned to Edith.

"My dear," she said, "I don't approve of interfering and giving advice, and I've got no children of my own, so I'm really not qualified to speak, but I've sometimes wondered if you're not perhaps a little greedy with your children."

She spoke gently, but the word struck Edith like a blow. Her face flushed deeply, but she answered coldly and politely:

"I don't think I quite understand you, Aunt Sarah."

"You're an excellent mother, I know," said Mrs. Hugh, "And you must just forgive me for criticising you, but my dear, I think perhaps you enjoy too much the mere fact of being a mother, and that is apt to make you expect too much from your children; not too much affection of course, but too much faith and admiration."

"I think it only natural to encourage my children to have faith in me."

"Of course you do, but let them know you're fallible, Edith. It only makes for unhappiness to bring them up to believe you are always right. It isn't natural."

"I would think it more unnatural if they didn't trust their mother, Aunt Sarah."

"My dear Edith, you don't quite understand me. I'm only hoping that on the one hand you'll let them develop along their own lines, and that on the other hand you won't take their natural love for you as anything so important as a tribute; I think that was the word you used."

"Perhaps it isn't quite easy for us to understand each other on the subject of my feelings for my children. Shall we go upstairs now?"

Edith's voice was icy, but Mrs. Hugh was not daunted by her niece's obvious, though controlled annoyance.

"No," she said briskly, "I'm going now. I suppose it's only natural you should resent what I've said, but think it over, Edith; there's something in it."

Mrs. Hugh retired in good trim, but Edith was unable to sooth the sting left by her criticism.

"By the way, Rodney," she began at dinner, "Aunt Sarah was at tea to-day, and I thought her manner most odd."

"How do you mean, 'odd'? She always seems to me to be full of common sense."

"Well, first of all she asked to see the portrait, and then quite suddenly she attacked me about putting myself on a pedestal and expecting too much from them."

"That sounds very unlike her; she doesn't often butt in."

"I certainly consider that she did to-day. And as a matter of fact, Rodney, I've thought once or twice that she and your mother are both a little sneering and contemptuous about the way I bring up the children."

"Absolute rot I call that. Mother's simply devoted to all three of them."

"Yes, but that's not the point," objected Edith. "I know she likes the children, but I'm not sure that she approves of my attitude to them."

"I don't know anything about that," said Rodney uncomfortably.

"No, but don't you see it's a little hard on me? I have always had such a high ideal of motherhood. I've always tried to live up to it, and I do feel I'm justified so far by the results, but neither your mother nor your Aunt Sarah looks at is quite fairly."

"I think it's a bit difficult for them to appreciate all you do for the kids. Outsiders can only see that you do rather expect all three of them to bow down and worship you, don't you Edith?"

Rodney's words were softened by his smile, but Edith's calm was shattered.

"You're most unjust," she said hotly and confusedly. "I've never had any idea of such a thing. It's a ridiculous phrase to use to me, simply because I hope for a little love and faith from my children, and because I try to influence them in what I think is the right direction. But you will never take it seriously enough, Rodney; it's a constant grief to me that you take their upbringing so lightly."

"Now that is unfair, Edith. I think a lot about their education, but while they are still in the nursery they are in your hands. However, now the point has arisen I might as well say that I do think it would be better if you left them alone a bit more."

"Rodney!" Edith's voice was trembling with anger. "What do you mean?"

"I think they ought to be allowed to think things out for themselves sometimes, and not have to tell you everything and have you discuss it with them. Geoffrey especially; he's quite a big fellow now, he oughtn't to be tied to your apron-strings any longer."

Edith rose and pushed back her chair.

"This is really too much," she said passionately. "First Aunt Sarah, and now you, attacking the things I hold most dear. You must excuse me if I go upstairs; I'm too upset to eat any more dinner."

She left the room, her head held high, and went up to the day nursery, where Geoffrey was having his supper, with a book propped up in front of him.

"Darling," she said sweeping in, her pale frock trailing, "shall I come and sit with you for a little, while you finish your supper?"

As Geoffrey pushed the book away and edged his cocoa forward, she frowned.

"You're not supposed to read at meals, not even at supper," she said sharply. "I've told you that before, haven't I, Geoffrey?"

He did not answer.

