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diff --git a/old/67406-0.txt b/old/67406-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index a0c65dd..0000000 --- a/old/67406-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,14844 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Husband’s Story, by David Graham -Phillips - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Husband’s Story - -Author: David Graham Phillips - -Release Date: February 14, 2022 [eBook #67406] - -Language: English - -Produced by: D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by - University of California libraries) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HUSBAND’S STORY *** - - - - - - _The_ - HUSBAND’S STORY - - - - - The - Husband’s Story - - A NOVEL - - BY - DAVID GRAHAM PHILLIPS - - AUTHOR OF - THE FASHIONABLE ADVENTURES OF - JOSHUA CRAIG, OLD WIVES FOR NEW - THE SECOND GENERATION, ETC. - - [Illustration] - - NEW YORK - GROSSET & DUNLAP - PUBLISHERS - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY - D. APPLETON AND COMPANY - - _Published September, 1910_ - - Printed in the United States of America - - - - -THE HUSBAND’S STORY - - - - -WHY - - -Several years ago circumstances thrust me into a position in which it -became possible for the friend who figures in these pages as Godfrey -Loring to do me a favor. He, being both wise and kindly, never misses -a good chance to put another under obligations. He did me the favor. -I gratefully, if reluctantly, acquiesced. Now, after many days, he -collects. When you shall have read what follows, you may utterly reject -my extenuating plea that any and every point of view upon life is -worthy of attention, even though it serve only to confirm us in our -previous ideas and beliefs. You may say that I should have repudiated -my debt, should have refused to edit and publish the manuscript he -confided to me. You may say that the general racial obligation to -mankind--and to womankind--takes precedence over a private and personal -obligation. Unfortunately I happen to be not of the philanthropic -temperament. My sense of the personal is strong; my sense of the -general weak--that is to say, weak in comparison. If “Loring” had -been within reach, I think I should have gone to him and pleaded for -release. But as luck will have it, he is off yachting, to peep about -in the remote inlets and islets of Australasia and the South Seas for -several years. - -To aggravate my situation, in the letter accompanying the manuscript, -after several pages of the discriminating praise most dear to a -writer’s heart, he did me the supreme honor of saying that in his -work he had “striven to copy as closely as might be your style and -your methods--to help me to the hearing I want and to lighten your -labors as editor.” I assure him and the public that in any event I -should have done little editing of his curious production beyond such -as a proofreader might have found necessary. As it is, I have done -practically no editing at all. In form and in substance, from title to -finis, the work is his. I am merely its sponsor--and in circumstances -that would forbid me were I disposed to qualify my sponsorship with -even so mild a disclaimer as reluctance. - -Have I said more than a loyal friend should? If so, on the other hand, -have I not done all that a loyal friend could? - - - - -I - - -I am tempted to begin with our arrival in Fifth Avenue, New York City, -in the pomp and circumstance befitting that region of regal splendor. -I should at once catch the attention of the women; and my literary -friends tell me that to make any headway with a story in America it is -necessary to catch the women, because the men either do not read books -at all or read only what they hear the women talking about. And I know -well--none knows better--that our women of the book-buying class, and -probably of all classes, love to amuse their useless idleness with -books that help them to dream of wasting large sums of money upon -luxuries and extravagances, upon entertaining grand people in grand -houses and being entertained by them. They tell me, and I believe it, -that our women abhor stories of middle-class life, abhor truth-telling -stories of any kind, like only what assures them that the promptings of -their own vanities and sentimental shams are true. - -But patience, gentle reader, you with the foolish, chimera-haunted -brain, with the silly ideas of life, with the ignorance of human -nature including your own self, with the love of sloppy and tawdry -clap trap. Patience, gentle reader. While I shall begin humbly in -the social scale, I shall not linger there long. I shall pass on to -the surroundings of grandeur that entrance your snobbish soul. You -will soon smell only fine perfumes, only the aromas of food cooked by -expensive chefs. You will sit in drawing-rooms, lie in bedrooms as -magnificent as the architects and decorators and other purveyors to -the very rich have been able to concoct. You will be tasting the fine -savors of fashionable names and titles recorded in Burke’s and the -“Almanach de Gotha.” Patience, gentle reader, with your box of caramels -and your hair in curl papers and your household work undone--patience! -A feast awaits you. - -There has been much in the papers these last few years about the -splendid families we--my wife and I--came of. Some time ago one of the -English dukes--a nice chap with nothing to do and a quaint sense of -humor--assembled on his estate for a sort of holiday and picnic all the -members of his ancient and proud family who could be got together by -several months of diligent search. It was a strange and awful throng -that covered the lawns before the ducal castle on the appointed day. -There was a handful of fairly presentable, more or less prosperous -persons. But the most of the duke’s cousins, near and remote, were -tramps, bartenders, jail birds, women of the town, field hands male -and female, sewer cleaners, chimney sweeps, needlewomen, curates, -small shopkeepers, and others of the species that are as a stench -unto delicate, aristocratic nostrils. The duke was delighted with his -picnic, pronounced it a huge success. But then His Grace had a sense of -humor and was not an American aristocrat. - -All this by way of preparation for the admission that the branch of -the Loring family from which I come and the branch of the Wheatlands -family to which the girl I married belongs were far from magnificent, -were no more imposing then, well, than the families of any of our -American aristocrats. Like theirs, our genealogical tree, most -imposingly printed and bound and proudly exhibited on a special stand -in the library of our New York palace--that genealogical tree, for all -its air of honesty, for all its documentary proofs, worm-eaten and -age-stained, was like an artificial palm bedded in artificial moss. -The truth is, aristocracy does not thrive in America, but only the -pretense of it, and that must be kept alive by constant renewals. Both -here and abroad I am constantly running across traces of illegitimacy, -substitution, and other forms of genealogical flim-flam. But let that -pass. Whoever is or is not aristocratic, certainly Godfrey Loring and -Edna Wheatlands are not--or, rather, _were_ not. - -My father kept a dejected little grocery in Passaic, N. J. He did -not become a “retired merchant and capitalist” until I was able to -retire and capitalize him. Edna’s father was-- No, you guess wrong. -Not a butcher, but--an undertaker!... Whew! I am glad to have these -shameful secrets “off the chest,” as they say in the Bowery. He--this -Wheatlands, undertaker to the poor and near-poor of the then village -of Passaic--was a tall, thin man, with snow-white hair and a smooth, -gaunt, gloomy face and the best funeral air I have ever seen. Edna has -long since forgotten him; she has an admirable ability absolutely to -forget anything she may for whatever reason deem it inconvenient to -remember. What an aid to conscience is such a quality! But I have not -forgotten old Weeping Willy Wheatlands, and I shall not forget him. It -was he who loaned me my first capital, the one that-- But I must not -anticipate. - -In those days Passaic was a lowly and a dreary village. Its best was -cheap enough; its poorest was wretchedly squalid. The “seat” of the -Lorings and the “seat” of the Wheatlands stood side by side on the -mosquito beset banks of the river--two dingy frame cottages, a story -and a half in height, two rooms deep. We Lorings had no money, for my -father was an honest, innocent soul with a taste for talking what he -thought was politics, though in fact he knew no more of the realities -of politics, the game of pull Dick pull Devil for licenses to fleece -a “free, proud and intelligent people”--he knew no more of that -reality than--than the next honest soul you may hear driveling on that -same subject. We had no money, but “Weeping Willie” had plenty--and -saved it, blessings on him! I hate to think where I should be now, -if he hadn’t hoarded! So, while our straightened way of living was -compulsory, that of the Wheatlands was not. But this is unimportant; -the main point is both families lived in the same humble way. - -If I thought “gentle reader” had patience and real imagination--and, -yes, the real poetic instinct--I should give her an inventory of -the furniture of those two cottages, and of the meager and patched -draperies of the two Monday wash lines, as my mother and Edna’s -mother--and Edna, too, when she grew big enough--decorated them, the -while shrieking gossip back and forth across the low and battered board -fence. But I shall not linger. It is as well. Those memories make me -sad--put a choke in my throat and a mist before my eyes. Why? If you -can’t guess, I could not in spoiling ten reams of paper explain it -to you. One detail only, and I shall hasten on. Both families lived -humbly, but we not quite so humbly as the Wheatlands family, because my -mother was a woman of some neatness and energy while Ma Wheatlands was -at or below the do-easy, slattern human average. _We_ had our regular -Saturday bath--in the wash tub. _We_ did not ever eat off the stove. -And while we were patched we were rarely ragged. - -In those days--even in those days--Edna was a “scrapper.” They call it -an “energetic and resolute personality” now; it was called “scrappy” -then, and scrappy it was. When I would be chopping wood or lugging -in coal, so occupied that I did not dare pause, she would sit on the -fence in her faded blue-dotted calico, and how she would give it to me! -She knew how to say the thing that made me wild with the rage a child -is ashamed to show. Yes, she loved to tease me, perhaps--really, I -hope--because she knew I, in the bottom of my heart, loved to be teased -by her, to be noticed in any way. And mighty pretty she looked then, -with her mop of yellowish brown hair and her big golden brown eyes -and her little face, whose every feature was tilted to the angle that -gives precisely the most fascinating expression of pretty pertness, of -precocious intelligence, or of devil-may-care audacity. She has always -been a pretty woman, has Edna, and always will be, even in old age, I -fancy. Her beauty, like her health, like that strong, supple body of -hers, was built to last. What is the matter with the generations coming -forward now? Why do they bloom only to wither? What has sapped their -endurance? Are they brought up too soft? Is it the food? Is it the -worn-out parents? Why am I, at forty, younger in looks and in strength -and in taste for life than the youths of thirty? Why is Edna, not five -years my junior, more attractive physically than girls of twenty-five -or younger? - -But she was only eight or nine at the time of which I am writing. -And she was fond of me then--really fond of me, though she denied it -furiously when the other children taunted, and though she was always -jeering at me, calling me awkward and homely. I don’t think I was -notably either the one or the other, but for her to say so tended to -throw the teasers off the track and also kept me in humble subjection. -I knew she cared, because when we played kissing games she would never -call me out, would call out every other boy, but if I called any other -girl she would sulk and treat me as badly as she knew how. Also, while -she had nothing but taunts and sarcasms for me she was always to be -found in the Wheatlands’ back yard near the fence or on it whenever I -was doing chores in our back yard. - -After two years in the High School I went to work in the railway office -as a sort of assistant freight clerk. She kept on at school, went -through the High School, graduated in a white dress with blue ribbons, -and then sat down to wait for a husband. Her father and mother were -sensible people. Heaven knows they had led a hard enough life to have -good sense driven into them. But the tradition--the lady-tradition--was -too strong for them. They were not ashamed to work, themselves. They -would have been both ashamed and angry had it been suggested to them -that their two boys should become idlers. But they never thought of -putting their daughter to work at anything. After she graduated and -became a young lady, she was not compelled--would hardly have been -permitted--to do housework or sewing. You have seen the potted flower -in the miserable tenement window--the representative of the life that -neither toils nor spins, but simply exists in idle beauty. That potted -bloom concentrates all the dreams, all the romantic and poetic fancies -of the tenement family. I suppose Edna was some such treasured exotic -possession to those toil-twisted old parents of hers. They wanted a -flower in the house. - -Well, they had it. She certainly was a lovely girl, far too lovely -to be spoiled by work. And if ever there was a scratch or a stain on -those beautiful white hands of hers, it assuredly was not made by toil. -She took music lessons-- Music lessons! How much of the ridiculous, -pathetic gropings after culture is packed into those two words. Beyond -question, everyone ought to know something about music; we should all -know something about everything, especially about the things that -peculiarly stand for civilization--science and art, literature and -the drama. But how foolishly we are set at it! Instead of learning to -understand and to appreciate music, we are taught to “beat the box” in -a feeble, clumsy fashion, or to screech or whine when we have no voice -worth the price of a single lesson. Edna took I don’t know how many -lessons a week for I don’t know how many years. She learned nothing -about music. She merely learned to strum on the piano. But, after all, -the lessons attained their real object. They made Edna’s parents and -Edna herself and all the neighbors feel that she was indeed a lady. -She could not sew. She could not cook. She hadn’t any knowledge worth -mention of any practical thing--therefore, had no knowledge at all; -for, unless knowledge is firmly based upon and in the practical, it is -not knowledge but that worst form of ignorance, misinformation. She -didn’t know a thing that would help her as woman, wife, or mother. But -she could play the piano! - -Some day some one will write something true on the subject of -education. You remember the story of the girl from Lapland who applied -for a place as servant in New York, and when they asked her what she -could do, she said, “I can milk the reindeer.” - -I never hear the word education that I don’t think of that girl. -One half of the time spent at school, to estimate moderately, and -nine tenths of the time spent in college class rooms is given to -things about as valuable to a citizen of this world as the Lap girl’s -“education” to a New York domestic. If anyone tells you that those -valueless things are culture, tell him that only an ignorance still -becalmed in the dense mediæval fog would talk such twaddle; tell him -that science has taught us what common sense has always shown, that -there is no beauty divorced from use, that beauty is simply the -perfect adaptation of the thing to be used to the purpose for which it -is to be used. I am a business man, not a smug, shallow-pated failure -teaching in an antiquated college. I abhor the word culture, as I abhor -the word gentleman or the word lady, because of the company into which -it has fallen. So, while I eagerly disclaim any taint of “culture,” I -insist that I know what I’m talking about when I talk of education. And -if I had not been too good-natured, my girl-- But I must keep to the -story. “Gentle reader” wants a story; he--or she--does not want to try -to think. - -It was pleasant to my ignorant ears to hear Edna playing sonatas and -classical barcaroles and dead marches and all manner of loud and -difficult pieces. Such sounds, issuing from the humble--and not too -clean--Wheatlands house gave it an atmosphere of aristocracy, put -tone into the whole neighborhood, elevated the Wheatlands family like -a paper collar on the calico shirt of a farm hand. If we look at -ourselves rightly, we poor smattering seekers after a little showy -knowledge of one kind or another--a dibble of French, a dabble of -Latin or Greek, a sputter of woozy so-called philosophy--how like the -paper-collared farm hand we are, how like the Hottentot chief with a -plug hat atop his naked brown body. - -But Edna pleased me, fully as much as she pleased herself, and -that is saying a great deal. I wouldn’t have had her changed in -the smallest particular. I was even glad she could get rid of her -freckles--fascinating little beauty spots sprinkled upon her tip-tilted -little nose! - -She was not so fond of me in those days. I had a rival. I am leaning -back and laughing as I think of him. Charley Putney! He was clerk in -a largish dry goods store. He is still a clerk there, I believe, and -no doubt is still the same cheaply scented, heavily pomatumed clerkly -swell he was in the days when I feared and hated him. The store used -to close at six o’clock. About seven of summer evenings Charley would -issue forth from his home to set the hearts of the girls to fluttering. -They were all out, waiting. Down the street he would come with his hat -set a little back to show the beautiful shine and part and roach of his -hair. The air would become delicious (!) with bergamot, occasionally -varied by German cologne or lemon verbena. What a jaunty, gay tie! -What an elegant suit! And he wore a big seal ring, reputed to be real -gold--and such lively socks! Down the street came Charley, all the -girls palpitant. At which stoop or front gate would he stop? - -Often--only too often--it was at the front gate next ours. How I hated -him! - -And the cap of the joke is that Edna nearly married him. In this land -where the social stairs are crowded like Jacob’s Ladder with throngs -ascending and descending, what a history it would make if the grown men -and women of any generation should tell whom they _almost_ married! - -Yes, Edna came very near to marrying him. She was a lady. She did not -know exactly what that meant. The high-life novels she read left her -hazy on the subject, because to understand any given thing we must -have knowledge that enables us to connect it with the things we already -know. A snowball would be an unfathomable mystery to a savage living in -an equatorial plain. A matter of politics or finance or sociology or -real art, real literature, real philosophy, seems dull and meaningless -to a woman or to the average mutton-brained man. But if you span the -gap between knowledge of any subject and a woman’s or a man’s ignorance -of that subject with however slender threads of connecting knowledge, -she or he can at once bridge it and begin to reap the new fields. Edna -could not find any thread whatever for the gap between herself and that -fairy land of high life the novels told her about. In those days there -was no high life in Passaic. I suppose there is now--or, at least, -Passaic thinks there is--and in purely imaginary matters the delusion -of possession is equal to, even better than, possession itself. So, -with no high life to use as a measure, with only the instinct that her -white smooth hands and her dresses modeled on the latest Paris fashions -as illustrated in the monthly “Lady Book,” and her music lessons, her -taste for what she then regarded as literature--with only her instinct -that all these hallmarks must stamp her twenty-four carat lady, she -had to look about her for a matching gentleman. And there was Charley, -the one person within vision who suggested the superb heroes of the -high-life novels. I will say to the credit of her good taste that -she had her doubts about Charley. Indeed, if his sweet smell and his -smooth love-making--Charley excelled as a love-maker, being the born -ladies’ man--if the man, or, rather, the boy, himself had not won her -heart, she would soon have tired of him and would have suspected his -genuineness as a truly gentleman. But she fell in love with him. - -There was a long time during which I thought the reason she returned -to me--or, rather, let me return to her--was because she fell out of -love with him. Then there was a still longer time when I thought the -reason was the fact that the very Saturday I got a raise to fourteen -a week, he fell from twelve to eight. But latterly I have known the -truth. How many of us know the truth, the down-at-the-bottom, absolute -truth, about why she married us instead of the other fellow? Very few, -I guess--or we’d be puffing our crops and flirting our feathers less -cantily. She took up with me again because he dropped her. It was he -that saved her, not she or I. Only a few months ago, her old mother, -doddering on in senility, with memory dead except for early happenings, -and these fresh and vivid, said: “And when I think how nigh Edny come -to marryin’ up with that there loud-smelling dude of a Charley Putney! -If he hadn’t ’a give her the go by, she’d sure ’a made a fool of -herself--a wantin’ me and her paw to offer him money and a job in the -undertakin’ store, to git him back. Lawsy me! What a narrer squeak fur -Princess Edny!” - -Be patient, gentle reader! You shall soon be reading things that will -efface the coarse impression my old mother-in-law’s language and all -these franknesses about our beginnings must have made upon your refined -and cultured nature. Swallow a caramel and be patient. But don’t skip -these pages. If you should, you would miss the stimulating effect of -contrast, not to speak of other benefits which I, probably vainly, hope -to confer upon you. - -She didn’t love me. Looking back, I see that for many months she -found it difficult to endure me. But it was necessary that she carry -off--with the neighborhood rather than with me--her pretense of having -cast off Charley because she preferred me. We can do wonders in the -way of concealing wounded pride; we can do equal wonders in the way -of preserving a reputation for unbroken victory. And I believe she -honestly liked me. Perhaps she liked me even more than she liked her -aromatic Charley; for, it by no means follows that we like best where -we love most. I am loth to believe--I do not believe--that at so early -an age, not quite seventeen, she could have received my caresses and -returned them with plausibility enough to deceive me, unless she had -genuinely liked me. - -And what a lucky fellow I thought myself! And how I patronized the -perfumed man. And what a thrashing I gave him--poor, harmless, witless -creature!--when I heard of his boastings that he had dropped Edna -Wheatlands because he found Sally Simpson prettier and more _cultured_! - -I must have been a railway man born. At twenty-two--no, six months -after my majority--I was jumped into a head clerkship at twelve -hundred a year. Big pay for a youngster in those days; not so bad for -a youngster even in these inflated years. When I brought Edna the news -I think she began to love me. To her that salary was a halo, a golden -halo round me--made me seem a superior person. She had long thought -highly of my business abilities, for she was shrewd and had listened -when the older people talked, and they were all for me as the likeliest -young man of the neighborhood. - -“I’ve had another raise,” said I carelessly. We were sitting on her -front porch, she upon the top step, I two steps down. - -“Another!” she said. “Why, the last was only two months ago.” - -“Yes, they’ve pushed me up to twelve hundred a year--a little more, for -it’s twenty-five per.” - -“Gee!” she exclaimed, and I can see her pretty face now--all aglow, -beaming a reverent admiration upon me. - -I rather thought I deserved it. But it has ever been one of my vanities -to pretend to take my successes as matters of course, and even to -depreciate them. They say the English invariably win in diplomacy -because they act dissatisfied with what they get, never grumbling so -sourly as when they capture the whole hog. I can believe it. That -has been my policy, and it has worked rather well. Still, any policy -works well if the man has the gift for success. “Twenty-five per,” I -repeated, to impress it still more deeply upon her and to revel in the -thrilling words. “Before I get through I’ll make them pay me what I’m -worth.” - -“Do you think you’ll ever be making more than that?” exclaimed she, -wonderingly. - -“I’ll be getting two thousand some day,” said I, far more confidently -than I felt. - -“Oh--Godfrey!” she said softly. - -And as I looked at her I for the first time felt a certain peculiar -thrill that comes only when the soul of the woman a man loves rushes -forth to cling to his soul. In my life I have never had--and never -shall have--a happier moment. - -Once more patience, gentle reader! I know this bit of sordidness--this -glow of sentiment upon a vulgar material incident--disgusts your -delicate soul. I am aware that you have a proper contempt for all the -coarse details of life. You would not be _gentle_ reader if you hadn’t. -You would be a plain man or woman, living busily and usefully, and -making people happy in the plain ways in which the human animal finds -happiness. You would not be devoting your days to making soul-food out -of idealistic moonshine and dreaming of ways to dazzle yourself and -your acquaintances into thinking you a superior person. - -“Do you know,” said my pretty Edna, advancing her bond at least halfway -toward meeting mine, “do you know, I’ve had an instinct, a presentiment -of this? I was dreaming it when I woke up this morning.” - -I’ve observed that every woman in her effort to prove herself “not like -other girls” pretends to some occult or other equally supranatural -quality. One dreams dreams. Another gets spirit messages. A third has -seen ghosts. Another has a foot which sculptors have longed to model. -A fifth has a note in her voice which the throat specialists pronounce -unique in the human animal and occurring only in certain rare birds -and Sarah Bernhardt. I met one not long ago who had several too many -or too few skins, I forget which, and as a result was endowed with -I cannot recall what nervous qualities quite peculiar to herself, -and somehow most valuable and fascinating. In that early stage of -her career my Edna was “hipped” upon a rather commonplace personal -characteristic--the notion that she had premonitions, was a sort of -seeress or prophetess. Later she dropped it for one less tiresome -and overworked. But I recall that even in that time of my deepest -infatuation I wished to hear as little as possible about the occult. -Of all the shallow, foggy fakes that attract ignorant and miseducated -people the occult is the most inexcusable and boring. A great many -people, otherwise apparently rather sensible, seem honestly to believe -in it. But, being sensible, they don’t have anything to do with it. -They treat it as practical men treat the idiotic in the creeds and -the impossible in the moral codes of the churches to which they -belong--that is, they assent and proceed to dismiss and to forget. - -However, I was not much impressed by Edna’s attempt to dazzle me with -her skill as a Sibyl. But I was deeply impressed by the awe-inspiring -softness and shapeliness of her hand lying prisoner in mine. And I was -moved to the uttermost by