It was on a May day, and I saw
Mary accompany her husband as
far as the first crossing, whence
she waved him out of sight as
if he had boarded an Atlantic-liner.
All this time she wore the face
of a woman happily married who
meant to go straight home, there
to await her lord's glorious
return; and the military-looking
gentleman watching her with a
bored smile saw nothing better
before him than a chapter on
the Domestic Felicities. Oh,
Mary, can you not provide me
with the tiniest little plot?
Hallo!
No sooner was she hid from
him than she changed into another
woman; she was now become a calculating
purposeful madam, who looked
around her covertly and, having
shrunk in size in order to appear
less noticeable, set off nervously
on some mysterious adventure.
"The deuce!" thought
I, and followed her.
Like one anxious to keep an
appointment, she frequently consulted
her watch, looking long at it,
as if it were one of those watches
that do not give up their secret
until you have made a mental
calculation. Once she kissed
it. I had always known that she
was fond of her cheap little
watch, which he gave her, I think,
on the day I dropped the letter,
but why kiss it in the street?
Ah, and why then replace it so
hurriedly in your leather-belt,
Mary, as if it were guilt to
you to kiss to-day, or any day,
the watch your husband gave you?
It will be seen that I had
made a very rapid journey from
light thoughts to uneasiness.
I wanted no plot by the time
she reached her destination,
a street of tawdry shops. She
entered none of them, but paced
slowly and shrinking from observation
up and down the street, a very
figure of shame; and never had
I thought to read shame in the
sweet face of Mary A----. Had
I crossed to her and pronounced
her name I think it would have
felled her, and yet she remained
there, waiting. I, too, was waiting
for him, wondering if this was
the man, or this, or this, and
I believe I clutched my stick.
Did I suspect Mary? Oh, surely
not for a moment of time. But
there was some foolishness here;
she was come without the knowledge
of her husband, as her furtive
manner indicated, to a meeting
she dreaded and was ashamed to
tell him of; she was come into
danger; then it must be to save,
not herself but him; the folly
to be concealed could never have
been Mary's. Yet what could have
happened in the past of that
honest boy from the consequences
of which she might shield him
by skulking here? Could that
laugh of his have survived a
dishonour? The open forehead,
the curly locks, the pleasant
smile, the hundred ingratiating
ways which we carry with us out
of childhood, they may all remain
when the innocence has fled,
but surely the laugh of the morning
of life must go. I have never
known the devil retain his grip
on that.
But Mary was still waiting.
She was no longer beautiful;
shame had possession of her face,
she was an ugly woman. Then the
entanglement was her husband's,
and I cursed him for it. But
without conviction, for, after
all, what did I know of women?
I have some distant memories
of them, some vain inventions.
But of men--I have known one
man indifferent well for over
forty years, have exulted in
him (odd to think of it), shuddered
at him, wearied of him, been
willing (God forgive me) to jog
along with him tolerantly long
after I have found him out; I
know something of men, and, on
my soul, boy, I believe I am
wronging you.
Then Mary is here for some
innocent purpose, to do a good
deed that were better undone,
as it so scares her. Turn back,
you foolish, soft heart, and
I shall say no more about it.
Obstinate one, you saw the look
on your husband's face as he
left you. It is the studio light
by which he paints and still
sees to hope, despite all the
disappointments of his not ignoble
ambitions. That light is the
dower you brought him, and he
is a wealthy man if it does not
flicker.
So anxious to be gone, and
yet she would not go. Several
times she made little darts,
as if at last resolved to escape
from that detestable street,
and faltered and returned like
a bird to the weasel. Again she
looked at her watch and kissed
it.
Oh, Mary, take flight. What
madness is this? Woman, be gone.
Suddenly she was gone. With
one mighty effort and a last
terrified look round, she popped
into a pawnshop.
Long before she emerged I understood
it all, I think even as the door
rang and closed on her; why the
timid soul had sought a street
where she was unknown, why she
crept so many times past that
abhorred shop before desperately
venturing in, why she looked
so often at the watch she might
never see again. So desperately
cumbered was Mary to keep her
little house over her head, and
yet the brave heart was retaining
a smiling face for her husband,
who must not even know where
her little treasures were going.
It must seem monstrously cruel
of me, but I was now quite light-
hearted again. Even when Mary
fled from the shop where she
had left her watch, and I had
peace of mind to note how thin
and worn she had become, as if
her baby was grown too big for
her slight arms, even then I
was light-hearted. Without attempting
to follow her, I sauntered homeward
humming a snatch of song with
a great deal of fal-de-lal-de-riddle-o
in it, for I can never remember
words. I saw her enter another
shop, baby linen shop or some
nonsense of that sort, so it
was plain for what she had popped
her watch; but what cared I?
I continued to sing most beautifully.
I lunged gayly with my stick
at a lamp-post and missed it,
whereat a street-urchin grinned,
and I winked at him and slipped
twopence down his back.
I presume I would have chosen
the easy way had time been given
me, but fate willed that I should
meet the husband on his homeward
journey, and his first remark
inspired me to a folly.
"How is Timothy?" he
asked; and the question opened
a way
so attractive that I think no
one whose dull life craves for
colour could have resisted it.
"He is no more," I
replied impulsively.
The painter was so startled
that he gave utterance to a very
oath of pity, and I felt a sinking
myself, for in these hasty words
my little boy was gone, indeed;
all my bright dreams of Timothy,
all my efforts to shelter him
from Mary's scorn, went whistling
down the wind.
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