Part 6

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."

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.