the kisses and embraces we exchanged in the -gathering dusk. “I love you,” she murmured into my ecstatic ear. “You -are so different from the other men round here.” - -I dilated with pride. - -“So far ahead of them in every way.” - -“Ahead of Charley Putney?” said I, jocose but jealous withal. - -She laughed with a delightful look of contemptuous scorn in her cute -face. “Oh, _he_!” she scoffed. “He’s getting only eight a week, and -he’ll never get any more.” - -“Not if his boss has sense,” said I, thinking myself judicial. “But -let’s talk about ourselves. We can be married now.” - -I advanced this timidly, for being a truly-in-love lover I was a little -afraid of her, a little uncertain of this priceless treasure. But she -answered promptly, “Yes, I was thinking of that.” - -“Let’s do it right away,” proposed I. - -“Oh, not for several weeks. It wouldn’t be proper.” - -“Why not?” - -She couldn’t explain. She only knew that there was something indecent -about haste in such matters, that the procedure must be slow and -orderly and stately. “We’ll marry the first of next month,” she finally -decided, and I joyfully acquiesced. - -Some of my readers--both of the gentle and of the other kind--may -be surprised that a girl of seventeen should be so self-assured, so -independent. They must remember that she was a daughter of the people; -and among the people a girl of seventeen was, and I suppose still is, -ready for marriage, ready and resolved to decide all important matters -for herself. At seventeen Edna, in self-poise and in experience, -judgment and all the other mature qualities, was the equal of the -carefully sheltered girl of twenty-five or more. She may have been -brought up a lady, may have been in all essential ways as useless as -the most admired of that weariful and worthless class. But the very -nature of her surroundings, in that simple household and that simple -community, had given her a certain practical education. And I may say -here that to it she owes all she is to-day. Do not forget this, gentle -reader, as you read about her and as she dazzles you. As you look at -the gorgeous hardy rose do not forget that such spring only from the -soil, develop only in the open. - -That very evening we began to look for a home. As soon as we were -outside her front gate she turned in the direction of the better part -of the town. Nor did she pause or so much as glance at a house until -we were clear of the neighborhood in which we had always lived, and -were among houses much superior. I admired, and I still admire, this -significant move of hers. It was the gesture of progress, of ambition. -It was splendidly American. I myself should have been content to settle -down near our fathers and mothers, among the people we knew. I should -no doubt have been better satisfied to keep up the mode of living to -which we had been used all our lives. The time would have come when I -should have reached out for more comfort and for luxury. But it was -natural that she should develop in this direction before I did. She -had read her novels and her magazines, had the cultured woman’s innate -fondness for dress and show, had had nothing but those kinds of things -to think about; I had been too busy trying to make money to have any -time for getting ideas about spending it. - -No; while her motive in seeking better things than we had known was in -the main a vanity and a sham, her action had as much _initial_ good in -it as if her motive had been sensible and helpful. And back of the -motive lay an instinct for getting up in the world that has been the -redeeming and preserving trait in her character. It was this instinct -that ought to have made her the fit wife for an ambitious and advancing -man. You will presently see how this fine and useful instinct was -perverted by vanity and false education and the pernicious example of -other women. - -“The rents are much higher in this neighborhood,” said I, with a -doubtful but admiring look round at the pretty houses and their -well-ordered grounds. - -“Of course,” said she. “But maybe we can find something. Anyway, it -won’t do any harm to look.” - -“No, indeed,” I assented, for I liked the idea myself. This better -neighborhood _looked_ more like her than her own, seemed to her lover’s -eyes exactly suited to her beauty and her stylishness--for the “Lady -Book” was teaching her to make herself far more attractive to the eye -than were the other girls over in our part of town. I still puzzle at -why Charley Putney gave her up; the only plausible theory seems to be -that she was so sick in love with him that she wearied him. The most -attractive girl in the world, if she dotes on a young man too ardently, -will turn his stomach, and alarm his delicate sense of feminine -propriety. - -As we walked on, she with an elate and proud air, she said: “How -different it smells over here!” - -At first I didn’t understand what she meant. But, as I thought of -her remark, the meaning came. And I believe that was the beginning -of my dissatisfaction with what I had all my life had in the way of -surroundings. I have since observed that the sense of smell is blunt, -is almost latent, in people of the lower orders, and that it becomes -more acute and more sensitive as we ascend in the social scale. Up to -that time my ambition to rise had been rather indefinite--a desire -to make money which everyone seemed to think was the highest aim in -life--and also an instinct to beat the other fellows working with me. -Now it became definite. I began to smell. I wanted to get away from -unpleasant smells. I do not mean that this was a resolution, all in -the twinkling of an eye. I simply mean that, as everything must have a -beginning, that remark of hers was for me the beginning of a long and -slow but steady process of what may be called civilizing. - -Presently she said: “If we couldn’t afford a house, we might take one -of the flats.” - -“But I’m afraid you’d be lonesome, away off from everybody we know.” - -She tossed her head. “A good lonesome,” said she. “I’m tired of -_common_ people. I was reading about reincarnations the other day.” - -“Good Lord!” laughed I. “What are they?” - -She explained--as well as she could--probably as well as anybody could. -I admired her learning but the thing itself did not interest me. “I -guess there must be something in it,” she went on. “I’m sure in a -former life I was something a lot different from what I am now.” - -“Oh, you’re all right,” I assured her, putting my arm round her in the -friendly darkness of a row of sidewalk elms. - -When we had indulged in an interlude of love-making, she returned to -the original subject. “I wonder how much rent we could afford to pay,” -said she. - -“They say the rent ought never to be more per month than the income is -per week.” - -“Then we could pay twenty-five a month.” - -That seemed to me a lot to pay--and, indeed, it was. But she did not -inherit Weeping Willie’s tightness; and she had never had money to -spend or any training in either making or spending money. That is -to say, she was precisely as ignorant of the main business of life -as is the rest of American womanhood under our ridiculous system of -education. So, twenty-five dollars a month rent meant nothing to her. -“We can’t do anything to-night,” said she. “But I’ve got my days free, -and I’ll look at different places, and when I find several to choose -from we can come in the evening or on Sunday and decide.” - -This suited me exactly. We dismissed the matter, hunted out a shady -nook, and sat down to enjoy ourselves after the manner of young -lovers on a fine night. Never before had she given herself freely to -love. I know now it was because never before had she loved me. I was -deliriously happy that night, and I am sure she was too. She no less -than I had the ardent temperament that goes with the ambitious nature; -and now that she was idealizing me into the man who could lead her to -the fairy lands she dreamed of, she gave me her whole heart. - -It was the beginning of what was beyond question the happiest period of -both our lives. I have a dim old photograph of us two taken about that -time. At a glance you see it is the picture of two young people of the -working class--two green, unformed creatures, badly dressed and gawkily -self-conscious. But there is a look in her face--and in mine-- To be -quite honest, I’m glad I don’t look like that now. I wouldn’t go back -if I could. Nevertheless-- How we loved each other!--and how happy we -were! - -I feel that I weary you, gentle reader. There is in my sentiment too -much about wages and flat rents and the smells that come from people -who work hard and live in poor places and eat badly cooked strong food. -But that is not my fault. It is life. And if you believe that your and -your romancers’ tawdry imaginings are better than life--well, you may -not be so wise or so exalted as you fancy. - -The upshot of our inspecting places to live and haggling over prices -was that we took a flat in the best quarter of Passaic--the top and -in those elevatorless days the cheapest flat in the house. We were to -pay forty dollars a month--a stiff rent that caused excitement in our -neighborhood and set my mother and her father to denouncing us as a -pair of fools bent upon ruin. I thought so, myself. But I could have -denied Edna nothing at that time, and I made up my mind that by working -harder than ever at the railway office I would compel another raise. -When I told my mother about this secret resolve of mine, she said: - -“If you do get more money, Godfrey, don’t tell Edna. She’s a fool. -She’ll keep your nose to the grindstone all your life if you ain’t -careful. It takes a better money-maker than you’re likely to be to hold -up against that kind of a woman.” - -“Oh, she’s like all girls,” said I. - -“That’s just it,” replied my mother. “That’s why I ain’t got no use for -women. Look what poor managers they are. Look how they idle and waste -and run into debt.” - -“But there’s a lot to be said against the men, too. Saloons, for -instance.” - -“And talkin’ politics with loafers,” said my father’s wife bitterly. - -“I guess the trouble with men and women is they’re too human,” said I, -who had inherited something of the philosopher from my father. “And, -mother, a man’s got to get married--and he’s got to marry a woman.” - -“Yes, I suppose he has,” she grudgingly assented. “Mighty poor -providers most of the men is, and mighty poor use the women make of -what little the men brings home. But about you and Edny Wheatlands-- -You ought to do better’n her, Godfrey. You’re caught by her looks and -her style and her education. None of them things makes a good wife.” - -“I certainly wouldn’t marry a girl that didn’t have them--all three.” - -“But there’s something more,” insisted mother. - -“One woman can’t have everything,” said I. - -“No, but she can have what I mean--and she’s not much good to a man -without it. If you’re set on marrying her wait till _you’re_ ready, -anyhow. _She_ never will be.” - -“What do you mean, mother?” - -“Wait till you’ve got money in the savings bank. Wait till you’ve got -used to having money. Then maybe you’ll be able to put a bit on a -spendthrift wife even if you are crazy about her. You’re making a wrong -start with her, Godfrey. You’re giving her the upper hand, and that’s -bad for women like her--mighty bad.” - -It was from my mother that I get my ability at business. She and I -often had sensible talks, and her advice started me right in the -railroad office and kept me right until I knew my way. So I did not -become angry at her plain speaking, but appreciated its good sense, -even though I thought her prejudiced against my Edna. However, I had -not the least impulse to put off the marriage. My one wish was to -hasten it. Never before or since was time so leisurely. But the day -dragged itself up at last, and we were married in church, at what -seemed to us then enormous expense. There was a dinner afterward at -which everyone ate and drank too much--a coarse and common scene which -I will spare gentle reader. Edna and I went up to New York City for a -Friday to Monday honeymoon. But we were back to spend Sunday night in -our grand forty-dollar flat. On Monday morning I went to work again--a -married man, an important person in the community. - -Never has any height I have attained or seen since equalled the -grandeur of that forty-dollar flat. My common sense tells me that it -was a small and poor affair. I remember, for example, that the bathroom -was hardly big enough to turn round in. I recall that I have sat by the -window in the parlor and without rising have reached a paper on a table -at the other end of the room. But these hard facts in no way interfere -with or correct the flat as my imagination persists in picturing -it. What vistas of rooms!--what high ceilings--what woodwork--and -plumbing!--and what magnificent furniture! Edna’s father, in a moment -of generosity, told her he would pay for the outfitting of the -household. And being in the undertaking business he could get discounts -on furniture and even on kitchen utensils. Edna did the selecting. -I thought everything wonderful and, as I have said, my imagination -refuses to recreate the place as it actually was. But I recall that -there was a brave show of red and of plush, and we all know what that -means. Whether her “Lady Book” had miseducated her or her untrained -eyes, excited by the gaudiness she saw when she went shopping, had -beguiled her from the counsels of the “Lady Book,” I do not know. But I -am sure, as I recall red and plush, that our first home was the typical -horror inhabited by the extravagant working-class family. - -No matter. There we were in Arcadia. For a time her restless soaring -fancy, wearied perhaps by its audacious flight to this lofty perch -of red and plush and forty dollars a month, folded its wings and -was content. For a time her pride and satisfaction in the luxurious -newness overcame her distaste and disdain and moved her to keep things -spotless. I recall the perfume of cleanness that used to delight my -nostrils at my evening homecoming, and then the intoxicating perfume of -Edna herself--the aroma of healthy young feminine beauty. We loved each -other, simply, passionately, in the old-fashioned way. With the growth -of intelligence, with the realization on the part of men that her keep -is a large part of the reason in the woman’s mind if not in her heart -for marrying and loving, there has come a decline and decay of the -former reverence and awe of man toward woman. Also, the men nowadays -know more about the mystery of woman, know everything about it, where -not so many years ago a pure woman was to a man a real religious -mystery. Her physical being, the clothes she wore underneath, the -supposedly sweet and clean thoughts, nobler than his, that dwelt in the -temple of her soul--these things surrounded a girl with an atmosphere -of thrilling enigma for the youth who won from her lips and from the -church the right to explore. - -All that has passed, or almost passed. I am one of those who believe -that what has come, or, rather, is coming, to take its place is -better, finer, nobler. But the old order had its charm. What a charm -for me!--who had never known any woman well, who had dreamed of her -passionately but purely and respectfully. There was much of pain--of -shyness, fear of offending her higher nature, uneasiness lest I should -be condemned and cast out--in those early days of married life. But -it was a sweet sort of pain. And when we began to understand each -other--to be human, though still on our best behavior--when we found -that we were congenial, were happy together in ways undreamed of, life -seemed to be paying not like the bankrupt it usually is when the time -for redeeming its promises comes but like a benevolent prodigal, like -a lottery whose numbers all draw capital prizes. I admit the truth of -much the pessimists have to say against Life. But one thing I must -grant it. When in its rare generous moments it relents, it does know -how to play the host at the feast--how to spread the board, how to fill -the flagons and to keep them filled, how to scatter the wreaths and -the garlands, how to select the singers and the dancers who help the -banqueters make merry. When I remember my honeymoon, I almost forgive -you, Life, for the shabby tricks you have played me. - -Now I can conceive a honeymoon that would last on and on, not in the -glory and feverish joy of its first period, but in a substantial and -satisfying human happiness. But not a honeymoon with a wife who is no -more fitted to be a wife than the office boy is fitted to step in and -take the president’s job. Patience, gentle reader! I know how this -sudden shriek of discord across the amorous strains of the honeymoon -music must have jarred your nerves. But be patient and I will explain. - -Except ourselves, every other family in the house, in the neighborhood, -had at least one servant. We had none. If Edna had been at all -economical we might have kept a cook and pinched along. But Edna spent -carelessly all the money I gave her, and I gave her all there was. A -large part of it went for finery for her personal adornment, trash of -which she soon tired--much of it she disliked as soon as it came home -and she tried it on without the saleslady to flatter and confuse. I--in -a good-natured way, for I really felt perfectly good-humored about -it--remonstrated with her for letting everybody rob her, for getting so -little for her money. She took high ground. Such things were beneath -her attention. If I had wanted a wife of that dull, pinch-penny kind -I’d certainly not have married her, a talented, educated woman, bent -on improving her mind and her position in the world. And that seemed -reasonable. Still, the money was going, the bills were piling up, and I -did not know what to do. - -And--she did the cooking. I think I have already said that she had -not learned to cook. How she and her mother expected her to get along -as a poor clerk’s wife I can’t imagine. The worst of it was, she -believed she could cook. That is the way with women. They look down on -housekeeping, on the practical side of life, as too coarse and low to -be worthy their attention. They say all that sort of thing is easy, is -like the toil of a day laborer. They say anybody could do it. And they -really believe so. Men, no matter how high their position, weary and -bore themselves every day, because they must, with routine tasks beside -which dishwashing has charm and variety. Yet women shirk their proper -and necessary share of life’s burden, pretending that it is beneath -them. - -Edna, typical woman, thought she could cook and keep house because -she, so superior, could certainly do inferior work if she chose. But -after that first brief spurt of enthusiasm, of daily conference with -the “Lady Book’s Complete Housekeeper’s Guide,” the flat was badly -kept--was really horribly kept--was worse than either her home or -mine before we had been living there many months. It took on much the -same odor. It looked worse, as tawdry finery, when mussy and dirty, -is more repulsive than a plain toilet gone back. I did not especially -mind that. But her cooking-- I had not been accustomed to anything -especially good in the way of cooking. Mother was the old-fashioned -fryer, and you know those fryers always served the vegetables soggy. I -could have eaten exceedingly poor stuff without complaining or feeling -like complaining. But the stuff she was soon flinging angrily upon the -slovenly table I could not eat. She ate it, enough of it to keep alive, -and it didn’t seem to do her any harm. How many women have you known -who were judges of things to eat? Do you understand how women continue -to eat the messes they put into their pretty mouths, and keep alive? - -I could not eat Edna’s cooking. I ate bread, cold meats and the like -from the delicatessen shop. When the meal happened to be of her own -preparing I dropped into the habit of slipping away after a pretense -at eating, to get breakfast or dinner or supper in a restaurant--the -cheapest kind of restaurant, but I ate there with relish. And never -once did I murmur to Edna. I loved her too well; also, I am by nature a -tolerant, even-tempered person, hating strife, avoiding the harsh word. -In fact, my timidity in that respect has been my chief weakness, has -cost me dear again and again. But---- - -After ten months of married life Edna fell ill. All you married men -will prick up your ears at that. Why is it that bread winners somehow -contrive to keep on their feet most of the time, little though they -know as to caring for their health, reckless though they are in -eating and drinking? Why is it that married women--unless they have -to work--spend so much time in sick bed or near it? They say we in -America have more than nine times as many doctors proportionately to -population as any other country. The doctors live off of our women--our -idle, overeating, lazy women who will not work, who will not walk, -who are always getting something the matter with them. Of course the -doctors--parasites upon parasites--fake up all kinds of lies, many of -them malicious slanders against the husbands, to excuse their patients -and to keep them patients. But what is the truth? - -Edna, who read all the time she was not plotting to get acquainted with -our neighbors--they looked down upon us and wished to have nothing to -do with us--Edna who ate quantities of candy between meals and ate at -meals rich things she bought of confectioners and bakers--Edna fell ill -and frightened me almost out of my senses. I understand it now. But I -did not understand then. I believed, as do all ignorant people--both -the obviously ignorant and the ignorant who pass for enlightened--I -believed sickness to be a mysterious accident, like earthquakes and -lightning strokes, a hit-or-miss blow from nowhere in particular. So I -was all sympathy and terror. - -She got well. She looked as well as ever. But she said she was not -strong. “And Godfrey, we simply have got to keep a girl. I’ve borne up -bravely. But I can’t stand it any longer. You see for yourself, the -rough work and the strain of housekeeping are too much for me.” - -“Very well,” said I. The bills, including the doctor’s and drug bills, -were piling up. We were more than a thousand dollars in debt. But I -said: “Very well. You are right.” We men do not realize that there -are two distinct and equal expressions of strength. The strength of -bulk, that is often deceptive in that it looks stronger than it is; the -strength of fiber, that is always deceptive in that it is stronger than -it looks. In a general way, man has the strength of bulk, woman the -strength of fiber. So man looks on woman’s appearance of fragility and -fancies her weak and himself the stronger. I looked at Edna, and said: -“Very well. We must have a girl to help.” - -I shan’t linger upon this part of my story. I am tempted to linger, -but, after all, it is the commonplace of American life, familiar to -all, though understood apparently by only a few. Why do more than -ninety per cent of our small business men fail? Why are the savings -banks accounts of our working classes a mere fraction of those of the -working classes of other countries? And so on, and so on. But I see -your impatience, gentle reader, with these matters so “inartistic.” We -sank deeper and deeper in debt. Edna’s health did not improve. The girl -we hired had lived with better class people; she despised us, shirked -her work, and Edna did not know how to manage her. If the head of the -household is incompetent and indifferent, a servant only aggravates the -mess, and the more servants the greater the mess. All Edna’s interest -was for her music, her novels, her social advancement, and her dreams -of being a grand lady. These dreams had returned with increased power; -they took complete possession of her. They soured her disposition, -made her irritable, usually blue or cross, only at long intervals -loving and sweet. No, perhaps the dreams were not responsible. -Perhaps--probably--the real cause was the upset state of her health -through the absurd idle life she led. Idle and lonely. For she would -not go with whom she could, she could not go with whom she would. - -“I’m sick of sitting alone,” said she. “No wonder I can’t get well.” - -“Let’s go back near the old folks,” suggested I. “Our friends won’t -come to see us in this part of the town. They feel uncomfortable.” - -“I should think they would!” cried she. “And if they came I’d see to it -that they were so uncomfortable that they would never come again.” - -I worked hard. My salary went up to fifteen hundred, to two thousand, -to twenty-five hundred. “Now,” said Edna, “perhaps you’ll get hands -that won’t look like a laboring man’s. How can I hope to make nice -friends when I’ve a husband with broken finger nails?” - -Our expenses continued to outrun my salary, but I was not especially -worried, for I began to realize that I had the money-making talent. -Three children were born; only the first--Margot--lived. Looking back -upon those six years of our married life, I see after the first year -only a confused repellent mess of illness, nurses, death, doctors, -quarrels with servants, untidy rooms and clothes, slovenly, peevish -wife, with myself watching it all in a dazed, helpless way, thinking it -must be the normal, natural order of domestic life--which, indeed, it -is in America--and wondering where and how it was to end. - -I recall going home one afternoon late, to find Edna yawning -listlessly over some book in a magazine culture series. Her hair hung -every which way, her wrapper was torn and stained. Her skin had the -musty look that suggests unpleasant conditions both without and within. -Margot, dirty, pimply from too much candy, sat on the floor squalling. - -“Take the child away,” cried Edna, at sight of me. “I thought you’d -never come. A little more of this and I’ll kill myself. What is there -to live for, anyhow?” - -Silent and depressed, I took Margot for a walk. And as I wandered along -sadly I was full of pity for Edna, and felt that somehow the blame was -wholly mine for the wretched plight of our home life. - - * * * * * - -When I was twenty-eight and Edna twenty-three, I had a series of rapid -promotions which landed me in New York in the position of assistant -traffic superintendent. My salary was eight thousand a year. - -It so happened--coincidence and nothing else--that those eighteen -months of quick advance for me also marked a notable change in Edna. - -There are some people--many people--so obsessed of the know-it-all -vanity that they can learn nothing. Nor are all these people preachers, -doctors, and teachers, gentle reader. Then there is another species -who pretend to know all, who are chary of admitting to learning or -needing to learn anything, however small, yet who behind their pretense -toil at improving themselves as a hungry mouse gnaws at the wall of -the cheese box. Of this species was Edna. As she was fond of being -mysterious about her thoughts and intentions, she never told me what -set her going again after that long lethargy. Perhaps it was some woman -whom she had a sudden opportunity thoroughly to study, some woman who -knew and lived the ideas Edna had groped for in vain. Perhaps it was -a novel she read or articles in her magazines. It doesn’t matter. I -never asked her; I had learned that wild horses would not drag from her -a confession of where she had got an idea, because such a confession -would to her notion detract from her own glory. However, the essential -fact is that she suddenly roused and set to work as she had never -worked before--went at it like a prospector who, after toiling now -hard and now discouragedly for years, strikes by accident a rich vein -of gold. Edna showed in every move that she not hoped, not believed, -but knew she was at last on the right track. She began to take care, -scrupulous care, of her person--the minute intelligent care she has -ever since been expanding and improving upon, has never since relaxed, -and never will relax. Also she began to plan and to move definitely -in the matter of taking care of Margot--to look after