"Darling," she went on, unconsciously introducing a grieved note into her voice, "you don't like to vex me I know, but it does vex me when you go against my wishes, and still more when you won't admit to me that you are wrong."

"I like reading," said Geoffrey rebelliously, "and it's only a few minutes anyhow."

"But that doesn't make it any less wrong. You know that, Geoffrey."

Again there was no answer, and Edith sighed.

"I don't know what makes you so unresponsive," she reproached him. "It's only this last few months that you've persistently opposed me. You used to confide in me and trust me, like Hugh and Lavinia."

"They're only babies," muttered Geoffrey, awkward and embarrassed.

"Do you mean that because you're a big boy and go to school you feel you can't be open with me any longer?"

"I don't know," said Geoffrey wearily.

"My dearest boy, it's all so simple," Edith spoke persuasively. "I must be the judge of what is best for you; you must remember I'm your mother." She drew herself up with dignity, and went on, "You can surely understand, dear, that I must know all that my children are doing and thinking so that I can guide them. Now tell me you were wrong, Geoffrey, and hurry into bed."

"I'm sorry," said Geoffrey. "Good-night, Mother." He raised his face to be kissed, but she knew that he had not capitulated; he had merely eluded her.

So far the nursery had not proved as soothing as she had hoped. She went into the night nursery where Lavinia and Hugh were sleeping, and turned on the light. Everything was in order. A little pile of clothes was neatly folded on the rush-bottomed, white-painted chair beside each small bed; the curtains were undrawn; the window open just enough to make the room fresh and sweet. Edith's forehead smoothed itself as she looked about and was satisfied. The small sleepers never stirred; they lay hygienically without pillows, breathing quite correctly through their noses.

Edith felt reassured and quieted. She remembered how difficult it had been for nearly a year to induce Lavinia to go to sleep without sucking a thumb, and how she, alone, had persevered in the attempt to break this habit which nurse was confident would cure itself in time.

This small fact led to a train of thought that restored her shattered prestige. She remembered numberless instances when she had been obliged to exercise tact and perseverance to eradicate some budding trait in one or other of the children. She had noticed Hugh's adenoids before the possibility of trouble in the nose had occurred to nurse. It was she, and not Rodney who dealt with Geoffrey's tendency to deceit and subterfuge, and who was always called upon to arbitrate in any childish difficulty.

Turning off the light she went back to the day nursery where nurse was sitting darning.

"Nurse," she said firmly, "I've said before that Geoffrey is not to read at supper and to-night again I found him with a book."

"Well he only had one page to finish the book, Mrs. Greene, so I thought it wouldn't matter for once."

"I don't believe in that, Nurse," said Edith serenely. "If I make a rule then it is a rule, and there should be no exceptional cases when you allow it to be broken."

"I'm sorry," said Nurse stiffly, and Edith went down to the drawing-room where Rodney was sitting, holding a paper, but looking guiltily over the top of it at the door, evidently expecting her entrance.

"My dear Rodney," she said, "I have been very foolish. It was absurd of me to let myself be vexed by what you said. I know very well that it is only because you cannot possibly enter into my feelings, that you misunderstand and misrepresent me."

Rodney was at a loss. He had been prepared to retract his words but there appeared to be no need to do so. They had already been discounted. He cleared his throat, trying to think of an appropriate and inoffensive reply, but Edith continued her elaborate little speech.

"I ought to realise by now that nobody can share in a mother's responsibility to her children; nobody can appreciate her ideals."

"Well that's putting it a bit strong, you know; after all even a mother is a human being," Rodney spoke with an accent of faint bitterness, but Edith was unperturbed.

"Dear Rodney," she said, "we are a very happy and united family aren't we? I've just been up to the three little people--Hugh and Lavinia sleeping so sweetly--and I feel I need no reward for all I do for them except the consciousness that I mean everything to them. That," she ended nobly, "is all that is necessary to a good mother."

V

As her three children grew older, Edith consciously and tactfully modified her attitude towards them. They had been so accustomed to deferring to her judgment, they had seen their father so constantly adopting her views, and praises of their wonderful mother had rung so continually in their ears that when Geoffrey was eighteen, Lavinia sixteen, and Hugh fifteen, they still kept up the habits of childhood in never opposing her.