her speech, her -manners, her food, her person, especially, perhaps, the last. Margot’s -teeth, Margot’s hair, Margot’s walk, Margot’s feet and hands and skin, -the shape of her nose, the set of her ears--all these things she talked -about and fussed with as agitatedly as about her own self. - -Edna became a crank on the subject of food--what is called a crank -by the unthinking, of whom, by the way, I was to my lasting regret -one until a few years ago. For a year or two her moves in this -important direction were blundering, intermittent, and not always -successful--small wonder when there is really no reliable information -to be had, the scientists being uncertain and the doctors grossly -ignorant. But gradually she evolved and lived upon a “beauty diet.” -Margot, of course, had to do the same. She took exercises morning and -night, took long and regular walks for the figure and skin and to put -clearness and brightness into the eyes. I believe she and Margot, with -occasional lapses, keep up their regimen to this day. - -The house was as slattern as ever. The diet and comfort and health -of the family bread-winner were no more the subject of thought and -care than--well, than the next husband’s to his wife. She gave some -attention--intelligent and valuable attention, I cheerfully concede--to -improving my speech, manners, and dress. But beyond that the revolution -affected only her and her daughter. Them it affected amazingly. In -three or four months the change in their appearance was literally -beyond belief. Edna’s beauty and style came back--no, burst forth in an -entirely new kind of radiance and fascination. As for little Margot, -she transformed from homeliness, from the scrawny pasty look of bad -health, from bad temper, into as neat and sweet and pretty a little -lady as could be found anywhere. - -You, gentle reader, who are ever ready to slop over with some -kind of sentimentality because in your shallowness you regard -sentimentality--not sentiment, for of that you know nothing, but -sentimentality--as the most important thing in the world, just as -a child regards sickeningly rich cake as the finest food in the -world--you, gentle reader, have already made up your mind why Edna -thus suddenly awakened, or, rather, reawakened. “Aha,” you are saying. -“Served him good and right. She found some one who appreciated her.” -That guess of yours shows how little you know about Edna or the Edna -kind of human being. The people who do things in this world, except in -our foolish American novels, do because they must. They may do better -or worse under the influence of love, which is full as often a drag as -a spur. But they do not _do_ because of love. I shall not argue this. I -shrink from gratuitously inviting an additional vial of wrath from the -ladies, who resent being told how worthless they in their indolence and -self-complacence permit themselves to be and how small a positive part -they now play in the world drama. I should have said nothing at all -about the matter, were it not that I wish to be strictly just to Edna, -and she, being wholly the ambitious woman, has always had and still has -a deep horror of scandal, intrigue, irregularity, and unconventionality -of every sort. - -It was necessary that we move to a place more convenient to my -business headquarters in New York City. A few weeks after I got the -eight thousand a year, Edna, and little Margot and I went to Brooklyn -to live--took a really charming house in Bedford Avenue, with large -grounds around it. And once more we were happy. It seemed to me we had -started afresh. - -And we had. - - - - -II - - -Why did we go to Brooklyn? - -By the time Edna and I had been married six years I learned many things -about her inmost self. I was not at all analytic or critical as to -matters at home. I used my intelligence in my own business; I assumed -that my wife had intelligence and that she used it in her business--her -part of our joint business. I believed the reason her part of it went -badly was solely the natural conditions of life beyond her control. A -railroad, a factory could be run smoothly; a family and a household -were different matters. And I admired my wife as much as I loved her, -and regarded her as a wonderful woman, which, indeed, in certain -respects she was. - -But I had discovered in her several weaknesses. Some of these I knew; -others I did not permit myself to know that I knew. For example, I -was perfectly aware that she was not so truthful as one might be. But -I did not let myself admit that she was not always unconscious of -her own deviations from the truth. I had gained enough experience of -life to learn that lying is practically a universal weakness. So I -did not especially mind it in her, often found it amusing. I had not -then waked up to the fact that, as a rule, women systematically lie to -their husbands about big things and little, and that those women who -profess to be too proud to lie, do their lying by indirections, such as -omissions, half truths, and misleading silences. I am not criticising. -Self-respect, real personal pride, I have discovered in spite of the -reading matter of all kinds about the past, is a modern development, -is still in embryo; and those of us who profess to be the proudest are -either the most ignorant of ourselves or the most hypocritical. - -But back to my acquaintance with my wife’s character. When I told her -we should have to live nearer my work, my new work, than Passaic, she -promptly said: - -“Let’s go to Brooklyn.” - -“Why not to New York?” said I. “At least until I get thoroughly -trained, I want to be close to the office.” - -“But there’s Margot,” said she. “Margot must have a place to play in. -And we couldn’t afford such a place in New York. I can’t let her run -about the streets or go to public schools. She’d pick up all sorts of -low, coarse associates and habits.” - -“Then let’s go to some town opposite--across the Hudson. If we can’t -live on Manhattan Island, and I think you’re right about Margot, why, -let’s live where living is cheap. We ought to be saving some money.” - -“I hate these Jersey towns,” said Edna petulantly. “I don’t think -Margot would get the right sort of social influences in them.” - -As soon as she said “social influences” I should have understood the -whole business. The only person higher up on the social ladder with -whom Edna had been able to scrape intimate acquaintance in Passaic was -a dowdy, tawdry chatterbox of a woman--I forget her name--who talked -incessantly of the fashionable people she knew in Brooklyn--how she had -gone there a stranger, had joined St. Mary’s Episcopal Church, and had -at once become a social favorite, invited to “the very best houses, -my dear; such lovely homes,” and associated with “the most charming -cultured people,” and so on and on--you know the rest of the humbug. - -Now, one of the discoveries about my wife which I but half understood -and made light of, had been that she was mad, literally mad, on the -subject of social climbing. That means she was possessed of the disease -imported into this country from England, where it has raged for upward -of half a century--the disease of being bent upon associating by hook -or by crook with people whose strongest desire seems to be not to -associate with you. This plague does not spare the male population--by -no means. But it rages in and ravages the female population almost to -a woman. Our women take incidental interest or no interest in their -homes, in their husbands, in their children. Their hearts are centered -upon social position, and, of course, the money-squandering necessary -to attaining or to keeping it. The women who are “in” spend all their -time, whatever they may seem to be about, in spitting upon and kicking -the faces of the women who are trying to get “in.” The women who are -trying to get “in” spend their whole time in smiling and cringing -and imploring and plotting and, when it seems expedient, threatening -and compelling. Probe to the bottom--if you have acuteness enough, -which you probably haven’t--probe to the bottom any of the present-day -activities of the American woman, I care not what it may be, and you -will discover the bacillus of social position biting merrily away -at her. If she goes to church or to a lecture or a concert--if she -goes calling or stays at home--if she joins a suffrage movement or a -tenement reform propaganda, or refuses to join--if she dresses noisily -or plainly--if she shuns society or seeks it, if she keeps house or -leaves housekeeping to servants, roaches, and mice--if she cares for or -neglects her children--if she pets her husband or displaces him with -another--no matter what she does, it is at the behest of the poison -flowing through brain and vein from the social-position bacillus. She -thinks by doing whatever she does she will somehow make her position -more brilliant or less insecure, or, having no position at all, will -gain one. - -And the men? They pay the bills. Sometimes reluctantly, again eagerly; -sometimes ignorantly, again with full knowledge. The men--they pay the -bills. - -Now you know better far than I knew at the time why our happy little -family went to Brooklyn, took the house in Bedford Avenue which we -could ill afford if we were to save any money, and joined St. Mary’s. - -A couple of years after we were married my wife stopped me when I was -telling her what had happened at the office that day, as was my habit. -“You ought to leave all those things outside when you come home,” said -she. - -She had read this in a book somewhere, I guess. It was a new idea to -me. “Why should I?” said I. - -“Home is a place for happiness, with all the sordidness shut out,” -explained she. “Those sordid things ought not to touch our life -together.” - -This sounded all right. “It seemed to me,” stammered I, apologetically, -“that my career, the way I was getting on, that our bread and butter-- -Well, I thought we ought to kind of talk it over together.” - -“Oh, I do sympathize with you,” said, or rather quoted, she. “But my -place is to soothe and smooth away the cares of business. You ought to -try not to think of them at home.” - -“But what _would_ I think about?” cried I, much perplexed. “Why, my -business is all I’ve got. It’s the most important thing in the world to -us. It means our living. At least that’s the way the thing looks to me.” - -“You ought to think at home about the higher side of life--the -intellectual side.” - -“But my business _is_ my intellectual side,” I said. “And I can’t for -the life of me see why thinking about things that don’t advance us and -don’t pay the bills is better than thinking about things that do.” It -seemed to me that this looking on my business as something to be left -on the mud-scraper at the entrance indicated a false idea of it got -somewhere. So I added somewhat warmly: “There’s nothing low or bad -about my business.” And that was the truth at the time. - -“I don’t know anything about it,” replied she with the gentle patience -of her superior refinement and education. “And I don’t want to know. -Those things don’t interest me. And I think, Godfrey”--very sweetly, -with her cheek against mine--“the reason husbands and wives often grow -apart is that the husband gives his whole mind to his business and -doesn’t develop the higher side of his nature--the side that appeals to -a woman and satisfies her.” - -This touched my sense of humor mildly. “My father gives his mind to one -of those high sides,” said I, “and we nearly starved to death.” - -“Your father!” exclaimed she in derisive disgust. - -“My father,” said I cheerfully, “he does nothing but read, talk, and -think politics.” - -“Politics! _That_ isn’t on the higher side. Women don’t care anything -about _that_.” - -“Well, what do they care about?” I inquired. - -“About music and literature--and those artistic things.” - -“Oh, those things are all right,” said I. “But I don’t see that it -takes any more brains or any better brains to paint a picture or sing a -song or write a novel than it does to run a railroad--or to plan one. -If you’d try to understand business, dear,” I urged, “you might find -it as interesting and as intellectual as anything that doesn’t help us -make a living. Anyhow, I’ve simply got to give my brains to my work. -You go ahead and attend to the higher side for the family. I’ll stick -to the job that butters the bread and keeps the rain off.” - -She was patient with me, but I saw she didn’t approve. However, as I -knew she’d approve still less if I failed to provide for her and the -two young ones--there were two at that time--I let the matter drop and -held to the common-sense course. I hadn’t the faintest notion of the -seriousness of that little talk of ours. And it was well I hadn’t, for -to have made her realize her folly I’d have had to start in and educate -her--uneducate her and then reëducate her. I don’t blame the women. I -feel sorry for them. When I hear them talk about the lack of sympathy -between themselves and American men, about the low ideals and the -sordid talk the men indulge in, how dull it is, how different from the -inspiring, cultured talk a woman hears among the aristocrats abroad, -said aristocrats being supported in helpless idleness throughout their -useless lives, often by hard-earned American dollars--when I hear this -pitiful balderdash from fair lips, I grow sad. The American woman -fancies she is growing away from the American man. The truth is that -while she is sitting still, playing with a lapful of the artificial -flowers of fake culture, like a poor doodle-wit, the American man is -growing away from her. She knows nothing of value; she can do nothing -of value. She has nothing to offer the American man but her physical -charms, for he has no time or taste for playing with artificial flowers -when the world’s important work is to be done. So the poor creature -grows more isolated, more neglected, less respected, and less sought, -except in a physical way. And all the while she hugs to her bosom the -delusion that she is the great soul high sorrowful. The world moves; -many are the penalties for the nation or the race or the sex that does -not move with it, or does not move quickly enough. I feel sorry for the -American woman--unless she has a father who will leave her rich or a -husband who will give her riches. - -I feel some of my readers saying that I must have been most unfortunate -in the women I have known. Perhaps. But may it not be that those -commiserating readers have been rarely fortunate in their feminine -acquaintances?--or in lack of insight? - -Now you probably not only know why we went to Brooklyn, but also -what we did after we got there. I have not forgotten my promise to -gentle reader. I shall not linger many moments in Brooklyn. True, it -is superior to Passaic, at least to the part of Passaic in which I -constrained gentle reader to tarry a minute or two. But it is still far -from the promised heights. - -My wife owes a vast deal to Brooklyn. As she haughtily ignores the -debt, would deny it if publicly charged, I shall pay it for her. -Brooklyn was her finishing school. It made her what she is. - -In the last year or so we spent in Passaic there had been, as I have -hinted, a marked outward change in all three of us. The least, or -rather the least abrupt, change had been in me. Associated in business -with a more prosperous and better-dressed and better-educated class of -men, I had gradually picked up the sort of knowledge a man needs to fit -himself for the inevitably changing social conditions accompanying a -steady advance in material prosperity. I was as quick to learn one kind -of useful thing as another. And just as I learned how to fill larger -and larger positions and how to make money out of the chances that -come to a man situated where money is to be made, so I learned how to -dress like a man of the better class, how to speak a less slangy and -a less ungrammatical English, how to use my mind in thinking and in -discussing a thousand subjects not directly related to my business. - -If my wife had been interested in any of the important things of the -world, I could have been of the greatest assistance to her and she -to me. And we should have grown ever closer together in sympathetic -companionship. But although she had a good mind--a superior mind--she -cared about nothing but the things that interest foolish women and -still more foolish men--for a man who cares about splurge and show and -social position and such nonsense is less excusable, is more foolish, -than a woman of the same sort. Women have the excuse of lack of serious -occupation, but what excuse has a man? Still, she was not idle--not for -a minute. She was, on the contrary, in her way as busy as I. From time -to time she would say to me enigmatically: “You don’t appreciate it, -but I am preparing myself to help you fill the station your business -ability will win us a chance at.” It seemed to me that I was doing -that alone. For what was necessary to fill that station but higher and -higher skill as a man of affairs? - -When we had made our entry in Brooklyn and had seated ourselves in -the state in Bedford Avenue which she had decided for, she showed -that she felt immensely proud of herself. We took the house furnished -throughout--nicely furnished in a substantial way, for it had been the -home of one of the old Brooklyn mercantile families. - -“It’s good enough to start with,” said she, casting a critical glance -round the sober, homelike dining room. “I shan’t make any changes till -I look about me.” - -“We couldn’t be better off,” said I. “Everything is perfectly -comfortable.” And in fact neither she nor I had ever before known what -comfort was. Looking at that house--merely looking at it and puzzling -out the uses of the various things to us theretofore unknown--was about -as important in the way of education as learning to read is to a child. - -“It’s good enough for Brooklyn,” said she. She regarded me with her -patient, tender expression of the superior intelligence. “You haven’t -much imagination or ambition, Godfrey,” she went on. “But fortunately -_I_ have. And do be careful not to betray us before the servants I’m -engaging.” - -The show part of the house continued to look about as it had when we -took possession. But the living part went to pieces rapidly. We had -many servants. We spent much money--so much that, if I had not been -speculating in various ways, we should have soon gone under. But the -results were miserably poor. My wife left everything to her servants -and devoted herself to her social career. The ex-Brooklyn society woman -at Passaic had not deceived her. No sooner had she joined St. Mary’s -than she began to have friends--friends of a far higher social rank -than she had ever even seen at close range before. They were elegant -people indeed--the wives of the heads of departments in big stores, the -families of bank officers and lawyers and doctors. There were even a -few rather rich people. My wife was in ecstasy for a year or two. And -she improved rapidly in looks, in dress, in manners, in speech, in all -ways except in disposition and character. - -Except in disposition and character. As we grow older and rise in the -world, there is always a deterioration both in disposition and in -character. A man’s disposition grows sharper through dealing with, -and having to deal sharply with, incompetence. The character tends -to harden as he is forced to make the unpleasant and often not too -scrupulous moves necessary to getting himself forward toward success. -Also, the way everyone tries to use a successful man makes him more and -more acute in penetrating to the real motives of his fellow beings, -more and more inclined to take up men for what he can get out of them -and drop them when he has squeezed out all the advantage--in brief, -to treat them precisely as they treat him. But the whole object in -having a home, a wife, a family, is defeated if the man has not there -a something that checks the tendencies to cynicism and coldness which -active life not merely encourages but even compels. - -There was no occasion for Edna’s becoming vixenish and hard. It was -altogether due to the idiotic and worthless social climbing. She had -a swarm of friends, yet not a single friend. She cultivated people -socially, and they cultivated her, not for the natural and kindly and -elevating reasons, but altogether for the detestable purposes of that -ghastly craze for social position. Edna was bitter against me for a -long time, never again became fully reconciled, because I soon flatly -refused to have anything to do with it. - -“They will think there’s something wrong about you, and about me, if -you don’t come with me,” pleaded she. - -“I need my strength for my business,” said I. “And what do I care -whether they think well or ill of me? They don’t give us any money.” - -“You are _so_ sordid!” cried she. “Sometimes I’m almost tempted to give -up, and not try to be somebody and to make somebodies of Margot and -you.” - -“I wish you would,” said I. “Why shouldn’t we live quietly and mind our -own business and be happy?” - -“How fortunate it is for Margot that she has a mother with ambition and -pride!” - -“Well--no matter. But please do get another cook. This one is, if -anything, worse than the last--except when we have company.” - -We were forever changing cooks. The food that came on our table was -something atrocious. I heard the same complaint from all my married -associates at the office, even from the higher officials who were -rich men and lived in great state. They, too, had American wives. In -the markets and shops I saw as I passed along all sorts of attractive -things to eat, and of real quality. I wondered why we never had those -things on our table. Heaven knows we spent money enough. The time came -when I got a clew to the mystery. - -One day Edna said: “I’ve been doing my housekeeping altogether by -telephone. I think I’ll stop it, except on rainy days and when I don’t -feel well.” - -By telephone! I laughed to myself. No wonder we had poor stuff and -paid the highest prices for it. I thought a while, then to satisfy -my curiosity began to ask questions, very cautiously, for Edna was -extremely touchy, as we all are in matters where in our hearts we know -we are in the wrong. “Do you remember what kind of range we have in our -kitchen?” I asked. - -“I?” exclaimed she disgustedly. “Certainly not. I haven’t been down to -the kitchen since we first moved into this house. I’ve something better -to do than to meddle with the servants.” - -“Naturally,” said I soothingly. And I didn’t let her see how her -confession amused me. What if a man tried to run his business in that -fashion! And ordering by telephone! Why, it was an invitation to the -tradespeople to swindle us in every way. But I said nothing. - -As usually either it was bad weather or Edna was not feeling well, or -was in a rush to keep some social engagement, the ordering for the -house continued to be done by telephone, when it was not left entirely -to the discretion of the servants. One morning it so happened that she -and I left the house at the same time. Said she: - -“I’m on my way to do the marketing. It’s a terrible nuisance, and I -know so little about those things. But it’s coming to be regarded as -fashionable for a woman to do her own marketing. Some of the best -families--people with their own carriages and servants in livery--some -of the swellest ladies in Brooklyn do it now. It’s a fad from across -the river.” - -“You must be careful not to overtax yourself,” said I. - -And I said it quite seriously, for in those days of my innocence I was -worried about her, thought her a poor overworked angel, was glad I had -the money to relieve her from the worst tasks and to leave her free to -amuse herself and to take care of her health! I had not yet started in -the direction of ridding myself of the masculine delusion that woman -is a delicate creature by nature if she happens to be a lady--and of -course I knew my Edna was a lady through and through. It was many a -year before I learned the truth--why ladies are always ailing and why -they can do nothing but wear fine clothes and sit in parlors or in -carriages when they are not sitting at indigestible food, and amuse -themselves and pity themselves for being condemned to live with coarse, -uninteresting American men. - -Yes, I was sincere in urging her to take care how she adopted so -laborious a fad as doing her own marketing. She went on: - -“If I had a carriage it wouldn’t be so bad.” - -She said this sweetly enough and with no suggestion of reproach. Just -the sigh of a lady’s soul at the hardness of life’s conditions. But -I, loving her, felt as if I were somehow to blame. “You shall have a -carriage before many years,” said I. “That’s one of the things I’ve -been working for.” - -She gave me a look that made me feel proud I had her to live for. “I -hope I’ll be here to enjoy it,” sighed she. - -I walked sad and silent by her side, profoundly impressed and depressed -by that hint as to her feeble health. I know now it was sheer pretense -with her, the more easily to manage me and to cover her shortcomings. I -ought to have realized it then. But what man does? She certainly did -not look ill, for she was not one of those who were always stuffing -themselves at teas and lunches, and talked of a walk of five blocks -as hard exercise! She had learned how to keep health and beauty. What -intelligence it shows, that she was able to grasp so difficult a -matter; and what splendid persistence that she was able to carry out a -mode of life so disagreeable to self-indulgence. If her intelligence -and her persistence could have been turned to use! Presently we were -at the butcher shop. I paused in the doorway while she engaged in her -arduous labor. Here is the conversation: - -“Good morning, Mr. Toomey.” (Very gracious; the lady speaking to the -trades person.) - -“Good morning, ma’am.” (Fat little butcher touching cracked and -broken-nailed hand to hat respectfully.) - -“That lamb you sent yesterday was very tough.” - -“Sorry, ma’am. But those kind of things will happen, you know.” (Most -flatteringly humble of manner.) - -“Yes, I know. Do your best. I’m sure you try to please. Send me--let me -see--say, two chickens for broiling. You’ll pick out nice ones?” - -“Yes, indeed, ma’am. I’ll attend to it myself.” - -“And something for the servants. You know what they like.” - -“Yes, ma’am. I’ll attend to it.” - -“And you’ll not overcharge, will you?” - -“I, ma’am? I’ve been dealing with ladies for twenty years, right here, -ma’am. I never have overcharged.” - -“I know. All the ladies tell me you’re honest. I feel safe with you. -Let me see, there were some other things. But I’m in a hurry. The cook -will tell your boy when he takes what I’ve ordered. You’ll be sure to -give me the best?” - -“I’d not dare send anything else to _you_, ma’am.” (Groveling.) - -A gracious smile, a gracious nod, and Edna rejoined me. Innocent as -I was, and under the spell that blinds the American man where the -American woman is concerned, I could not but be upset by this example -of how our house was run--an example that all in an instant brought -to my mind and enabled me to understand a score, a hundred similar -examples. There was I, toiling away to make money, earning every dollar -by the hardest kind of mental labor, struggling to rise, to make our -fortune, and each day my wife was tossing carelessly out of the windows -into the street a large part of my earnings. I did not know what to do -about it. - -Edna’s next stop was at the grocer’s. I had not the courage to halt -and listen. I knew it would be a repetition of the grotesque interview -with the butcher. And she undoubtedly a clever woman--alert, improving. -What a mystery! I went on to my office. That day, without giving my -acquaintances there an inkling of what was in my mind, I made inquiries -into how their wives spent the money that went for food--the most -important item in the spending of incomes under ten or twelve thousand -a year. In every case the wife or the mother did the marketing by -telephone. All the men except one took the ignorance and incompetence -of the management of the household expenses as a matter of course. One -man grumbled a little. I remember he said: “No wonder it’s hard for the -men to save anything. The women waste most of it on the table, paying -double prices for poor stuff. I tell you, Loring, the American woman -is responsible for the dishonesty of American commercial life. They -are always nagging at the man for more and more money to spend, and in -spending it they tempt the merchants, the clerks, their own servants, -everyone within range, to become swindlers and thieves.” - -“Oh, nonsense,” said I. “You’re a pessimist. The American woman is all -right. Where’d you find her equal for intelligence and charm?” - -“She may be intelligent,” said he. “She doesn’t use it on anything -worth while, except roping in some poor sucker to put up _for_ her and -to put up _with_ her. And she may have charm, but not for a man who has -cut his matrimonial eye teeth.” - -I laughed at Van Dyck--that was my grumbling friend’s name. And I soon -dropped the subject from my mind. It has never been my habit to waste -time in thinking about things when the thinking could not possibly -lead anywhere. You may say I ought to have interfered, forced my wife -to come to her senses, compelled her to learn her business. Which -shows that you know little about the nature of the American woman. -If I had taken that course, she would have hated me, she would have -done no better, and she would have scorned me as a sordid haggler over -small sums of money who was trying to spoil with the vulgarities of -commercial life the beauties of the home. No, I instinctively knew -enough not to interfere. - - * * * * * - -But let us take a long leap forward to the day when I became president -of the railroad, having made myself a rich man by judicious gambling -with eight thousand dollars loaned me by father Wheatlands. He was a -rich man, and in the way to become very rich, and he had no heir but -Edna after the drowning of her two brothers under a sailboat in Newark -Bay. Margot was in a fashionable school over in New York. My wife and -I, still a young couple and she beautiful--my wife and I were as happy -as any married couple can be where they let each other alone and the -husband gives the wife all the money she wishes and leaves her free to -spend it as she pleases. - -When I told her of my good fortune, and the sudden and large betterment -of our finances, she said with a curious lighting of the eyes, a -curious strengthening of the chin: - -“Now--for New York!” - -“New York?” said I. “What does that mean?” - -“We are going to live in New York,” replied she. - -“But we do live in New York. Brooklyn is part of New York.” - -“Legally I suppose it is,” replied she. “But morally and æsthetically, -socially, and in every other civilized way, my dear Godfrey, it is part -of the backwoods. I can hardly wait to get away.” - -“Why, I thought you were happy here!” exclaimed I, marveling, used -though I was to her keeping her own counsel strictly about the matters -that most interested her. “You’ve certainly acted as if you loved it.” - -“I didn’t _mind_ it at first,” conceded she. “But for two or three -years I have _loathed_ it, and everybody that lives in it.” - -I was amazed at this last sally. “Oh, come now, Edna,” cried I, “you’ve -got lots of friends here--lots and lots of them.” - -I was thinking of the dozen or so women whom she called and who called -her by the first name, women she was with early and late. Women she was -daily playing bridge with-- Bridge! I have a friend who declares that -bridge is ruining the American home, and I see his point, but I think -he doesn’t look deep enough. If it weren’t bridge it would be something -else. Bridge is a striking example, but only a single example, of the -results of feminine folly and idleness that all flow from the same -cause. However, let us go back to my talk with Edna. She met my protest -in behalf of her friends with a contemptuous: - -“I don’t know a soul who isn’t _frightfully_ common.” - -“They’re the same sort of people we are.” - -“Not the same sort that _I_ am,” declared she proudly. “And not the -sort Margot and you are going to be. You’ll see. You don’t know about -these things. But fortunately I do.” - -“You don’t seriously mean that you want to leave this splendid old -house----” - -“Splendid? It’s hardly fit to live in. Of course, we had to endure it -while we were poor and obscure. But now it won’t do at all.” - -“And go away from all these people you’ve worked so hard to get in -with--all these friends--go away among strangers. _I_ don’t mind. But -what would _you_ do? How’d you pass the days?” - -“These vulgar people bore me to death,” declared she. “I’ve been -advancing, if you have stood still. Thank God, _I’ve_ got ambition.” - -“Heaven knows they’ve never been _my_ friends,” said I. “But I must say -they seem nice enough people, as people go. What’s the matter with ’em?” - -“They’re common,” said she with the languor of one explaining when he -feels he will not be understood. “They’re tiresome.” - -“I’ll admit they’re tiresome,” said I. “That’s why I’ve kept away from -them. But I doubt if they’re more tiresome than people generally. The -fact is, my dear, people are all tiresome. That’s why they can’t amuse -themselves or each other, but have to be amused--have to hire the -clever people of all sorts to entertain them. Instead of asking people -here to bore us and to be bored, why not send them seats at a theater -or orders for a first-class meal at a first-class restaurant?” - -“I suppose you think that’s funny,” said my wife. She had no sense of -humor, and the suggestion of a jest irritated her. - -“Yes, it does strike me as funny,” I admitted. “But there’s sense in -it, too.... I’m sure you don’t want to abandon your friends here. -Why make ourselves uncomfortable all over again?” I took a serious -persuasive tone. “Edna, we’re beginning to get used to the more stylish -way of living we took up when we left Passaic and came here to live. Is -it sensible to branch out again into the untried and the unknown? Will -we be any wiser or any happier? You can shine as the big star now in -this circle of friends. You like to run things socially. Here’s your -chance.” - -“How could I get any pleasure out of running things socially in St. -Mary’s?” demanded she. “I’ve outgrown it. It seems vulgar and common to -me. It is vulgar and common.” - -“What does that mean?” I asked innocently. - -“If you don’t understand, I can’t tell you,” replied she tartly. -“Surely you must see that your wife and your daughter are superior to -these people round here.” - -“I don’t compare my wife and daughter with other people,” said I. “To -me they’re superior to anybody and everybody else in the world. I often -wish we lived ’way off in the country somewhere. I’m sure we’d be -happier with only each other. We’re putting on too much style to suit -me, even now.” - -“I see you living in the country,” laughed she. “You’d come down about -once a week or month.” - -I couldn’t deny the truth in her accusation. I felt it ought to have -been that my wife and I were so sympathetic, so interested in the same -things, that we were absorbed in each other. But the facts were against -it. We really had almost nothing in common. I admired her beauty and -also her intelligence and energy, though I thought them misdirected. -She, I think, liked me in the primitive way of a woman with a man. And -she admired my ability to make money, though she thought it rather a -low form of intellectual excellence. However, as she found it extremely -useful, she admired me for it in a way. I have seen much of the -aristocratic temperament that despises money, but I have yet to see an -aristocrat who wasn’t greedier than the greediest money-grubber--and -I must say it is hard to conceive anything lower than the spirit -that grabs the gift and despises the giver. But then, some day, when -thinking is done more clearly, we shall all see that aristocracy and -its spirit is the lowest level of human nature, is simply a deep-seated -survival of barbarism. However, Edna and I appealed to and satisfied -each other in one way; beyond that our congeniality abruptly ended. -Looking back, I see now that talking _with_ her was never a pleasure, -nor was it a pleasure to her to talk _with_ me. I irritated her; she -bored me. - -How rarely in our country do you find a woman who is an interesting -companion for a man, except as female and male pair or survey the -prospect of pairing? And it matters not what line of activity the man -is taking--business, politics, literature, art, philanthropy even. The -women are eternally talking about their superiority to the business -man; but do they get along any better with an artist--unless he is -cultivating the woman for the sake of an order for a picture? Is there -any line of serious endeavor in which an American woman is interesting -and helpful and companionable to a man? I can get along very well with -an artist. I have one friend who is a writer of novels, another who -is a writer of plays, a third who is a sculptor. They are interested -in my work, and I in theirs. We talk together on a basis of equal -interest, and we give each other ideas. Can any American woman say the -same? I don’t inquire anticipating a negative answer. I simply put the -question. But I suspect the answer would put a pin in the bubble of -the American woman’s pretense of superior culture. She is fooled by -her vanity, I fear, and by her sex attraction, and by the influence of -the money her despised father or husband gives her. There’s a reason -why America is notoriously the land of bachelor husbands--and that -reason is not the one the women and foreign fortune hunters assert. -The American man lets the case go by default against him, not because -he couldn’t answer, nor yet because he is polite, but _because he is -indifferent_. - -But my wife was talking about her projected assault upon New York. “I -really must be an extraordinary woman,” said she. “How I have fought -all these years to raise myself, with you dragging at me to keep me -down.” - -“I?” protested her unhappy husband. “Why, dear, I’ve never opposed you -in any way. And I’ve tried to do what I could to help you. You must -admit the money’s been useful.” - -“Oh, you’ve never been mean about money,” conceded she. “But you don’t -sympathize with a single one of my ideals.” - -“I want you to have whatever you want,” said I. “And anything I can do -to get it for you, or to help you get it, I stand ready to do.” - -“Yes, I know, Godfrey, dear,” said she, giving me a long hug and a -kiss. “No woman ever had a more generous husband than I have.” - -I naturally attached more importance to this burst of enthusiasm then -than I do now. And it is as well that I was thus simple-minded. How -little pleasure we would get, to be sure, if, when we are praised -or loved by anybody because we do that person a kindness, we paused -to analyze and saw the shallow selfishness of such praise or such -love. After all, it’s only human nature to like those who do as we -ask them and to dislike those who don’t; and I am not quarreling with -human nature--or with any other of the unchangeable conditions of the -universe. My own love for Edna--what was it but the natural result of -my getting what I wanted from her, all I wanted? I really troubled -myself little about her incompetence and extravagance and craze for -social position. No doubt to this day I should be-- But I am again -anticipating. - -“Generous? Nonsense,” said I. “It isn’t generous to try to make you -happy. That’s my one chance of being happy myself. A busy man’s got to -have peace at home. If he hasn’t he’s like a soldier attacked rear and -front at the same time.” - -“I know you don’t care where we live,” she went on. “And for Margot’s -sake we’ve simply got to move to New York.” - -“Oh, you want her to stay at home of nights, instead of living at the -school. Why didn’t you speak of that first?” - -“Not at all,” cried she. “How slow you are! No; for the present, even -if we do live in New York, I think it best for Margot to keep on -living at the school. She’s barely started there. I want her training -to be thorough. And while I’m learning as fast as I can, I am not -competent to teach her. I know, of course. But I haven’t had the chance -to practice. So I can’t teach her.” - -“Teach her what?” I inquired. - -“To be a lady--a practical, expert lady,” replied Edna. “That’s what -she’s going to Miss Ryper’s school for. And when she comes out she’ll -be the equal of girls who have generations of culture and breeding -behind them.” - -“God bless me!” cried I, laughing. “This Ryper woman must be a wonder.” - -“She is,” declared Edna. “It was a great favor, her letting Margot into -the school.” - -“Oh, I remember,” said I. “She couldn’t do it until I got two of the -directors of the road to insist on it. But I guess that was merely a -bluff of hers to squeeze us for a few hundreds extra.” - -“Not at all,” Edna assured me. “You are _so_ ignorant, Godfrey. Please -do be careful not to say those coarse things before people.” - -“As you please,” said I, cheerfully, for I was used to this kind of -calling down. “All the same, the Ryper lady is hot for the dough.” - -Edna shivered. She detested slang--continued to detest and avoid it -even after she learned that it was fashionable. “Miss Ryper guards -her list of pupils as their mothers guard their visiting lists,” said -she. “But now she likes Margot. The dear child has been elected to -the most exclusive fraternity. Every girl in it has to wear hand-made -underclothes and has to have had at least a father, a grandfather, and -a great grandfather.” Edna laughed with pride at her own cleverness -before she went on. “Margot came to me when she was proposed, and cried -as if her little heart would break. She said she didn’t know anything -about her grandfather and great grandfather. But I hadn’t forgotten to -arrange that. I think of everything.” - -“Oh, that was easy enough,” said I. “Your grandfather was a tailor and -mine was in the grocery business like father.” - -Edna looked round in terror. “Sh!” she exclaimed. “Servants always -listen.” She went to the door--we were in the small upstairs sitting -room--opened it suddenly, looked into the hall, closed the door, -and returned to a chair nearer the lounge on which I was stretched -comfortably smoking. - -“What’s the matter?” said I. - -“No one was there,” said she. “Haven’t I told you never to speak of--of -those horrible things?” - -“But Margot----” - -“Margot doesn’t know. She must _never_ know! Poor child, she is so -sensitive, it would make her ill.” - -I lapsed into gloomy silence. I had not liked the way Edna had been -acting about her parents and mine ever since we came to Brooklyn. But I -had been busy, and was averse to meddling. - -“I gave Margot for the benefit of the girls a genealogy I’ve gotten -up,” she went on. “You know all genealogies are more or less faked, and -I’ve no doubt hers is every bit as genuine as those of half the girls -over there. I fixed ours so that it would take a lot of inquiry to -expose it. And Margot got into the fraternity.” - -“Are the hand-made underclothes fake too?” said I. - -“Oh, no. _They_ had to be genuine. I’ve never let Margot wear any other -kind since I learned about those things. There’s nothing that gives a -child such a sense of ladylikeness and superiority as to feel she’s -dressed right from the skin out.” - -“Well, school’s a different sort of a place from what it was in our -day,” said I. The picture my wife had drawn amused me, but I somehow -did not exactly like it. My mind was too little interested in the -direction of the things that absorbed Edna for me to be able to put -into any sort of shape the thoughts vaguely moving about in the -shadows. “I’ll bet,” I went on, “poor Margot doesn’t have as good a -time as we had.” - -“She’d hate that kind of a time,” said Edna. - -I laughed and laid my hand in her lap. Her hand stole into it. I -watched her lovely face--the sweet, dreamy expression. “What are you -thinking?” said I softly, hopeful of romance--what _I_ call romance. - -“I was thinking how low and awful we used to be,” replied she, “and how -splendidly we are getting away from it.” - -I laughed, for I was used to cold water on my romance. “All the same,” -insisted I, “Margot would envy us if she knew.” - -“She’d hate it,” Edna repeated. “She’s going to be an improvement on -_us_.” - -“Not on you,” I protested. - -She looked at me with tender sparkling eyes, the same lovely -light-brown eyes that had fascinated me as a boy. Brown eyes for a -woman, always! But they must not be of the heavy commonplace shades of -brown like a deer’s or a cow’s. They must have light shades in them, -tints verging toward blue or green. Said Edna: “I’m doing my best to -fit myself. And before I get through, Godfrey, I think I’ll go far.” - -“Sure you will,” said I, with no disposition to turn the cold douche -on _her_ kind of romance. What an idiot I was about her, to be sure! I -went on: “And I’ll see that you have the money to grease the toboggan -slide and make the going easy.” - -She talked on happily and confidingly: “Yes, it’s best to leave Margot -another year as a boarder at Miss Ryper’s. By that time we’ll be -established over in New York, and we’ll have a proper place for her to -receive her friends. And perhaps we’ll have a few friends of our own.” - -“Swell friends, eh?” - -“Please don’t say swell, dear,” corrected she. “It’s such a common -word.” - -“I’ve heard _you_ say it,” I protested. - -“But I don’t any more. I’ve learned better. And now I’ve taught you -better.” - -“Anything you like. Anybody you like,” said I. When Edna and I were -together, with our hands clasped, I was always completely under her -spell. She could do what she pleased with me, so long, of course, as -she didn’t interfere in my end of the firm. And I may add that she -never did; she hadn’t the faintest notion what I was about. They say -there are thousands of American women in the cities who know their -husbands’ places of business only as street and telephone numbers. -My wife was one of that kind. Oh, yes, from the standpoint of those -who insist that business and home should be separate, we were a model -couple. - -“There’s another matter I want to talk over with you, Godfrey,” she -went on. - -“That’s a lovely dress you’re wearing,” said I. “It goes so well with -your skin and your hair.” - -She was delighted, and was moved to rise and look at herself in the -long mirror. She gave herself an approving glance, but not more -approving than what she saw merited. A long, slim beautiful figure; -a dress that set it off. A lovely young tip-tilted face, the face of -a girl with fresh, clear eyes and skin, the whitest, evenest sharp -teeth--and such hair!--such quantities of hair attractively arranged. - -From herself she glanced at me. “No one’d ever think what we came from, -would they?” said she fondly and proudly. “Oh, Godfrey, it makes me -so happy that we _look_ the part. We belong where we’re going. The -good blood away back in the family is coming out. And Margot-- I’ve -always called her the little duchess--and she looks it and feels it.” -Dreamily, “Maybe she will be some day.” - -“Why, she’s a baby,” cried I. For I didn’t like to see that my baby was -growing up. - -“She’s nearly fourteen,” said Edna. She was looking at herself again. -“Would you ever think _I_ had a daughter fourteen years old?” said -she, making a laughing, saucy face at me. - -I got up and kissed her. “You don’t look as old as you did when I -married you,” said I, and it was only a slight exaggeration. - -When we sat again, she was snuggled into my lap with her head against -my shoulder. She was immensely fond of being petted. They say this is -no sign of a loving nature, that cats, the least loving of all pets, -are fondest of petting. I have no opinion on the subject. - -“What was it you wanted to talk about?” said I. “Money?” - -“No, indeed,” laughed she. - -“I supposed so, as that’s the only matter in which I have any influence -in this family.” - -“Come to think of it,” said she, “it _is_ money--in a way. It’s -about--our parents.” She gave a deep sigh. “Godfrey, they hang over me -like a nightmare!” - -Her tragic seriousness amused me. “Oh, cheer up,” said I, kissing her. -“They certainly don’t fit in with our stylishness. But they’re away off -there in Passaic, and bother us as little as we bother them. The truth -is, Edna, we’ve not acted right. We’ve been selfish--spending all our -prosperity on ourselves. Of course, they’ve got everything they really -want, but--well----” - -“That’s exactly it,” said she eagerly. “My conscience has been hurting -me. We ought to--to-- It wouldn’t cost much to make them perfectly -comfortable--so they’d not have to work--and could get away from the -grocery--and the--and the”--she hesitated before saying “father’s -business,” as if nerving herself to pronounce words of shame. And when -she did finally force out the evading “father’s business,” it was with -such an accent that I couldn’t help laughing outright. - -“Undertaking’s a good-paying business,” said I. “We certainly ought to -be grateful to it. It supplied the eight thousand dollars that gave me -the chance to buy half the rolling mill. And you know the rolling mill -was the start of our fortune.” - -“Do you think father could be induced to retire?” she asked. - -“Never,” said I. “Your father’s a rich man, for Passaic. He’s got two -hundred thousand at least hived away in tenements that pay from twenty -to thirty-five per cent. And his business now brings in ten to fifteen -thousand a year straight along.” - -“You can make _your_ father retire?” - -I laughed. “Poor dad! I’ve been keeping him from being retired by the -sheriff. He’s squeezing out a bare living. He’d be delighted to stop -and have all his time for talking politics and religion.” - -“You could buy them a nice place a little way out in the country, on -some quiet road. I’m sure your mother and your old maid sister would -love it.” - -“Perhaps,” said I. “If it wasn’t _too_ quiet.” - -“But it must be quiet. And we’ll induce my father and mother to buy a -place near by.” - -“Your father’ll not give up the business.” - -“I’ve thought it all out,” said Edna, whose mind was equal to whatever -task she gave it. “You must get some one to offer him a price he simply -can’t refuse, and make a condition that he shall not go into business -again. Aren’t those things done?” - -I was somewhat surprised, but not much, at the knowledge of business -this displayed. “Why!--Why!” laughed I. “And you pretend to know -nothing about business!” - -She was in a sensible, loving mood that day. So she said with a quiet -little laugh: “I make it a point to know anything that’s useful to me. -I don’t know much about business. Why should I bother with it? I’ve got -confidence in you.” - -It was not the first time I had got a peep into her mind and had -seen how she looked on everyone, including me, as a wheel in her -machine, and never interfered unless the wheel didn’t work to suit -her. I laughed delightedly. There was something charmingly feminine, -thought I, about this point of view so upside down. “Yes, I guess your -father’ll jump for the bait you suggest,” said I. “But why disturb him? -He loves his undertaking.” - -She shivered. - -“And he’ll be miserable idling about.” - -“Oh, I guess he’ll get along all right,” said she, with sarcasm and -with truth. “He’ll devote himself to suing his tenants and counting his -money.... Godfrey, you simply must get those people in Passaic out of -our way. I’ve been a little nervous over here, though I knew that none -of these dreadful people we associate with has anything better in the -way of family than us, and some have a lot worse. Oh, it’s _frightful_ -to have parents one’s ashamed of!” - -I think I blushed. I’m sure I looked away to avoid seeing her -expression. “It’s frightful to be ashamed of one’s parents,” said I. - -“Now don’t be hypocritical,” cried she. “You know perfectly well you -are ashamed of your parents, as I am of mine.” - -“I’ll admit,” said I, “that if they showed up at the office, I’d be -a bit upset and would feel apologetic. But I’m ashamed of myself for -feeling that way.” - -“If you only realized about things,” said she, which was her phrase for -hitting at me as lacking in refined instincts, “you’d not be ashamed of -yourself, but would frankly suffer. They are a disgrace to us.” - -“They’re honest people, well meaning, and as good as the best in every -essential way,” said I. “Believe me, Edna, the fault isn’t in them. -It’s in us. Suppose you found some day that Margot was ashamed of you -and me.” - -“But she’ll not be,” retorted Edna. “I for one will see to it that she -has no cause to be anything but proud.” - -I couldn’t but admit that there were two sides to the problem of our -parents. It was shameful to be ashamed of them. But it was also human. -I couldn’t--and can’t--utterly damn in Edna a fault, a vulgar weakness, -I myself had, and almost everyone I knew. No doubt, gentle reader, -you are scandalized and disgusted. But one of my objects in relating -this whole story is to scandalize and to disgust you. You have had too -much consideration at the hands of writers--you and your hypocritical -virtues and your hysterical nerves. If you are an American, you are -probably far in advance of your parents in worldly knowledge, in -education, in every way except perhaps manly and womanly self-respect. -For along with your progress has come an infection of snobbishness and -toadyism that seems in some mysterious way inseparable from higher -civilization. So be shocked and disgusted with Edna and me, and don’t -turn your hypocritical eyes inward on your own secret thoughts and -actions about your own humble parents. Above all, don’t learn from -this horrifying episode a decenter mode of thinking and feeling--_and_ -acting. - -“We must get them out of the way before we move to New York,” said -Edna. “Ever since Margot began at Mrs. Ryper’s I’ve been on pins and -needles. You don’t know how malicious fashionable people are. Why, some -of them who have nothing to do might at any time run out to Passaic and -see for themselves.” - -Edna was sitting up in my lap, gazing at me with wide harassed-looking -eyes. I burst out laughing. “They might take a camera along, and get -some snapshots,” I suggested. - -Edna’s face contracted with horror and her form grew limp and weak. -“My God!” she cried. “So they might. Godfrey, we must attend to it at -once.” - - - - -III - - -I have never been able to come to a satisfactory verdict as to the -intelligence of the human race. Is it stupid, or is it, rather, -sluggish? Is it unable to think, or does it refuse to think? Does it -believe the follies it pretends to believe and usually acts upon, or is -it the victim of its own willful prejudices and hypocrisies? Never have -I decided that a certain man or woman was practically witless, but that -he or she has confounded me by saying or doing something indicating -shrewdness or even wisdom. - -The women are especially difficult to judge. Take Edna, for example. - -It was impossible to interest her in anything worth while. But as to -the things in which she was interested, none could have thought more -clearly or keenly, or could have acted with more vigor and effect. I -have often made serious blunders--inexcusable blunders--in managing -my own affairs. To go no further, my management of my family would -have convicted me of imbecility before any court not made up of -good-natured, indifferent, woman-worshiping, woman-despising American -husbands. Yes, I have made the stupidest blunders in all creation. But -I cannot recall a single notable blunder made by Edna in the matters -which alone she deemed worthy of her attention. She decided what she -wanted. She moved upon it by the best route, whether devious or direct -or a combination of the two. And she always got it. - -You may say her success was due to the fact that her objects were -trivial. But if you will think a moment, you will appreciate that a -thing’s triviality does not necessarily make it easy to attain. As much -energy and skill may be shown in winning a sham battle as in winning a -real. Still, I suppose minds are cast in molds of various sizes, and -one cast in a small mold can deal only with the small. And I guess -that, from whatever cause, the minds of women are of diverse kinds of -smaller molds. Perhaps this is the result of bad education. Perhaps -better education will correct it. I do not know. I can speak only of -what is--of Edna as she is and always has been. - -Having made up her mind to fell the genealogical tree, that an -artificial one might be stood up in its place, she lost no time in -getting into action. - -It was on the Sunday following our talk--the earliest possible -day--that she took me for the first visit we had made our parents -in nearly three years. We had sent them presents. We had written -them letters. We had received painfully composed and ungrammatical -replies--these received both for Edna and myself at my office, because -she feared the servants would pry into periodically arriving exhibits -of illiteracy. We had written them of coming and bringing Margot with -us. We had received suggestions of their coming to see us, which Edna -had evaded by such excuses as that we were moving or that she or -Margot was not well or that the cook had abruptly deserted. The world -outside Passaic was a vague place to our old fathers and mothers. Their -own immediate affairs kept them busy. So with no sense of deliberate -alienation on their side and small and mildly intermittent sense of it -on our side, the months and the years passed without our seeing one -another. - -Edna announced to me the intended visit only an hour before we started. -It was a habit of hers--a clever habit, too--never to take anyone into -her confidence about her plans until the right moment--that is, the -moment when execution was so near at hand that discussion would seem -futile. At a quarter before nine on that Sunday morning she said: - -“Don’t dress for church. This is a good day to make that trip to -Passaic.” - -“We’ll go by Miss Ryper’s for Margot,” said I. “How the old people will -stare when they see her!” - -Edna looked at me as if I had suddenly uncovered unmistakable evidence -of my insanity. Then I who had clean forgot her foolish notions -remembered. “But why not?” I urged. “It will give them so much -pleasure.” - -“Trash!” ejaculated she. “They don’t care a rap about her. They can’t, -as they’ve not seen her since she was a baby. And Margot would suffer -horribly. I think it would be wicked to give a sweet, happy young girl -a horrible shock.” - -This grotesque view of the effect of the sight of grandparents upon a -grandchild struck me as amusing. But there was no echo of my laughter -in the disgusted face of my wife. I sobered and said: “Yes, it would -give her a shock. We’ve made a mistake, bringing her up in that way.” - -“Too late to discuss it now,” said Edna. - -“I suppose so,” I could not but agree. “I guess the mischief’s done -beyond repair.” - -Said Edna: “Have you any sense of--of them being _your_ father and -mother?” - -“Rather,” said I. “My childhood is very vivid to me, and not at all -disagreeable.” - -“It seems to me like a bad dream--unreal, and to be forgotten as -quickly as I can.” - -She said this with a fine, spiritual look in her eyes, and I must say -that Edna, refined, delicately beautiful, fashionably dressed, speaking -her English with an elegant accent, did not suggest fusty-dusty, -queer-looking Weeping Willie with his hearse and funeral coaches, his -embalming apparatus and general appearance of animated casket, nor yet -fat, sloppy Ma Wheatlands, always in faded wrappers and with holes cut -in her shoes for her bunions. - -“Wear your oldest business suit,” said Edna, coming back to earth from -the contemplation of her own elevation and grandeur. “I shall dress as -quietly as I dare. We mustn’t arouse the suspicions of the servants.” - -Edna’s fooleries amused me. I didn’t then appreciate the dangers of -tolerating and laughing at the bad habits of a fascinating child. -If I had, little good I’d have accomplished, I suspect. However, I -got myself up as Edna directed, and when I saw how it irritated her -I stopped making such remarks as: “Shall I wear a collar? Hadn’t I -better sneak out the back way and join you at the ferry?” I should -have liked to get some fun out of our doings; that would have taken -at least the saw edge off my feelings of self-contempt. I am not fond -of hypocrisy, yet for that one occasion I should have welcomed the -familiar human shamming and faking in such matters. But Edna would put -the thing through like one of her father’s funerals. As we, in what -was practically disguise, issued forth, she said loudly enough for the -cocking ear of a maid who chanced to be in the front hall: - -“Anyhow, the country dust won’t spoil these clothes. I’m so glad it’s -clear. How charming the woods will look.” - -Just enough to deceive. Edna expanded upon her cleverness in never -saying too much, because saying too much always started people, -especially servants, to thinking. But she abruptly checked her flow of -self-praise as we seated ourselves in the ferry and she looked about. -There, not a dozen seats away, loomed our cook! Yes, no mistake, it was -our Mary, “gotten up regardless” for a Sunday outing. - -“Do you see Mary?” said my wife. - -“She’s the most conspicuous female in sight,” said I. “She’s a credit -to us.” - -“I must have been mad,” groaned Edna, “to give her a holiday! Always -the way. I never do a generous, kind-hearted thing that I don’t have to -pay for it.” - -“I don’t follow you,” said I. - -“She hates us,” explained Edna. “Cooks--Irish cooks--invariably hate -the families they draw wages from. She’s dogging us.” - -“Nonsense,” said I. “She probably hasn’t even seen us.” - -But Edna was not listening; she was contriving. “We must let her leave -the boat ahead of us. Pretend not to see her.” - -I obeyed orders. In the Jersey City train shed we, lagging behind, saw -her take a train bound for a different destination from ours. Much -relieved, Edna led the way to the Passaic train. Hardly were we seated -when in at the door of the coach hurried our Mary, excited and blown. -She came beaming down the aisle. Edna saluted her graciously and calmly. - -“I got in the wrong train,” said Mary. “It’d never have took me -nowheres near my cousin in Passaic.” - -Edna’s composure was admirable. Said I, when Mary had passed on, “Now -what, my dear?” - -“You see she _is_ dogging us,” replied Edna. “I’ve not a doubt she -knows all about us.” - -“I don’t _think_ she’s got a camera,” said I. “Still, they make them -very small nowadays.” - -“We shall have to go on in the train, and return home from the station -beyond,” said Edna. - -“Do as you like,” said I. “But as for me, I get off at Passaic and go -to see the old folks.” - -“Please stop your joking,” said Edna. “If you had any pride you -couldn’t joke.” - -“I am serious,” said I. “I shall go to see mother and father.” - -“No doubt her cousin lives in the same part of the slums,” said Edna. -“Oh, it is _hideous_!” - -I don’t know what possessed me--whether a fit of indigestion and -obstinacy or a sudden access of sense of decency as I approached my old -home. Whatever it was, it moved me to say: “My dear, this nonsense has -gone far enough. We will do what we set out to do.” - -“Not I,” said Edna. - -“Then I’ll drop off at Passaic alone, and hire a trap, and give Mary -a seat in it as far as her cousin’s. I’m not proud of my parents, the -more shame to me. But there’s a limit to my ability to degrade myself.” - -Edna and I had not lived together all those years without her learning -the tone I use when I will not be trifled with. She did not argue. She -sat silent and pale beside me. When the train stopped at Passaic she -followed me from the car. Mary descended ahead of us and moved off at -as brisk a pace as tight corsets and stiff new shoes would permit, in a -direction exactly opposite that we were to take. - -“Aren’t you glad we didn’t go on?” said I, eager to make it up. - -She made no reply. She maintained haughty and injured silence until we -were within sight of the houses. Then she said curtly: - -“I’ll do the talking about our plans for them.” - -“That’ll be best,” said I, most conciliatory. - -I had not intended to say this. There had been a half-formed resolution -in my mind to oppose those plans. But her anger roused in me such a -desire to pacify her that I promptly yielded, where, I must in honesty -confess, I was little short of indifferent. American husbands have the -reputation of being the most docile and the worst henpecked men in -the world. All foreigners say so, and our women believe it. In fact, -nothing could be further from the truth. The docility of American -husbands is the good nature of indifference. A friend of mine has the -habit of saying that his most valued and most valuable possession is -his long list of things he cares not a rap about. It is a typically -American and luminous remark. The men of other nations agitate over -trifles, love to have the sense of being master at home--usually their -one and only chance for a free swing at the joyous feeling of being -boss. The American man, absorbed in his important work at office or -factory, and not caring especially about anything else, lets thieving -politicians rule in public affairs, lets foolish, incompetent women -rule in domestic affairs. He has a half-conscious philosophy that he -is shrewd enough, if he attends to his business, to make money faster -than they can take it away from him, and that, if he does not attend to -his business only, he will have nothing either for thieving politician -and spendthrift wife or for himself. If you wish to discover how little -there is in the notion of his docility, meddle with something he really -cares about. Many a political rascal, many a shiftless wife, has done -it and has gotten a highly disagreeable surprise. - -Perhaps what I saw had as much to do with my tame acquiescence in my -wife’s projects as my desire to have peace between her and me, when -peace meant yielding what only a vague and feeble filial impulse moved -me to contest. I had what I thought was a clear and vivid memory of my -natal place and Edna’s--how the two houses looked, how small and shabby -they were, how mean their surroundings, how plain their interiors. But -as we drove up I discovered that memory had been pleasantly deceiving -me. Could these squalid hovels, these tiny, hideous boxes set in two -dismal weedy oblongs of unkempt yards--could these be our old homes? -And the bent old laboring man and his wife--we had drawn up in front of -my home--could they be _my_ father and _my_ mother? - -A feeling of sickness, of nausea came over me. Not from repulsion for -my parents--thank God, I had not sunk that low. But from abhorrence -of myself, so degraded by the “higher world” into which prosperity -and Edna’s ambitions had dragged me that I could look down upon the -gentle old man and the patient, loving old woman to whom I owed life -and a fair start in the world. My blood burned and my eyes sank as they -greeted me, their homely old hands trembling, their mouths distorted -by emotion and age and missing teeth. I turned away while they were -kissing Edna, for I felt I should hate her and loathe myself if I saw -the expression that must be in her face. - -“There are my father and mother!” she cried in a suffocating voice. And -we three Lorings were watching her hurry across the yard and through -the gap in the fence between the two places. My sister came forward. -We kissed each other as awkwardly as two strangers. I looked at her -dazedly. Mary, our cook, was an imposing looking lady beside this -thin-haired, coarse-featured old maid. In embarrassed silence we four -entered the house. I am not tall nor in the least fat, yet I had an -uncontrollable impulse to stoop and to squeeze as I entered the squat -and narrow doorway. That miserable little “parlor!” - -As we sat silent my roving glance at last sought my mother’s face. Oh, -the faces, the masks, with which freakish and so often savagely ironic -fate covers and hides our souls, making fair seem foul and foul seem -fair, making beauty repellent and ugliness seem beautiful. Suddenly -through that plain, time- and toil-scarred mask, through those dim, -sunken eyes, I saw her soul--her mother’s heart--looking at me. And the -tears poured into my eyes. “Mother!” I sobbed in a choking voice, and -I put my arms round her and nestled against her heart, a boy again--a -bad boy with a streak of good in him. I felt how proud she--they -all--were of me, the son and brother, who had gone forth and fulfilled -the universal American dream of getting up in the world. I hoped, I -prayed that they would not realize what a poor creature I was, with my -snobbish shame. - -There was an awkward, rambling attempt at talk. But we had nothing -to talk about--nothing in common. I happened to think of our not -having brought Margot; how shameful it was, yet how glad I felt, and -how self-contemptuous for being glad. To break that awful silence I -enlarged upon Margot--her beauty, her cleverness. - -“She must be like Polly”--my sister’s name was Polly--“like Polly was -at her age,” observed my mother. - -I looked at Polly Ann, in whose faded face and withered form--faded and -withered though she was not yet forty, was in fact but seven or eight -years older than I. Like Polly! I could speak no more of Margot, the -delicate loveliness of a rare, carefully reared hot-house exotic. Yes, -exotic; for the girls and the women brought up in the super-refinements -of prosperous class silliness seem foreign to this world--and are. - -A few minutes that seemed hours, and Edna came in, her father and -mother limping and hobbling in her train. Edna was sickly pale and her -eyelids refused to rise. I shook hands with old Willie Wheatlands, -hesitated, then kissed the fat, sallow, swinging cheek of my -mother-in-law. Said Edna in a hard, forced voice: - -“I’ve explained that Margot isn’t well and that we’ve got to get -back----” - -“Mercy me!” cried my mother. “Ain’t you going to stay to supper?” - -Supper! It was only half-past twelve. Supper could not be until five or -half-past. We had been there half an hour and already conversation was -exhausted and time had become motionless. - -“We intended to,” said Edna. “But Margot wasn’t at all well when we -left. We simply can’t stay away long. We’d not have come, but we felt -we’d never get here if we kept on letting things interfere.” - -“You didn’t leave Margy _alone_?” demanded Edna’s mother. - -“Almost,” said Edna. “Only a--a servant.” - -“Oh, you keep a nurse girl, too,” said Polly. “I thought Edna didn’t -look as if she did any of her own work.” - -“Yes, I have a--a girl, in addition to the cook,” replied Edna, -flushing as she thus denied three of her five servants--flushing not -because of the denial, but because in her confession she had almost -forgotten about the numerous excuses based on the cook. “Godfrey has -been doing very well, and we felt we could afford it.” - -“Better get rid of her,” advised old Willie sourly. “And of the cook, -too. Servant girls is mighty wasteful.” - -“And she’ll teach Margy badness,” said my mother. “Them servants is -full of poison. Even if yer pa’d had money I’d never have allowed no -servant round my children, no more’n a snake in the cradle. I hope -she’s a good Christian, and not a Catholic?” - -“She’s all right,” declared Edna nervously. “But we’ll have to be going -soon.” - -“Yes; that there girl might git drunk,” said Mrs. Wheatlands. - -“And set fire to the house maybe,” said my mother. “I heard of a case -just last week.” - -“I wish you hadn’t said that,” cried Edna, her tones of protest more -like jubilation. “I’ll be wretched until I’m home again.” - -Mother told in detail and with rising excitement the story of the -drunken nurse girl who had burned up herself and her charges, a pair -of lovely twins. From that moment our families were anxious for us to -go. The three women could see the girl drunk and the house burning. -The two grandfathers, while less imaginative, were almost as uneasy. -Besides, no doubt our families found us full as tiring as we found them. - -“But before we go,” said Edna, in a business-like tone, “there’s one -thing we wanted to talk about. Godfrey has had--that is, he has done -very well in business. And of course our first thought--one of our -first thoughts--was what could we do for you all down here. We hate to -think of your living in this unhealthful part of the town. We want to -see you settled in some healthful place, up in the hills.” - -We were watching the faces of our five kinsfolk. We could make nothing -of their expression. It was heavy, dull--mere listening, without a hint -of even comprehension behind. - -“We thought you, father, and Mr.--father Loring--might look round and -find a nice farm with a big comfortable house--plenty big enough for -you all--and Godfrey will buy it, and will pay for a man and a woman to -look after you. He has done well, as I said, and he can afford it. In -fact, they’ve made him president of the railroad.” - -My father, my mother, and my sister exchanged glances. A long, awed -silence. Old Willie spoke in his squeaky, stingy voice: “I can’t leave -my business. I ain’t footless like Loring there. _My_ business pays.” - -“You can sell it,” said Edna. “You know you ought to retire. You were -telling me how bad your health had been.” - -“Nobody else couldn’t make nothing like what I make out of it. The men -growing up nowadays ain’t no account. The no-account women with heads -full of foolishness leads ’em off.” - -Edna agreed with him, pointed out that he’d have to give up soon -anyhow, appealed to his cupidity for real estate by expanding upon the -size and value of the farm I was willing to give him. She made a strong -impression. The women were converted by the prospect of having help -with the work. My father had long dreamed of a home in the country. He -had not the imagination to picture how he would be bored, away from the -loafers with whom he talked politics and religion. “And,” said Edna, -“you’ll have horses and things to ride in, so you can go where you -please whenever you please.” - -We had roused them. We had dazzled them. It was plain that if a -purchaser could be found for the Wheatlands undertaking business, Edna -would carry her point. “Godfrey will look for somebody to take the -business,” said she to her father. “I want you and Father Loring to -start out to-morrow morning, and not stop till you’ve found a farm.” - -I understood an uncertain gleam in old Willie’s eyes. “About the -price,” said I, speaking for the first time, “I’m willing to pay -twenty-five thousand down for the place alone, and as I’ll pay cash, -you ought to be able on mortgage to get a farm--or two or three -adjoining farms--that would cost twice that.” - -The two families were dumbfounded. - -“I know I can trust you, Mr. Wheatlands, to get the money’s worth.” - -“Buy a big place,” said Edna, of the unexpected timely shrewdnesses. -“Go back from the main roads where land’s so dear.” - -Wheatlands nodded. “That’s a good idea,” said he. “There’ll be plenty -of roads after a while.” - -Edna was ready to depart. “Then it’s settled?” said she. - -Her father nodded. “I’m willing to see what can be done. But I’d rather -not have Ben Loring along. He’d interfere with a good bargain.” - -“Yes, you go alone, Willie,” said my father. “Anyhow, I’ve got to ’tend -store. I can’t afford a boy any more.” - -The mention of the, to them, enormous sum of money had put them in a -state of awe as to Edna and me. It saddened me to observe how quickly -the weed of snobbishness, whose seeds are in all human nature, sprang -up and dominated the whole garden. They lost the sense of our blood -kinship with them. They felt that we, able to dispense such splendid -largess, were of a superior order of being. And I saw that my and -Edna’s feeling of strangeness toward them was intimacy beside the -feeling of strangeness toward us which they now had. In my dealings -with my fellow beings I have often noted this sort of thing--that the -snobbishness of those who look down is a weak and hesitating impulse -which would soon die out but for the encouragement it gets from the -snobbishness of those who look up. I read somewhere, “Caste is made by -those who look up, not by those who look down.” That is a great truth, -and like most great, simple, obvious truths is usually overlooked. - -Looking back I see that my own first decisive impulse toward the caste -feeling came that day, came when my people and Edna’s, discovering that -we were rich, began to treat us as lower class treats upper class. - -My mother had been scrutinizing me for signs of the majesty of wealth. -“Why don’t you wear a beard, or leastways a mustache, Godfrey?” she -finally inquired. “Then you wouldn’t seem so boyish like.” - -“I used to wear a mustache,” said I, “but I cut it off because--I don’t -recall why.” - -In fact I did recall. I noted one day that I had a good mouth and -better teeth than most men have. And it came to me how absurd it was -to hang a bunch of hair from my upper lip to trail in the soup and to -embalm the odors of past cigars for the discomfort of my nose. Edna -kept after me for a time to let it grow again. But reading in some -novel she regarded as authoritative that mustaches were “common,” she -desisted. And I found my boyish appearance highly useful. It led men to -underestimate me--a signal advantage in the contests of wit against wit -in which I daily engaged with a view to wrenching a fortune for myself -away from my fellow men. - -My mother went on to urge me to make my face look older and more -formidable. Now that she had learned what a grand person I was she -feared others would not realize it. Edna, who, as I have said, -was shrewdness personified where her own interests were involved, -immediately saw the dangerous bearings of this newly aroused vanity -of our kin. “I forgot to caution you,” said she, “not to mention our -prosperity. If we were talked about now, it might be lost entirely. -The only reason Godfrey and I came to you so soon with the news of it -was because we wanted to do something for you right away. And we knew -we could trust you not to get us into trouble. Don’t talk about us. If -you hear people talking, if they ask you questions, pretend you don’t -understand and don’t know. You see, it may be spies from our enemies.” - -One glance round that circle of eager faces was enough to convince that -Edna had made precisely the impression she desired. I could see that my -mother and old Weeping Willie, the shrewd of the five--the two to whom -Edna and I owed most by inheritance--were prepared to deny knowing us -if that would aid in safeguarding the precious prosperity. My father -and sister were obviously disappointed that they could not go about -boasting of our magnificence and getting from the neighbors the envy -and respect due the near relations of a plutocrat. But there was no -danger of their being indiscreet; Edna could breathe freely. And when -the two families were tucked away in the midst of a large and secluded -farm, she could tell what genealogical stories she pleased without fear -of being confounded by the truth. - -By three o’clock we were back in Brooklyn. Edna felt and looked -triumphant. The crowning of the day’s work had been small but -significant. A heavy rain storm that came up while we were on the way -back must have made the servants think we had cut short our woodland -outing. As we were going to bed that might Edna roused herself from -deep study and broke a long silence with, “I hesitated whether to tell -them you had become president of the road.” - -I had noted that seeming slip of hers, so unlike her cautious reticence. - -“Then I remembered they’d be sure to see it in the papers,” continued -she. “And I decided it was best to tell and quiet them.” - - * * * * * - -While the old folks were industriously settling themselves in the -New Jersey woods-- Here let me relieve my mind by saying a few words -in mitigation of the unfilial and snobbish conduct of Edna and me. I -admit we deserve nothing but condemnation. I admit I am more to blame -than she because I could have compelled her to act better toward our -families, though of course I could not have changed her feelings--or my -own, for that matter. But, as often happens in this world, the thing -that was in motive shameful turned out well. We and our families had -grown hopelessly apart. Intercourse with them could not but have been -embarrassing and uncomfortable for both sides. When we got them the -farm, got them away from the malarial and squalid part of Passaic into -a healthful region where they lived in much better health and in a -comfort they could appreciate, we did the best possible thing for them, -as well as for ourselves. Do not think for a moment that because I am -ashamed of my snobbish motives I am therefore advocating the keeping -up of irksome and absurd ties merely out of wormy sentimentality. It -has always seemed to me, when we have but the one chance at life, the -one chance to make the best of our talents and opportunities, that -only moral or mental weakness, or both, would waste the one chance in -the bondage of outworn ties. When one has outgrown any association, -lop it off relentlessly, say I. If the living lets the dying cling to -it, the dying does not live but the living dies. If you are associated -with anyone in any way--business, social, ties of affection, whatever -you please--and if you do not wish to lose that one, then keep yourself -alive and abreast of him or her. And if you let yourself begin to decay -and find yourself cut away, whose is the fault, if fault there be? -We--Edna and I--perhaps did not do all we might to make our outgrown -families happy; I say perhaps, though I am by no means sure that we did -not do all that was in our power, for they certainly would have got no -pleasure out of seeing more of two people so uncongenial to them in -every respect. At any rate, we did not leave our families to starve or -to suffer. Hard though my charming, lovely wife was, I cannot conceive -her sinking to that depth. On the whole, I feel that we could honestly -say we took the right course with them. That is, we helped them without -hindering ourselves. We did the right thing, though not in the right -way. - -While our families were choosing a farm, were fixing up the buildings -to suit their needs and tastes, were moving themselves from their -ancient haunts, Edna was as industriously busy making far deeper -inroads on the new prosperity. She was planning the conquest of New -York. - -Every day in the year many a suddenly enriched family is busy about -the same enterprise. Families from the less fashionable parts of the -city moving to the fashionable parts. Families from other cities and -towns--east, west, north, and south--advancing to social conquest under -the leadership of mammas and daughters tired of shining in obscure, -monotonous, and unappreciative places. There are I forget how many -thousands of millionaires on Manhattan Island; enough, I know, with the -near millionaires and those living like millionaires, to make a city of -three or four hundred thousand, not including servants and parasites. -Not all of these have the fashionable craze; at least, they haven’t -it in its worst form--the form in which it possessed my wife. All the -acute sufferers must find suitable lodgments near Fifth Avenue if not -in it. - -Now New York is ever ready to receive and to “trim” the arriving -millionaire. It has all kinds of houses and apartments to meet the -peculiarities of his--or, rather, of his wife’s and daughter’s--notions -of grandeur. It has a multitude of purveyors of furnishings and -decorations likewise designed to catch crude and grandiose tastes. My -wife was busy with these gentry. - -“Don’t you think we’d better go a little slow?” said I. “Why not live -in a hotel on Manhattan and look about us?” - -I had respect for my wife’s capacity at the woman side of the game; -she had thoroughly drilled me to more than generous appreciation of -it. But at the same time I was not so blinded by her charm for me or -so convinced by her insistent and plausible egotism that I had not -noted certain minor failures of hers due to her ignorance of the art -of spending money. She was clever at learning. But often her vanity -lured her into fancying she knew, when in fact her education in that -particular direction was all miseducation. She dressed much more -giddily in our first years in Brooklyn than she did afterwards. And in -the later years she made still further discoveries as to dress that -resulted in another revolution, away from quietness, not toward the -gaudy but toward smartness--that curious quality which makes a woman’s -toilet conspicuous without the least suggestion of the loud. - -However, Edna scorned my suggestion that she make haste slowly. She -had long been engaged in a thorough study of the mode of life in -millionairedom. Newspapers, Sunday supplements, magazines, and society -novels had helped her. She had examined the exteriors of the famous -palaces. She had got into the drawing-rooms and ballrooms of two or -three palaces by way of high-priced charity tickets. She had in one -instance roamed into sitting rooms, bedrooms, bathrooms until caught -and led back by some vigilant and unbribable servant. I wonder if she -ever recalls that adventure now! Probably not. I think I have recorded -her ability absolutely to forget whatever it pleases her not to -remember. She had been educating herself, so when I suggested caution, -she replied: - -“Don’t you fret, Godfrey. I know what I’m about. I’ll get what we’ve -got to have.” - -And I’ll concede that she did--also, that I thought it overwhelmingly -grand at the time. It was a house in a fashionable side street, -between Madison avenue and Fifth--a magnificent house built for exactly -such a family as mine. That is, it was built entirely for show and not -at all for comfort; it fairly bristled with the luxuries and “modern -conveniences,” but most of them were of the sort that looks comfortable -but is not. The rent was some preposterous sum--thirty-five or forty -thousand a year. We had room enough for the housing of nearly a hundred -people, counting servants as people, which I believe is not the custom. -It was fitted throughout in the fashion which those clever leeches who -think out and sell luxuries have in all ages imposed upon the rich man -because it means money in their pockets. Once in a while you find a -rich man who has the courage to live as he pleases, but most of them -live as the fashion commands. And many of them have no idea that there -is any less comfortless and less foolish way to live. You imagine, -gentle reader, that people with money live in beauty and comfort. You -imagine that you could do it also if you had but the wealth. Believe -me, you deceive yourself. Beyond question a certain amount of money is -necessary to the getting of attractive and comfortable surroundings. -But there is another, an equally indispensable and a far rarer factor. -That factor, gentle reader, is intelligence--knowledge of the resources -of civilization, knowledge of the realities as to comfort, luxury, and -taste. - -I am tempted to linger upon the details of the extravagance of that -first big establishment of Edna’s. It was so astounding and so -ridiculous. I saw that she had delivered us and our fortune over -to hordes of crafty, thirsty bloodsuckers--merchants, tradesmen, -servants. But her heart was set upon it, and all other rich people were -living in that same way. “You want to do the right thing by Margot, -don’t you?” said she. - -“By you and Margot,” said I. “Go ahead. I guess I can find the money.” - -I shan’t here go into the ways I discovered or invented for finding -that money. They were not too scrupulous, but neither were they -commercially dishonorable. I must smile there. Being of an inquiring -and jocose mind I have often tried to find an action that, in the -opinion of the most eminent commercial authorities, was absolutely -dishonorable. Never yet have I found a single action, however wrong -and even criminal in general, that they would not declare in certain -circumstances perfectly honorable. And those “certain circumstances” -could always be boiled down to the one circumstance--needing the money. - -I can’t recall exactly how many servants we had to wait on us two, but -it was about thirty-five. I remember hearing my wife say one month that -our meat bill alone was about a thousand dollars. For a time I fancied -we were living more grandly than anyone else in town. But it soon -revealed itself to me that, as things went with “our class,” we were -leading rather a simple life. Certainly nothing we did marked us out -from the others in that region. The sum totals suggested that servants -stood at the front windows all day long tossing money into the street. -But nothing of the kind occurred. You would have said we ate the finest -food in wholesale quantities. Yet never did I get a notably good meal -at my own house. The coffee was always poor. The fruit was below the -average of sidewalk stands. We often had cold-storage fowls and fish -on the table. We paid for the best; I’m sure we paid for it many times -over. We got--what one always gets when the wife is too intellectual -and too busy to attend to her business. But I assure you it was grandly -served. The linen and the dishes were royal, the servants were in -liveries of impressive color and form--though I could have wished that -my wife had been as sensitive to odors as I was, and had compelled -some of those magnificent gentry to do a little bathing. Throughout -the establishment the same superb scale was maintained. We lived like -the rest of the millionaires, neither better nor worse. We lived in -grandeur and discomfort. But my wife was ecstatic, and I was therefore -content. Yes, we were very grand. And, as in Brooklyn, the glasses -came to the table with a certain sour odor not alluring as you lifted -them to drink--the odor that causes an observant man or woman to say, -“Aha--dirty rags in this perfect lady’s kitchen--dirty rags and all -that goes with them.” But only a snarling cynic would complain of these -vulgar trifles. There’s always at least a fly leg in the ointment. - -“Didn’t I tell you I knew what I was about?” said Edna triumphantly. - -“You did,” said I. - -“Haven’t we got what we wanted?” - -“We have,” said I, perhaps somewhat abruptly, for I was just then -wondering how the devil we were going to keep it. - -“And if it hadn’t been for me,” proceeded she “we’d still be living in -_Brooklyn_!” - -“Or in Passaic,” said I. - -“Don’t _speak_ of Passaic,” she cried. “I’m trying to forget it.” - -“We were very happy then,” said I. - -“_I_ was miserable,” retorted she. - -“I could find it in my heart to wish we weren’t _always_ attended by -servants,” said I. “I almost never see you alone.” - -“What a bourgeois you are,” laughed she. Then--after a thorough glance -round to make sure housekeeper or maid or lackey wasn’t on watch--she -patted my cheek and kissed me, and added: “But you do make me happy. -I’m _so_ proud of you! No matter what I want I’m never afraid to buy -it, for I know you can get all the money you want to.” - -I winced. Said I: “I’m afraid you’d not be proud of some of the ways I -get the money.” - -She frowned. “Don’t talk business, please,” she said. “You know we -never have in all our married life. You’ve always respected my position -as your wife. All business is low--is mere sordidness.” - -“Yes, it’s all low,” said I. “Sometimes I think all living is low as -well. Edna”--I put my arm round her--“don’t you ever feel that we’d be -_really_ happy, that we’d get something genuine out of life--if you and -Margot and I----” - -She stopped my mouth with a kiss. “You never will grow up to your -station, darling.” - -I said no more. Indeed, it was on hastiest impulse that I had said so -much, an impulse sprung from a mood of depression. - -The cause of that mood was a nasty reverse in Wall Street. It had -rudely halted me in my triumphant way toward the security of the man of -many millions. It had set me to wavering uncertainly, with the chances -about even for resuming the march and for tumbling into the abyss of a -discreditable bankruptcy. - -There are in New York two well-defined classes of the rich--the -permanently rich and the precariously rich. The permanently rich are -those who by the vastness of their wealth or by the strength of their -business and social connections cannot possibly be dislodged from the -plutocracy. The precariously rich are those who have much money and are -making more, but are not strong enough to survive a series of typhoons, -and are without the support of indissoluble business and social -connections. My friend G----, for example, head of the famous banking -house, associated in business and by marriage with half the permanent -plutocracy, was practically bankrupt in the late panic. Had he been a -man of ordinary position he would have gone into bankruptcy, and, I -more than suspect, into jail. But his fellow plutocrats dared not let -him drop, much as they would have liked to see his arrogance brought -low, much as they longed to divide among themselves his holdings of -gilt-edged securities; if he had gone down it would have made the whole -financial world tremble. He was saved. On the other hand, my friend -J----, richer actually, was ruined, was plucked by his associates, was -finally jailed for doing precisely the things every man of finance did -over and over again in that same period of stress--for, what invariably -happens to moral codes in periods of stress? - -I was at that time--but not now, gentle reader, so cheer up and read -on--I was at that time in the class not of the permanently but of the -precariously rich. And through a miscalculation I had laid myself open -to the dangers that lie in wait for the man short of ready cash. The -miscalculation was as to the extravagance of my wife’s undertakings. -She, against my express request, had contracted without consulting or -telling me several enormous bills. It is idle to say she ought not have -done this. I knew her well; I should have been on guard. I had begun -my married life wrong, as the young man very much in love is apt to -do; so, to hold her love and liking, I had to keep on giving her taste -for spending money free rein. If I had not, she would have thought me -small and mean, would have made life at home exceedingly uncomfortable -for me, for I am not of those men who can take from a woman what they -wish whether she wishes to give or not. So the whole fault was mine. -When the storm broke, in the light of its first terrific flash that -illuminated for me every part of my affairs, I discovered that I was -not prepared as I had been imagining. The big bills of my wife were -presented, for the merchants knew I was heavily interested in the -stocks that were tobogganing. Those bills had to be paid, and paid -at once, or it would run like wildfire uptown and down that I was in -difficulties; and when a man is known to be in financial difficulties, -how the birds and beasts of prey from eagles and lions to buzzards and -jackals do come flapping and loping! - -There followed several anxious days and nights. On one of those -nights I rose from beside my wife--we still slept together--and went -into the adjoining room. I turned on an electric light and began for -the thousandth time, I dare say, to look at the critical papers and -to grope for the desperate “way out.” I was startled by my wife’s -voice--sleepy, peevish: - -“Do turn out that light and come to bed, Godfrey. You know how it -disturbs me for you to get up in the night. And I’ve such a hard day -before me to-morrow with the upholsterers and curtain people.” - -I obediently turned off the light. As I was about to throw myself into -bed and draw the covers over me, a broad beam from the moon flooded -the face of a portrait on the opposite wall--the face of my daughter -Margot. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at that face--pure, -sweet, with the same elevated expression her mother had in these days -of refinement and climbing. Said I to Edna: - -“Are you asleep, dear?” - -“No,” she answered crossly. “I’m waiting for you to quiet down.” - -“Then--let me talk to you a few minutes.” - -“Oh, please!” she cried, flinging herself to the far edge of the bed. -“You have no consideration for me--none at all.” - -“Listen,” I said. “I’m face to face with ruin.” - -She did not move or speak, but I could feel her intense attention. - -“If I let matters take their course I can save my reputation and my -official position. But for many years we’ll have to live quietly--about -as we did in Brooklyn.” - -“I _can’t_ do that,” cried she. “The fall would kill me. You know -how proud I am.... Just as I had everything ready for us to get into -society! Godfrey, how could you! And I thought you were clever at -business.” - -I could not see her, nor she me, except in dimmest outline. I said: -“But we’d have each other and Margot. And my salary isn’t so small, as -salaries go.” - -“Isn’t there _any_ way to avoid it?” She was sitting up in bed, her -nervous fingers upon my arm. “You must _think_, Godfrey. You mustn’t -play Margot and me this horrible trick. You mustn’t give up so easily. -You must think--think--_think_!” - -“I have,” said I. “I’ve not slept for three days and nights. There’s no -way--no honest way.” - -“Then there _is_ a way!” she cried. - -“But not an honest one.” - -She laughed scornfully. “And you pretend to love me! When my life and -Margot’s happiness are at stake you talk like a Sunday-school boy.” - -“Yes,” said I. “And I’ve been thinking more or less that way lately for -the first time in years. It wasn’t long after I started when I cut my -business eye teeth. I found out that as the game lay I’d not get far -if I stuck to the old maxims of the copy book and the Sunday school. -Except by accident nobody ever got rich who followed them. To get -rich you’ve got to make a lot of people work for you and work cheap, -and you’ve got to sell what they make as dear as you can. Success in -business means taking advantage of the ignorance or the necessities of -your fellow men, or both.” - -“Don’t waste time talking that kind of nonsense,” said she impatiently. -“It doesn’t mean anything to me--or to anybody, I guess. The thing -for you to do is to put your mind on the real thing--how to save your -family and yourself.” - -“That’s what I’m talking about,” said I. “I’m talking about saving -myself and my family. As I told you, my troubles--the first business -troubles I’ve ever had--have set me to thinking. I’ve not been doing -right all these years. It’s true, everybody does as I’ve been doing. -It’s true I’ve been more generous and more considerate than most men -with opportunities and the sense to see them. But I’ve been doing -wrong.” - -I paused, hoping for some sign of sympathy. None came. I went on: - -“And I’ve been wondering these last few days if by doing it I haven’t -been ruining myself and my family--not financially, but in more -important ways. Edna, what’s the sense in this life we’re leading? What -will be the end of it all? Is there any decency or happiness in it? -Haven’t we been going backward instead of forward?” - -All the time I was talking I could feel she was not listening. When I -finished she said: “Godfrey, what is this way you can escape by?” - -“I can sell out my partners in the deals that have gone bad.” - -“Perhaps they’re selling _you_ out,” she instantly suggested. “Why, of -course they are doing that very thing!--while _you_ are driveling about -honesty like a backwoods hypocrite of a church deacon.” - -“No, they’re not selling me out,” said I. - -“How do you know?” cried she. - -“I caught them at that trick in a former deal and in the early stages -of this one. And I fixed things so that, while they have to trust me, I -don’t trust them.” - -She laughed mockingly. “Godfrey, I think your mind must be going. You -talking about sacrificing your fortune and your wife and your child -for men who’ve tried to ruin you--men who are even now thinking out -some scheme for doing it.... Suppose you saved yourself and let them -go--what then? Wouldn’t you be rich? And when you were secure again -couldn’t you pay them back what they lost if you were still foolish -enough to think it necessary?” - -It was not the first time she had astonished me with the depth of her -practical insight--and her skill at logic--when she cared to use her -mind. “I had thought of saving myself and paying back afterwards,” said -I. “But I’m not sure I’d save myself. It’s simply my one chance.” - -“Then you’ve got to take that chance,” said she. - -“I didn’t expect you to talk like this,” said I. “The only reason I -haven’t spoken of my troubles before was that I feared you’d forbid me -to do what I was being tempted to do.” - -And that was the truth about my feeling. I had always heard--and -had firmly believed--that woman was somehow the exemplar of ideal -morality, that it was she who kept men from being worse than they were, -that the evil being done by men pursuing success was done without the -knowledge of their pure, idealist wives and mothers and daughters. I -can’t account for my stupidity in this respect. Had I not on every side -the spectacle that gave the lie to the shallow pretense of feminine -moral superiority? Was it not the women, with their insatiable appetite -for luxury and splurge; was it not the women, with their incessant -demands for money and ever more money; was it not the women, with their -profound immorality of any and every class that earns nothing and -simply spends; was it not the women, the _ladies_, who were edging on -the men to get money, no matter how? For whom were the grand houses, -the expensive hotels, the exorbitant flimsy clothing, the costly -jewelry, the equipages, the opera boxes, the senseless, spendthrift -squandering upon the degrading vanities of social position? - -I laughed somewhat cynically. “No wonder you’ve always refused to learn -anything about business,” said I. “It’s a habit among big business men -to refuse to know anything as to the details of a large transaction -that can be carried through only by dirty work. If we don’t know, we -can pretend that the dirty work isn’t being done by or for us--isn’t -being done at all.” - -“Now you are getting coarse,” said my wife. “Do you know what I think -of you?” I could not see her expression, but the voice always betrays -if there is insincerity, because we do not deal enough with the -blind to learn to deceive perfectly with the voice. Her tones were -absolutely sincere as she answered her own question: “I think it is -cowardly of you to come to me with your business troubles. If you were -brave you’d simply have quietly done whatever was necessary to save -your family. Yes, it is cowardly!” - -“I didn’t mean it as cowardice,” said I, admiring but irritated by this -characteristic adroitness. “In the stories and the plays that give such -thrills, the husband, in the crisis and tempted to do wrong, appeals to -his wife. And they are brought closer together, and she helps him to do -right, and everything ends happily.” Again I laughed good-humoredly. -“It doesn’t seem to be turning out that way, does it, dear? My heavenly -picture of you and Margot and me living modestly and making up in love -what we lack in luxury--it doesn’t attract you?” - -She said in her patient, superior tone: “I suppose you never will -understand me or my ideals. What you’ve been doing in annoying me -with your business, it’s as if when I was giving a dinner I assembled -my guests and compelled them to watch all the preparations for the -dinner--the killing of the lambs and the fish and the birds, the -cleaning, all those ugly and low things. Bringing business into the -home and the social life, it’s like bringing the kitchen into the -drawing-room.” - -The obvious answer to this shallow but plausible and attractive -cleverness of hers did not come to me then. If it had I’d not have -spoken it. For of what use to argue with the human animal, female -or male, about its dearest selfishnesses and vanities? Of what use -to point out to human self-complacence, greediness and hypocrisy -that a “refined” and “cultured” existence of ease and luxury can be -obtained only by the theft and murder of dishonest business--that for -one man to be vastly rich thousands of men must somehow be robbed and -oppressed, even though the rich man himself directly does no robbing -and oppressing? If I have sucking pig for dinner, I kill sucking pig as -surely as if my hand wielded the knife of the butcher. But the human -race finds it convenient and comfortable not to think so. Therefore, -let us not bother our heads about it. - -At that period of my career I had not thought things out so thoroughly -as I have since--in these days when events have compelled me to open my -eyes and to see. In my hypocrisy, in my eagerness to save myself, I was -not loth to take refuge behind the advice given by my wife partly in -genuine ignorance of business, partly in pretended ignorance of it. - -Said I: “I suppose you’re right. I ought to think only of my family. -Heaven knows, my rascal friends aren’t thinking in my interest. If I -don’t do it, no one will. There’s no disputing that--eh?” - -No reply. She was asleep--or, rather, was pretending to be asleep. The -matter had been settled, why discuss it further? Why expose herself -longer than unavoidable to the danger of being unable to be, or to -pretend to be, ignorant of business, of the foundation upon which her -splendid, cultured structure of ambition proudly reared? - -Often in her sleep her hand would seek mine, and when it was -comfortably nestled she would give a little sigh of content that -thrilled me through and through. Her hand now stole into mine and the -sigh of content came softly from her lips. “My love,” I murmured, -kissing her cheek before I lay down. How could I for a minute have -considered any course that would have made her unhappy, that might have -lessened, perhaps destroyed, her love for me? - - - - -IV - - -It is hardly necessary to say that I threw overboard my partners and -saved myself. Indeed, I emerged from the crisis--liberally bespattered -with mud, it is true--but richer than when I entered it. Since I was -doing the act that was the supreme proof of my possessing the courage -and the skill for leadership in business--since I was definitely -breaking with the old-fashioned morality--I felt it was the part of -wisdom to do the thing so thoroughly, so profitably, that instead of -being execrated I should be admired. There were attacks on me in the -newspapers; there were painful interviews with my partners--not so -painful to me as they would have been had I not been able to remind -them of their own unsuccessful treacheries and to enforce the spoken -reminder with the documentary proof. But on the whole I came off -excellently well--as who does not that “gets away with the goods?” - -In these days of increased intelligence and consequent lessened -hypocrisy, the big business man is the object of only perfunctory -hypocrisies from outraged morality. It has been discovered that the -farmer watering his milk or the grocer using solder-“mended” scales -is as bad as the man who “reorganizes” a railway or manipulates a -stock--is worse actually because the massed mischief of the million -little business rascals is greater than the sensational misdeeds of -the few great rascals. It has been discovered that human nature is -good or bad only according to the opportunities and necessities, not -according to abstract moral standards. And the cry is no longer, “Kill -the scoundrel,” but, “That fellow had the sense to outwit us. We must -learn from him how to sharpen our wits so that we won’t let ourselves -be robbed.” A healthful sign this, that masses of men are ceasing from -twaddle about vague ideals and are educating themselves in practical -horse sense. It may be that some day the honest husbandman will learn -to guard his granary not only against the robber with the sack in the -dark of the morn, but also against the rats and mice who pilfer ten -bushels to every one that is stolen. Of one thing I am certain--until -men learn to take heed in the small, they will remain easy prey in the -large. - -Far from doing me harm, my bold stroke was of the greatest -benefit--from the standpoint of material success, and that is the -only point of view I am here considering. It did me as much good with -the world as it has done me with you, gentle reader. For while you -are exclaiming against my wickedness you are in your secret heart -confessing that if I had chosen the ideally honest course, had retired -to obscurity and poverty, you would have approved--and would have lost -interest in me. Why, if I had chosen that ideal course, I doubt not I -should have lost my railway position. My directors would have waxed -enthusiastic over my “old-fashioned honesty,” and would have looked -round for another and shrewder and stronger man to whom to intrust the -management of their railway--which would not pay dividends were it run -along the lines of old-fashioned honesty. The outburst of denunciation -soon spent itself, like a summer storm beating the giant cliffs of a -mountain. Of what use to rage futilely against my splendid immovable -fortune? The attacks, the talk about my bold stroke, the exaggerations -of the size of the fortune I had made, all served to attract attention -to me, to make me a formidable and an interesting figure. I leaped from -obscurity into fame and power--and I had the money to maintain the -position I had won. - - * * * * * - -Long before, indeed as soon as we moved to Manhattan, my wife had -joined fashionable and exclusive Holy Cross Church and had plunged -straightway into its charity work. A highly important part of her -Brooklyn education had been got in St. Mary’s, in learning how to do -charity work and how to make it count socially. Edna genuinely loved -charity work. She loved to patronize, loved to receive those fawning -blessings and handkissings which city poverty becomes adept at giving -the rich it lives off of. The poor family understands perfectly that -the rich visit and help not through mere empty sentimental nonsense of -brotherhood, but to have their vanities tickled in exchange for the -graciousness of their condescending presence and for the money they -lay out. As the poor want the money and have no objection to paying -for it with that cheap and plentiful commodity, cringing--scantily -screening mockery and contempt--rich and poor meet most comfortably in -our cities. Not New York alone, but any center of population, for human -nature is the same, city and country, San Francisco, Bangor--Pekin or -Paris, for that matter. - -There is a shallow fashion of describing this or that as peculiarly New -York, usually snobbishness or domestic unhappiness or wealth worship, -dishonest business men or worthless wives. It is time to have done -with such nonsense. New York is in no way peculiar, nor is any other -place, beyond trifling surface differences. New York is nothing but -the epitome of the whole country, just as Chicago is. If you wish -to understand America, study New York or Chicago, our two universal -cities. There you find in one place and in admirable perspective a -complete museum of specimens of what is scattered over three and a -half million square miles. For, don’t forget, New York is not the few -blocks of fashionable district alone. It is four million people of all -conditions, tastes, and activities. And the dominant force of struggle -for money and fashion is no more dominant in New York than it is in -the rest of America. New York is more truly representative of America -than is Chicago, for in Chicago the Eastern and Southern elements are -lacking and the Western element is strong out of proportion. - -I was telling of my wife’s blossoming as Lady Bountiful in search -not of a heavenly crown, but of what human Lady Bountiful always -seeks--social position. Charity covers a multitude of sins; the -greatest of them is hypocrisy. I have yet to see a charitable man -or woman or child whose chief and only noteworthy object was not -self-glorification. The people who believe in brotherhood do not go in -for charity. They wish to abolish poverty, whereas charity revels in -poverty and seeks to increase it, to change it from miserable poverty -which might die into comfortable pauperism which can live on, and -fester and breed on, and fawn on and give vanity ever more and more -exquisite titillations. Holy Cross, my wife’s new spiritual guide, was -past master of the pauper-making and pauper-utilizing arts. Its rector -and his staff of slimy sycophants had the small standing army of its -worthy poor trained to perfection. When my wife went down among them, -she returned home with face aglow and eyes heavenly. What a treat those -wretches had given her! And in the first blush of her enthusiasm she -dispensed lavishly, where the older members of the church exacted the -full measure of titillation for every dollar invested and awarded extra -sums only to some novelty in lickspittling or toadeating. - -Were I not sure I should quite wear out the forbearance of gentle -reader, I should linger to describe this marvelous charity plant for -providing idle or social-position-hunting rich women with spiritual -pleasures-- I had almost said debaucheries, but that would be intruding -my private and perhaps prejudiced opinion. I have no desire to -irritate, much less shake the faith of, those who believe in Holy Cross -and its “uplift” work. And I don’t suppose Holy Cross does any great -amount of harm. The poor who prostitute themselves to its purposes are -weak things, beyond redemption. As for the rich who waste time and -money there, would they not simply waste elsewhere were there no Holy -Cross? - -My wife was, at that time, a very ignorant woman, thinly covered with -a veneer of what I now know was a rather low grade of culture. That -veneer impressed me. It had impressed our Brooklyn friends of St. -Mary’s. But I fancy it must have looked cheap to expert eyes. Where her -surpassing shrewdness showed itself was in that she herself recognized -her own shortcomings. Rare and precious is the vanity that comforts and -sustains without self-deception. She knew she wasn’t the real thing, -knew she had not yet got hold of the real thing. And when she began to -move about, cautiously and quietly, in Holy Cross, she realized that at -last she was in the presence of the real thing. - -My big responsibilities, my associations in finance, had been giving -me a superb training in worldly wisdom. I think I had almost as strong -a natural aptitude for “catching on” to the better thing in speech and -manner and in dress as had Edna. It is not self-flattery for me to -say that up to the Holy Cross period I was further advanced than she. -Certainly I ought to have been, for a man has a much better opportunity -than a woman, and one of the essentials of equipment for great affairs -is ability to observe accurately the little no less than the large. -Looking back, I recall things which lead me to suspect that Edna saw my -superiority in certain matters most important to her, and was irritated -by it. However that may be, a few months in Holy Cross and she had -grasped the essentials of the social art as I, or any other masculine -man, never could grasp it. And her veneer of “middle-class” culture -disappeared under a thick and enduring coating of the best New York -manner. - -“What has become of _you_?” I said to her. “I haven’t seen you in -weeks.” - -“I don’t understand,” said she, ruffling as she always did when she -suspected me of indulging in my coarse and detestable sense of humor. - -“Why, you don’t act like yourself at all,” said I. “Even when we’re -alone you give the uncomfortable sense of dressed-up--not as if _you_ -were ‘dressed-up,’ but as if _I_ were. I feel like a plowboy before a -princess.” - -She was delighted! - -“You,” I went on, “are now exactly like the rest of those women in -Holy Cross. I suppose it’s all right to look and talk and act that way -before people. At least, I’ve no objection if it pleases you. But for -heaven’s sake, Edna, don’t spoil our privacy with it. The queen doesn’t -wear her coronation robes all the time.” - -“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” said she. - -“Don’t you?” cried I, laughing. “What a charming fraud you are!” And -I seized her in my arms and kissed her. And she seemed to yield and -to return my caresses. But I was uncomfortable. She would not drop -that new manner. The incident seems trifling enough; perhaps it was -trifling. But it stands out in my memory. It marks the change in our -relationship. I recall it all distinctly--how she looked, how young and -charming and cold, what she was wearing, the delicate simple dress -that ought to have made her most alluring to me, yet made me feel as if -she were indeed alluring, but not for _me_. A subtle difference there, -but abysmal; the difference between the woman who tries to make herself -attractive for the sake of her husband and the woman who makes toilets -in the conscious or half-conscious longing successfully to prostitute -herself to the eyes of the public. I recall every detail of that -incident; yet I have only the vaguest recollection of our beginning to -occupy separate bedrooms. By that time the feeling of alienation must -have grown so strong that I took the radical change in our habits as -the matter of course. - -Many are the women, in all parts of the earth, who have sought to climb -into the world of fashion by the broad and apparently easy stairway -of charity. But most of them have failed because they were unaware -of the secret of that stairway, an unsuspected secret which I shall -proceed to point out. It seems, as I have said, a particularly easy -stairway--broad, roomy, with invalid steps. It is, in fact, a moving -stairway so cunningly contrived that she--it is usually she--who -ascends keeps in the same place. She goes up, but at exactly her -ascending rate the stairway goes down. She sees other women making -apparently no more effort than she ascending rapidly, and presently -entering the earthly heaven at the top. Yet there she stands, marking -time, moving not one inch upward, and there she will stand until she -wearies, relaxes her efforts, and finds herself rapidly descending. -But how do the women who ascend accomplish it? I do not know. You must -ask them. I only know the cause of the failure of the women who do -not ascend. If I knew why the others succeeded I should not tell it. I -would not deprive fashionable women of the joy of occupying a difficult -height from which they can indulge themselves in the happiness of -sneering and spitting down at their lowlier sisters. And I have no -sympathy with the aspirations or the humiliations of those lowlier -sisters. - -My energetic and aspiring wife presently found herself on this -stairway, with no hint as to its secret, much less as to the way -of overcoming its peculiarity. She toiled daily in Holy Cross. She -subscribed to everything, she helped in everything. She was the proud -recipient of the rector’s loud praises as his “most devoted, least -worldly, most spiritual helper.” But--not an invitation of the kind -she wanted. Everyone was “just lovely” to her. Whenever any charitable -or spiritual matter was to be discussed, no matter how grand and -exclusive the house in which the discussion was to be held, there was -my wife in a place of honor, eagerly consulted--and urged to subscribe. -But nothing unworldly. They understood how spiritual she was, did -those sweet, good people. They knew Saint Edna wished no social -frivolities--no dinners or theater parties, no bridge or dancing. - -She was a wise lady. She hid her burning impatience. She smiled -and purred when she yearned to scowl and scratch. She waited, and -prayed for some lucky accident that would swing her across the -invisible, apparently nonexistent but actually impassable dead line. -She had expected snubs and cold shoulders. Never a snub, never a -cold shoulder. Always smiles and gracious handshakings and amiable -familiarities, but those always of the kind that serve to accentuate -caste distinction instead of removing it. For the first time in her -life, I think, she was completely stumped. She could combat obstacles. -She might even have found a way to fight fog. But how ridiculous to -make struggles and thrust out fists when there is nothing but empty, -sunny air! - -She held church lunches and dinners at our house--of course, had me on -duty at the dinners. All in vain. The distinction between the spiritual -and the temporal remained in force. The grand people came, acted as if -they were delighted, complimented her on her house, on her hospitality, -went away, to invite her to similar dreary functions at their houses. -And my, how it did cost her! No wonder Holy Cross made a pet of her and -elected me to the board of vestrymen. - -Once in a while she would find something in her net, so slyly cast, so -softly drawn. She would have a wild spasm of joy; then the something -would turn out to be another climber like herself. Those climbers -avoided each other as devils dodge the font of holy water. The climber -she would have caught would be one who, ignorant of the intricacies of -New York society, was under the impression that the Mrs. Godfrey Loring -so conspicuous in Holy Cross must be a social personage. They would -examine each other--at a series of joyous entertainments each would -provide for the other, would discover their mutual mistake--and-- You -know the contemptuous toss with which the fisherman rids himself of a -bloater; you know the hysterical leap of the released bloater back into -the water. - -But how it was funny! My wife did not take me into her confidence as to -her social struggles. She maintained with me the same sweet, elegant -exterior of spiritual placidity with which she faced the rest of the -world. Nevertheless, in a dim sort of way I had some notion of what -she was about--though, as I was presently to discover, I was wholly -mistaken in my idea of her progress. - -“What has happened to Mrs. Lestrange?” I said to her one evening at -dinner. “Is she ill?” - -She cast a quick, nervous glance in the direction of the butler. I, -looking at him by way of a mirror, thought I saw upon his aristocratic -countenance a faint trace of that insolent secret glee which fills -servants when their betters are humiliated before them. “Mrs. -Lestrange?” she said carelessly. “Oh, I see her now and then.” - -“But you’ve been inseparable until lately,” said I. “A quarrel, I -suppose?” - -“Not at all,” said my wife tartly. - -And she shifted abruptly to another subject. When I went to the little -study adjoining my sitting room to smoke she came with me. There she -said: - -“Please don’t mention Mrs. Lestrange before the servants again.” - -“Why, what’s up?” said I. “Did she turn out to be a crook?” - -“Heavens, no! How coarse you are, Godfrey. Simply that I was terribly -mistaken in her.” - -“She looked like a confidence woman or a madam,” said I. “Didn’t you -tell me she was a howling swell?” - -“I thought she was,” said my wife, and I knew something important was -coming; only that theory would account for her admitting she had made -a mistake. “And in a way she was. But they caught her several years -ago taking money to get some dreadful low Western people into society. -Since then she’s asked--she herself--because she’s well connected and -amusing. But she can’t help anyone else.” - -“Oh, I see,” said I. “And you don’t feel strong enough socially as yet -to be able to afford the luxury of her friendship.” - -“Strong enough!” said Edna with intense bitterness. “I have no position -at all--none whatever.” - -I was surprised, for until that moment I had been assuming she was on -or near the top of the wave, moving swiftly toward triumphant success. -“You want too much,” said I. “You’ve really got all there is to get. -At that last reception of yours you had all the heavy swells. My valet -told me so.” - -“Reception to raise funds for the orphanage,” said Edna with a vicious -sneer--the unloveliest expression I had ever seen on her lovely -face--and I had seen not a few unlovely expressions there in our many -married years, some of them extremely trying years. “I tell you I am -nobody socially. They take my money for their rotten old charities. -They use me for their tiresome church work--and they do nothing for -me--nothing! How I _hate_ them!” - -I sat smoking my cigar and watching her face. It was a wonderfully -young face. Not that she was so old; on the contrary, she was still -young in years. I call her face wonderfully young because it had that -look of inexhaustible, eternal youth which is rare even in the faces -of boys and girls. But that evening I was not thinking so much of her -youth and her beauty as of a certain expression of hardness, of evil -passions rampant--envy and hatred and jealousy, savage disappointment -over defeats in sordid battles. - -“Edna,” said I, hesitatingly, “why don’t you drop all that? Can’t you -see there’s nothing in it? You’re tempting the worst things in your -nature to grow and destroy all that’s good and sweet--all that makes -you--and me--happy. People aren’t necessary to us. And if you must have -friends, surely _all_ the attractive people in New York aren’t in that -little fashionable set. Judging from what I’ve seen of them, they’re a -lot of bores.” - -“They look bored here,” retorted she. “And no wonder! They come as a -Christian duty.” - -I laughed. “Now, honestly, are those fashionable people the best -educated, the best in any way--any real way? I’ve talked with the men, -and the younger ones--the ones that go in for society--are unspeakable -rotters. I wouldn’t have them about.” - -Edna’s eyes flashed, and her form quivered in a gust of hysterical -fury--the breaking of long-pent passion, of anger and despair, taking -me as an excuse for vent. “Oh, it’s terrible to be married to a man who -_always_ misunderstands!--one who can’t sympathize!” cried she. It was -a remark she often made, but never before had she put so much energy, -so much bitterness into it. - -“What do I misunderstand?” I asked, more hurt than I cared to show. -“Where don’t I sympathize?” - -“Let’s not talk about it!” exclaimed she. “If I weren’t a remarkable -woman I’d have given up long ago--I’d give up now.” - -Before you smile at her egotism, gentle reader, please remember that -husband and wife were talking alone; also that with a few pitiful -exceptions all human beings think surpassingly well of themselves, and -do not hesitate to express that good opinion privately. I guess there’s -more lying done about lack of egotism and of vanity generally than -about all other matters put together. - -Said I: “You are indeed a wonder, dear. In this country one sees many -astonishing transformations. But I doubt if there have been many equal -to the transformation of the girl I married into the girl who’s sitting -before me.” - -“And what good has it done me?” demanded she. “How I’ve worked away at -myself--inside and out--and all for nothing!” - -“You’ve still got _me_,” said I jovially, yet in earnest too. “Lots of -women lose their husbands. I’ve never had a single impulse to wander.” - -In the candor of that intimacy she gave me a most unflattering look--a -look a woman does well not to cast at a man unless she is more -absolutely sure of him than anyone can be of anything in this uncertain -world. I laughed as if I thought she meant that look as a jest; I put -the look away in my memory with a mark on it that meant “to be taken -out and examined at leisure.” But she was absorbed in her chagrin over -her social failure; she probably hardly realized I was there. - -“Well, what’s the next move?” inquired I presently. - -“You’ve got to help,” replied she--and I knew this was what she had -been revolving in her mind all evening. - -“Anything that doesn’t take me away from business, or keep me up too -late to fit myself for the next day.” - -“Business--always business,” said she, in deepest disgust. “Do you -_never_ think of anything else?” - -“My business and my family--that’s my life,” said I. - -“Not your family,” replied she. “You care nothing about them.” - -“Edna,” I said sharply, “that is unjust and untrue.” - -“Oh, you give them money, if that’s what you mean,” said she -disdainfully. - -“And I give them love,” said I. “The trouble is I give so freely that -you don’t value it.” - -“Oh, you are a good husband,” said she carelessly. “But I want you to -take an interest.” - -“In your social climbing?” - -“How insulting you are!” she cried, with flashing eyes. “I am trying to -claim the position we are entitled to, and you speak of me as if I were -one of those vulgar pushers.” - -“I beg your pardon,” said I humbly. “I was merely joking.” - -“I’ve often told you that your idea of humor was revolting.” - -I felt distressed for her in her chagrin and despair. I was ready to -bear almost anything she might see fit to inflict. “What do you want me -to do?” I asked. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it. Do you need more money?” - -“I need help--real help,” said she. - -“Money’s god over the realm of fashion, the same as it is over that -of--of religion--of politics--or anything you please. And luckily I’ve -got that little god in my employ, my dear.” - -“If you are so powerful,” said she, “put me into fashionable -society--make these people receive me and come to my house.” - -“But they do,” I reminded her. - -“I mean _socially_,” cried she. “_Can’t_ I make you understand? Why are -business men so dumb at anything else? Compel these people to take me -as one of them.” - -“Now, Edna, my dear,” protested I, “be reasonable. How can I do that?” - -“Easily, if you’ve got real power,” rejoined she. “It’s been done -often, I’ve found out lately. At least half the leaders in society -got in originally by compelling it. But you, going round among men -intimately--you must know it--must have known all along. If you’d -been the right sort of man I’d not have to humiliate myself by asking -you--by saying these dreadful things.” Her eyes were flashing and her -bosom was heaving. “Women have hated men for less. But I must bear -my cross. You insist on degrading me. Very well. I’ll let myself be -degraded. I’ll say the things a decent man would not ask a woman to -say----” - -“Edna, darling,” I pleaded. “Honestly, I don’t understand. You’ll have -to tell me. And it’s not degrading. We have no secrets from each other. -We who love each other can say anything to each other--anything. What -do you wish me to do?” - -“Use your power over the men. Frighten them into ordering their wives -to invite us and to accept our invitations. You do business with a lot -of the men, don’t you?” - -“Yes,” said I. - -“You can benefit or injure them, as you please, can’t you?--can take -money away from them--can put them in the way of making it?” - -“Yes,” said I; “to a certain extent.” - -“And how do you use this power?” - -“In building up great enterprises. I am founding a city just now, for -instance, where there was nothing but a swamp beside a lake, and----” - -“In making more and more money for yourself,” she cut in, “you think -only of yourself.” - -“And you--what do _you_ think of?” said I. - -“Not of myself,” cried she indignantly. “Never of myself. Of Margot. -Of you. Of the family. I am working to build _us_ up--to make _us_ -somebody and not mere low money grubbers.” - -I did not see it from her point of view. But I was not inclined to -aggravate her excitement and anger. - -“Why shouldn’t you use your powers for some unselfish purpose?” she -went on. “Why not try to have higher ambition?” - -I observed her narrowly. She was sincere. - -“I want you to help me--for Margot’s sake, for your own sake,” she went -on in a kind of exaltation. “Margot is coming on. She’ll be out in less -than three years. We’ve got to make a position for her.” - -“I thought, up there at Miss Ryper’s she was----” - -“That shows how little interest you take!” cried Edna. “Don’t you know -what is happening? Why, already the fashionable girls at her school are -beginning to shy off from her----” - -“Don’t be absurd!” laughed I. “That simply could not be. She’s lovely, -sweet, attractive in every way. Any girls anywhere would be proud to -have her as a friend.” - -“How _can_ you be so ignorant of the world!” cried Edna in a frenzy -of exasperation. “Oh, you’ll drive me mad with your stupidity! Can’t -you realize how _low_ fashionable people are. The girls who were -her friends so long as they were all mere children are now taking a -positive delight in snubbing her, because she’s so pretty and will be -an heiress. It gives them a sense of power to treat her as an inferior, -to make her suffer.” - -I flung away the cigar and sat up in the chair. “How long has this been -going on?” I demanded. - -“Nearly a year,” replied my wife. “It began as soon as she lost her -childishness and developed toward a woman. I’m glad I’ve roused you -at last. So long as she was a mere baby they liked her--invited her -to their children’s parties--came to hers. But now they’re dropping -her. Oh, it’s maddening! They are so sweet and smooth, the vile little -daughters of vile mothers!” - -“Incredible!” said I. “Surely not those sweet, well-mannered girls -I’ve seen here at her parties? _They_ couldn’t do that sort of thing. -Why, what do those babies know about social position and such nonsense?” - -“What do they know? What _don’t_ they know?” cried Edna, trembling -with rage at her humiliation and at my incredulity. “You _are_ an -innocent! There ought to be a new proverb--innocent as a married man. -Why, nowadays the children begin their social training in the cradle. -They soon learn to know a nurse or a butler from a lady or a gentleman -before they learn to walk. They hear the servants talk. They hear their -parents talk. Except innocent you everyone nowadays thinks and talks -about these things.” - -“But Margot--our Margot--she doesn’t know!” I said with conviction. - -Edna laughed harshly. “Know? What kind of mother do you think I am? Of -course she knows. Haven’t I been teaching her ever since she began to -talk? Why do you suppose I’ve always called her the little duchess?” - -“She suggests a superior little person,” said I, groping vaguely. - -“She suggests a superior person because I gave her that name and -brought her up to look and act and feel the part. She expects to be a -real duchess some day--” Edna reared proudly, and her voice rang out -confidently as she added--“and she shall be!” - -I stared at her. It seemed to me she must be out of her mind. Oh, I was -indeed innocent, gentle reader. - -“I’ve always treated her as a duchess, and have made the servants do -it, and have trained her to treat them as if she were a duchess.” A -proud smile came into her face, transforming it suddenly back to its -loveliness. “The first time I ever read about a duchess--read, knowing -what I was reading about--I decided that I would have a daughter and -that she should be a duchess.” - -At any previous time such a sally would have made me laugh. But not -then, for I saw that she meant it profoundly, and for the first time I -was realizing what had been going on in my family, all unsuspected by -me. - -“But first,” proceeded Edna, “she shall have the highest social -position in New York. And you must help if I am to succeed.” The -fury burst into her face again. “Those little wretches, snubbing -her!--dropping her! I’ll make them pay for it.” - -“Do you mean to tell me that Margot realizes all this?” said I. - -“Poor child, she’s wretched about it. Only yesterday she said to me: -‘Mamma, is it true that you and papa are very common, and that we -haven’t anything but a lot of stolen money? One of the girls got mad at -me because I was so good-looking and so proud, and taunted me with it.’” - -“Incredible!” said I, dazed. - -“She’s horribly unhappy,” Edna went on. “And it cuts her to the heart -to be losing all her dearest friends. I did my duty and taught her -which girls to cultivate, and she was intimate only with the right sort -of New York girls.” - -“I expect she has been indiscreet,” said I. “They’ve found out why she -made friends with them and----” - -“You will drive me crazy!” cried Edna. “_Can’t_ you understand? All -the mothers and the governesses--all the grown people in respectable -families teach the children. Those mothers who don’t teach it directly -see that it’s taught by the governesses, or else select the proper -friends for their little girls and see that they drop any who aren’t -proper.” - -I dropped back in my chair. I was stunned. It seemed to me I had never -heard anything quite so infamous in my life. And as I reflected on what -she had said I wondered that I had not realized it before. I recalled -a hundred significant facts that had come out in talks I had had with -men, women, and children in this fashionable world from which we were -excluded, yet with which we were in constant and close communication. - -“The question is, what are _you_ going to do,” proceeded Edna. - -I shook my head, probably looking as dazed as I felt. - -“What does that headshake mean?” demanded she. - -“_You_--taught _Margot_ to be a--a--like those other girls?” said I. - -“Oh, you fool!” cried Edna. And in excuse for her, please remember I -had ever been a dotingly bored slave of hers--as uxorious a husband -as you ever saw--and therefore inevitably despised, for women have so -little intelligence that they despise a man who loves them and lets -them rule. “You fool!” she repeated. “Yes, I brought her up like a -lady--taught her to cultivate nice things and nice people. What should -I teach her? To associate with common people? To drop back toward -where we came from--where _you_ belong?” - -“Yes, I guess I do,” said I. - -Up to that time I had interested myself in only one aspect of human -nature--the aspect that concerned me as a business man. But from that -time I began to study the human animal in all his--and her--aspects. -And it was not long before I learned what that animal is forced to -become when exposed to the powerful thrusts and temptings of wealth -and social position. In our alternations of pride and humility we -habitually take undue credit or give undue blame to ourselves for what -is wholly the result of circumstance. The truth is, we are like flocks -of birds in a high wind. Some of us fly more steadily than others, -some are quite beaten down, others seem almost self-directing; but -all, great and small, weak and strong, are controlled by the wind, and -those who make the best showing are those who adapt themselves most -skillfully to the will of the wind. - -At the time when Edna and I were talking I had not become a -philosopher. I was in the primitive stages of development in which most -men and nearly all women remain their whole lives through--the stage in -which you live, gentle reader, with your shallow mistaken notions of -what is and your shallower mistaken notions of what ought to be. So, as -Edna uncovered herself to me, I shrank in horror. It was fortunate--for -her, at least--that I had always trained myself never to make hasty -speeches. My expertness in that habit has probably been the principal -cause of my business success, of my ability to outwit even abler men -than myself. I did not yield to the impulse to burst out against her. -I compressed my lips and silently watched as she lifted the veil over -our family life and revealed to me the truth about it. - -“What are you going to do?” she asked impatiently, yet with a certain -uneasiness born no doubt of a something in my manner that made her -vaguely afraid, for while she knew I was her slave and despised me, as -I was to learn, for being so weak before a mere woman, she also knew -that, outside of her domain, I was not her slave nor anybody’s, but -planned and executed at the pleasure of my own will. - -“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” said I slowly. “I must think. All -this is new to me.” - -“If you haven’t any pride in yourself, or in me,” said she, “still you -surely must have pride for Margot.” - -“I think so,” said I. - -“If you could know how they have made the poor child suffer!” - -I made no reply, nor did I encourage her to talk further. In fact, when -she began again I stopped her with: “I’ve heard enough, my dear. And -I’ve some important business to attend to.” - -She, preparing to leave me alone with my papers, came and put her -arms round my neck and pressed her cheek against mine. I think she -was uneasy about the posture of the affair in my mind--feared stupid -commercial I could not appreciate these vital things of life. I suspect -my tranquil reception of her caresses did not tend to allay her -uneasiness. Never before had she failed to interest me in her physical -self; and the only reason she then failed was that in the general -upsetting of all my ideas of what my family life was there had been -tossed up to the surface an undefined suspicion of her sincerity as a -wife. I was not altogether blind as to the relations of men and women, -as to the fact that women often coolly played upon the passions of men -for their own purposes of money getting in its various forms. My wife -was right in her sneer at the innocence of married men. But there are -exceptions, and a woman with a husband intelligent in every way except -in seeing through women would do well to take care how she tempts his -intelligence to shake off its indifference in that respect. - -The next morning I was breakfasting alone as usual. No, gentle reader, -I am not girding at my poor wife as you hastily accuse. I am sure I do -not deceive myself when I say I never was of those men who fuss about -trifles. Thank heaven, as soon as we had a servant my wife kept away -from breakfast. It was one of the things I loved her for. If I had -been married to a woman who appeared at breakfast looking lovely and -smiling sweetly, I should have become a bad-tempered tyrant. I want no -sentimentalities in the early-morning hours. I wake up uncomfortable -and sour, and I quarrel with myself and look about for trouble until I -have had something to eat and coffee. Further in the same direction, I -took particular pleasure in my wife’s small personal slovenlinesses, -in her curl papers, in her occasional overlaying of her face with cold -cream and the like, in her careless negligee worn in her own rooms. -There is, I guess, no nature so prodigal that it has not some small -economies. Edna had, probably still has, a fondness for wearing out -thoroughly, in secluded privacy, house dresses, underclothes, and night -gowns. - -It took nothing from my delight in her beauty that she was not -invariably beautiful. I’ve rarely seen her lovely early in the morning. -Who is? I should have taken habitual early-morning loveliness as a -personal insult. I’ve seen her homely all day long, and for several -days at a time. She was as attractive to me than as at her most -beautiful. I detest monotony. Thank heaven, she was never monotonous -to look at; one rather expects _mental_ monotony in women unless one -is a fool. I didn’t mind her times of homeliness, because she could be -so far, far the opposite of homely. I did not mind her way of getting -herself up in odds and ends, mussily, but, mind you, never after the -Passaic days unclean--never! I did not mind her dishevelments because, -when she set out to dress, she did it so bang up well. She was born -with a talent for dress; she rapidly developed it into an art. You know -what I mean. You’ve seen the girl with hardly five dollars’ worth of -clothing on her, including the hat, yet making the woman from the best -dressmaker in Paris look a frump. - -I never had to join the innumerable and pitiful army of men who give -the woman their money to squander upon bad fits and bad taste, and are -bowed down with shame when they have to issue forth with her. I can -honestly say, and Edna will bear me out, that I gave her money freely. -No doubt the reason in part was I found it so easy to make money that -I was indifferent to extravagance. But the chief reason, I believe, -was Edna’s skill at dress. The woman who is physically alluring to her -husband, and who knows how to dress, rarely has difficulty in getting -money from him, though he be a miser. But, gentle lady reader, can you -in your heart blame a man for grudging his earnings to a woman who -isn’t fit to dress and who doesn’t know how, either? - -As I had begun to tell when I interrupted myself, I was breakfasting -alone the morning after that memorable talk with Edna, and Margot came -down to glance in for a smile at me on her way to school. - -In theory Margot was still classed as a child, and would be so classed -for two years longer. In fact she was, and had been for two years and -more, a full-fledged young lady. That is the way American children of -the rank for which my wife was training Margot are being brought up -nowadays. She had her own apartment, dressing room and bath, sitting -room, reception room--as many rooms as my wife and I had altogether -when we began married life, and about four times the room. As for -luxury, a comparison would be ridiculous. Also Margot had her own staff -of servants--companion, maid, maid’s assistant--and her own automobile -with chauffeur, used by no one else. It would be hard to find more -helpless creatures than these young aspirants to aristocracy. And they -prided themselves upon their ignorance of the realities, and their -mothers, often with hypocritical pretense of distress, boasted it. At -that time I thought it amusing. The serious side of it was entirely out -of my range. We American men of the comfortable and luxurious classes -are addicted to the habit of regarding our wives and children as -toys, as mere sources of amusement not to be taken seriously. It isn’t -strange that the children should not mind this, but what a commentary -upon the real mentality of the women that they tolerate and encourage -it! Our women are always, with a fine show of earnestness, demanding -that they be taken seriously. But woe unto the man who believes them -in earnest and tries to treat them as his equals instead of as dainty -toys, odalisques. How he will be denounced, hated, and, if proper -alimony can be got, divorced! - -Margot’s parties differed in no respect from grown-up parties, except -that there were restrictions in the matter of hours and also as to the -serving of drinks. For, I believe my wife did not follow the extreme -of fashionable custom, but forbade wines and punch at these parties. -In this matter, as in the matter of using slang and in many others, -she held that only people of long-established social position, people -with what is called tradition, could safely make excursions beyond the -bounds of conventionality; that it was safest, wisest for people like -herself to stay well within the bounds, to be prim even, and so to -avoid any possible criticism as vulgar. A very shrewd woman was Edna. -If her intelligence had been equal to her shrewdness and energy, and if -she had possessed a gleam of the sense of humor! However---- - -In no essential respect did Margot’s routine of life differ from -that of her mother--and her mother’s routine of inane and worthless -time-killing was modeled exactly upon that of all the fashionable -women and apers of fashionable women. Edna did a vast amount of -studying, with and without teachers. It was all shallow and showy. -Margot’s studies were also beneath contempt. I amused myself from time -to time by inquiring--with pretense of gravity--into what they were -teaching her at the Ryper school for the turning out of fashionable -womanhood. Such a mess of trash! She was learning much about social -usages, from how to sit in a carriage--a rare art that, I assure you, -gentle reader--to how to receive guests at a large dinner. She was -studying some of the vulgarities--science, history, literature, and the -like--but in no vulgar way. She would get only the thinnest smatter -of talkable stuff about them--nothing “unsettling,” nothing that -might possibly rouse the mind to think or distract the attention from -the “high” things of life. She was dabbling in music, in drawing, in -several similar costly fripperies. And the sum total of expense!--well, -no wonder Miss Ryper was fast becoming as rich as some of the asteroids -in the plutocracy she adored. - -I regarded Margot’s education as a species of joke. It never occurred -to me that our pretty baby had the right to be educated to become a -wife and a mother. And why should it have occurred to me? Where is that -being done? Who is thinking of it? In all the oceans of twaddle about -the elevation of woman where is there a drop of good sense about _real_ -education? You say I was criminally negligent as to my daughter’s -education. But how about your own? The truth is, we all still look upon -education as a frill, an ornament. We never think of it, whether for -our sons or for our daughters, as nothing more or less than teaching a -human being how to live. It is high time to end this idiotic ignorant -exaltation of tomfoolery into culture! - -Poor Margot! How the little girls in plain clothes--and machine-made -underwear--must have envied her as she swept along in her limousine, -dressed with that enormously costly simplicity which only the rich -can afford. No wonder many of the other girls at the Ryper school -hated her. For, her mother was in one respect unlike most of the -fashionable mothers who are too busy doing things not worth doing to -attend to their children. Her mother gave her loving care, spent many -hours--of anxious thought, no doubt--in planning to make her the most -luxurious, the most helpless, the most envied girl in the school. We -hear unendingly about the good that love does in the world. Not too -much--no, indeed! But at the same time might it not be well if we also -heard about the harm love can do--and does? How many sons and daughters -have been ruined by loving parents! How many husbands have been wrecked -by the flatteries and the assiduities of loving wives! How many wives -have been lured to decay and destruction by the over-indulgent love of -their husbands! What we need in this world is not more sentiment, but -more intelligence. Sentiment is a force that rushes far and crazily -in _both_ directions, gentle reader, unless it has well-balanced -intelligence to guide it. - -Margot, smiling in the doorway of the breakfast room, put me at once -into a less somber humor. She was tall and slim--an inch taller than -her mother and with the same supple, well-proportioned figure. She -had her mother’s small, tip-tilted face and luminous eyes, but they -were of an intense dark gray that gave her an expression of poetic -thoughtfulness and mystery. Whiter or more perfectly formed teeth I -have never seen. In former days children’s teeth were neglected. But -my wife, with her peculiar reach for all matters having to do with -appearances, had learned the modern methods of caring for the body when -Margot was still in the period when the body is almost as formable as -sculptor’s clay. Thus Margot’s teeth had been looked after and made -perfect and kept so. Her hair hung loose upon her shoulders like a -wonderful changeable veil of golden brown. Often at first glance you -are dazzled by these carefully fed and carefully groomed children of -the rich, only to note at the second glance that the best showing has -been made of precious little in the way of natural charm. But this was -not true of Margot. The longer you looked, and the more attentively, -the finer she seemed to be--like a rare perfect specimen from a -connoisseur’s greenhouses. There’s no doubt about it, Edna did know -the physical side of life. She would have got notable results even had -we been poor. As it was, with all the money she cared to spend, she -performed what looked like miracles. - -“Come and kiss me, Margot,” said I. - -She obeyed, with a charming air of restrained eagerness that is -regarded as ladylike. “My car is waiting,” said she. “I’m late.” - -“Is that Therese”--her maid--“out in the hall waiting to go with you?” - -“Yes. Miss Parnell”--her companion--“has a headache, poor creature!” - -Margot had caught to perfection the refined, elegant, fashionable tone -of speaking of the servile classes. Though I was in a critical mood -that morning, I was not critical of my beloved little Margot, and her -airs entertained me as much as ever. Said I: - -“Sit down, little duchess”--the familiar name slipped out -unconsciously--“and talk to me a few minutes.” - -“But I’m shockingly late, papa,” pleaded she. - -“No matter. I’ll telephone Miss Ryper, if you wish.” To the butler, who -was serving me: “Sackville, go tell Therese that I’m detaining Miss -Margot. And close the door behind you.” - -Sackville retired. Margot seated herself with alacrity. She did not -like her useless school any better than other children like more -or less useful schools. “Are you taking me to the theater Saturday -afternoon, as you promised?” said she. “And do get a box and let me ask -two of the girls.” - -“Certainly,” said I. “If I can’t go, Miss Parnell will chaperon you.” - -“No, I want you, papa. It’s so nice to have a man.” - -“How are you getting on at school? Not with the studies”--I laughed -at the absurdity of calling her fiddle-faddle studies--“but with the -girls?” - -Her face clouded. “Has mamma told you?” - -“Told me what?” - -She hesitated. - -“Go on, dear,” said I. “What’s the trouble?” - -“Oh, it’s always the same thing,” she sighed, with a grown-up air -that was both humorous and pathetic. “Some of the girls are down on -me--about--about social position. You see, we don’t go _socially_ with -their families.” - -“Why should we?” said I. “We don’t know them nor they us. Naturally, -they don’t care anything about us, nor we about them.” - -She hung her head. “But I want to go with them,” said she doggedly. - -“Why?” said I. - -“Because--because--it’s the proper thing to do. If you don’t go with -them everybody looks down on you.” She lifted her head, and her -flashing eyes reminded me of her mother. “It makes me just _wild_ to be -looked down on.” - -“I should say so,” said I. “Those little girls at Miss Ryper’s must -be an ill-bred lot. We must take you away from there and put you in a -school with nice girls.” - -“Oh, no, father!” she cried in a panic. “Those girls are the -_nicest_--the only nice girls in any school in New York. All the other -schools look up to ours. I’d cry my eyes out in any other school.” - -“Why?” said I. - -“I’d feel--_low_.” Her eyes had filled and her cheeks were flushed. -“I’d be out of place except among the richest and most aristocratic -girls.” - -“But you don’t like them,” said I gently. I began to feel a sensation -of sickness at the heart. - -“I _hate_ them!” cried she with passionate energy. “But I want to stay -on there and _make_ them be friendly with me. I’ve got too much pride, -papa, to run away.” - -“Pride,” said I, and my tone must have been sad. “That isn’t pride, -dear. You ought to choose your friends by liking. You ought to feel -above girls with such cheap ideas.” - -“But I’m not above them,” protested she. “And I couldn’t like any girl -I’d be ashamed to be seen with, unless she were a sort of servant. Oh, -papa, you don’t appreciate how proud I am.” - -“Proud of what, dear? Of your parents? Of yourself?” - -She hung her head. - -“Of what, dear?” I urged. - -“It hurts me not to be treated as--as the inside clique of girls in -our secret society treat each other.” She was almost crying. “They -don’t even call me by my first name any more. They speak to me as Miss -Loring--and _so_ politely--exactly as I speak to Miss Parnell or one of -the teachers or a servant. Oh, I’m so proud! I’d love to be like Gracie -Fortescue. She speaks even to Miss Ryper as I would to Miss Parnell.” - -My digestion wasn’t any too good, even in those days. My whole -breakfast suddenly went wrong--turned to poison inside me, I suppose. -A hot wave of rage against I knew not whom or what rolled up into my -brain. I pushed away my plate abruptly. “Run along, child,” I said in a -hoarse voice I did not recognize as my own. - -She threw her arms round my neck with a gesture and an expression that -made me realize how close a copy of her mother she was. “You wouldn’t -take me away from my school, would you, papa dear?” she pleaded. - -“All I want is to make you happy,” said I, patting and stroking that -thick and lovely veil of flowing hair. - -She assumed that I meant she was to stay on with the viperous Ryper -brood, and went away almost happy. She had awakened to the fact that -there were fates even worse than being snubbed and addressed like a -teacher or a companion or a servant or some other lower animal--yes, -far worse fates. For instance, not being able to feel that she was, -on whatever degrading terms, at least associated with the adored -fashionables. - -That evening when my wife again accompanied me to my study, after -dinner, I said to her: - -“I’ve been turning over our talk last night. I haven’t been able to -reach a conclusion as yet, except on one point. I can’t help you -socially in the way you suggested.” - -I glanced at her as I said this. She was looking at me. Her pale, -intense expression fascinated me. - -“I don’t think you have thought about it fully,” said she slowly. - -“Yes,” said I, with my utmost deliberateness; “and my decision is -final.” - -She rose, stood beside her chair, rubbing her hand softly along the top -of the back. “Very well,” said she quietly. And she left me alone. - - - - -V - - -In refusing Edna her heart’s desire thus promptly and tersely I had an -object. I assumed she would protest and argue; in the discussion that -would follow some light might come to me, utterly befogged as to what -course to take about my family affairs. I knew something should be -done--something quick and drastic. But what? It was no new experience -to me to be faced with complex and well-nigh impossible situations. -My business life had been a succession of such experiences. And -while I had learned much as to handling them, I had also learned how -dangerous it is to rush in recklessly and to begin action before one -has discovered what to do--and what _not_ to do. The world is full of -Hasty Hals and Hatties who pride themselves on their emergency minds, -on knowing just what to do in any situation the instant it arises; and -fine spectacles they are, lying buried and broken amid the ruins they -have aggravated if not created. - -How recover my wife? How rescue my daughter? I could think of no -plan--of no beginning toward a plan. And when Edna, by receiving my -refusal in cold silence, defeated my hope of a possibly illuminating -discussion, I did not know which way to turn. - -Why had I refused to help her in the way she suggested? Not on moral -grounds, gentle reader. There I should have been as free from scruple -as you yourself would have been, as you perhaps have been in your -social climbing or maneuvering in your native town, wherever it is. -Nor yet through fear of failure. I did not know the social game, but -I did know something of human nature. And I had found out that the -triumphant class, far from being the gentlest and most civilized, as -its dominant position in civilization would indicate, was in fact the -most barbarous, was saturated with the raw savage spirit of the right -of might. I am speaking of actualities, not of pretenses--of deeds, -not of words. To find a class approaching it in frank savagery of -will and action you would have to descend through the social strata -until you came to the class that wields the blackjack and picks -pockets and dynamites safes. The triumphant class became triumphant -not by refinement and courtesy and consideration, but by defiance of -those fundamentals of civilization--by successful defiance of them. -It remained the triumphant class by keeping that primal savagery -of nature. As soon as any member of it began to grow tame--gentle, -considerate, except where consideration for others would increase his -own wealth and power, became really a disciple of the sweet gospel he -professed and urged upon others--just so soon did he begin to lose his -wealth into the strong unscrupulous hands ever reaching for it--and -with waning wealth naturally power and prestige waned. - -No, I did not refuse because I thought the triumphant class would -contemptuously repel any attempt to carry its social doors by assault. -I saw plainly enough that I could compel enough of these society -leaders to receive my wife and daughters to insure their position. You -have seen swine gathered about a trough, comfortably swilling; you have -seen a huge porker come running with angry squeal to join the banquet. -You have observed how rudely, how fiercely he is resented and fought -off by the others. This, until he by biting and thrusting has made a -place for himself; then the fact that he is an intruder and the method -of his getting a place are forgotten, and the swilling goes peacefully -forward. So it is, gentle reader, though it horrifies your hypocrisy to -be told it, so do human beings conduct themselves round a financial or -political or social swill trough. I should have had small difficulty -in biting and kicking a satisfactory place for Edna and Margot at the -social swill trough; I should have had no difficulty at all in keeping -it for them. But---- - -You will be incredulous, gentle reader, devoured of snobbishness and -dazzled by what you have heard and read of the glories of fashionable -society in the metropolis. You will be incredulous, because you, too, -like the overwhelming majority of the comfortable classes in this great -democracy--and many of the not so comfortable classes as well--because -you, too, are infected of the mania for looking about for some one who -refuses to associate with you on the ground that you are “common,” -and for straightway making it your heart’s dearest desire to compel -that person to associate with you. You will be incredulous when I tell -you my sole reason was my hatred and horror of what seemed to me the -degrading, vulgar, and rotten longings that filled my wife and that had -infected my daughter. That hatred and horror had thrown me into a state -of mind I did not dare confess to myself. You are incredulous; but -perhaps you will admit I may be truthful when I explain that the reason -for my moral and sentimental revolt was perhaps in large part my dense -ignorance of the whole society side of life. - -No doubt in the Passaic public school of my boyhood there had been as -much snobbishness as there is in Fifth Avenue. But I had somehow never -happened to notice it. It must have been there; it must be elemental -in human nature; how else account for my wife? We hear more about the -snobbishness of Fifth Avenue than we do about the snobbishness of the -tenements. But that is solely because Fifth Avenue is more conspicuous. -Also, Fifth Avenue, supposedly educated, supposedly broadened by -knowledge and taste, has no excuse for petty vanities that belong only -to the ignorant. And if Fifth Avenue were really educated, really had -knowledge and taste, it could not be snobbish. However, my busy life -had never been touched by social snobbishness. I preferred to know -and to associate with men better educated and richer than I, but for -excellent practical reasons--because from such men I could get the -knowledge and the wealth I needed. But I would not have wasted a moment -of my precious time upon the men most exalted in fashionable life--the -ignorant incompetents who had inherited their wealth. They seemed -ridiculous and worthless to me, a man of thought and action. - -So, the sudden exposure of my wife’s and my little girl’s disease gave -me a shock hardly to be measured by the man or woman used all his life -to the social craze. It was much as if I had suddenly seen upon their -bared bosoms the disgusting ravages of cancer. - - * * * * * - -As I could not devise any line of action that, however faintly, -promised results, I kept away from home. I absorbed myself in some new -enterprises that filled my evenings, which I spent at my club with the -men I drew into them. At the mention of club, gentle reader, I see your -ears pricking. You are wondering what sort of club _I_ belonged to. I -shall explain. - -It was the Amsterdam Club. You may have seen and gawked at its vast and -imposing red sandstone front in middle Fifth Avenue. As you drove by in -the “rubber-neck” wagon, the man with the megaphone may have shouted: -“The Amsterdam Club, otherwise known as the Palace of Plutocracy. The -total wealth of its members is one tenth of the total wealth of the -United States. Every great millionaire in New York City belongs to it. -The reason you see no one in the magnificent windows is because the -plutocrats are afraid of cranks with pistol or bomb.” And you stared -and envied and craned your neck backward as the sight-seeing car rolled -on. A fairly accurate description of my club. But you will calm as I -go on to tell you the inside truth about it. It was built to provide -a club for those rich men of New York who had no social position, and -so could not be admitted to the fashionable clubs. It was not built by -those outcasts for whom it was intended, but by the rich men of the -fashionable world. They did not build it out of pity nor yet out of -generosity, but for freedom and convenience. - -You must know that the rich, both the fashionables and the excludeds, -are intimately associated in business. Now, in the days before the -Amsterdam Club, if a rich fashionable wished to talk business out of -office hours with a rich unfashionable, he had to take him to his -home or to his club, one or the other. You will readily appreciate -that either course involved disagreeable complications. The rich -unfashionable would say: “Why am I not invited to this snob’s house -_socially_? Why does not this hound see that I am elected to his -elegant club? I’ll teach this wrinkle-snout how to spit at me. -I’ll slip a stiletto into his back, damn him.” As the number of -rich unfashionables increased, as the number of stealthy financial -stilettoings for social insult grew and swelled, the demand for a -“way out” became more clamorous and panicky. The final result was -the Amsterdam Club--perhaps by inspiration, perhaps by accident. And -so it has come to pass that now, when a rich fashionable wishes to -talk finance with a rich pariah, he does not have to run the risk of -defiling his home or his exclusive club. With the gracious cordiality -wherefor aristocracy is famed in song and story, he says: “Let us go -to _our_ club”--for, the rich fashionables see to it that every rich -pariah is elected to the Amsterdam immediately he becomes a person of -financial consequence. And I fancy that not one in ten of the rich -pariah members dreams how he is being insulted and tricked. All, or -nearly all, imagine they are elected by favor of the great fashionable -plutocrats to about the most exclusive club in New York. Also, not one -in a dozen of the fashionable members appreciates how he is degrading -himself--for, to my quaint mind, the snob degrades only himself. - -Well! Not many months after we moved from Brooklyn to Manhattan I -was elected to the Amsterdam--I, in serene ignorance of the trick -that was being played upon me by my sponsors, associates in large -financial deals and members of several exclusive really fashionable -clubs. They pulled regretful faces as they talked of the “long waiting -lists at most of the clubs.” They brightened as they spoke of the -Amsterdam--“the finest and, take it all round, the most satisfactory -of the whole bunch, old man. And we believe we’ve got pull enough to -put you in there pretty soon. We’ll work it, somehow.” If I had known -the shrivel-hearted trick behind their genial friendliness, I should -not have minded, should probably have laughed. For, human littlenesses -do not irritate me; and I have a vanity--I prefer to call it a -pride--that lifts me out of their reach. I am of the one aristocracy -that is truly exclusive, the only one that needs no artificial -barriers to keep it so. But I shall not bore you, gentle reader, by -explaining about it. You are interested only in the aristocracies of -rank and title and wealth that are nothing but the tawdry realization -of the tawdry fancies of the yokel among his kine and the scullery -maid among her pots. For, who but a tossed-up yokel or scullery maid -would indulge in such vulgarities as sitting upon a gold throne or -living in a draughty, cheerless palace or seeking to make himself -more ridiculous by aggravating his littleness with a title, like the -ass in the lion’s skin? Did it ever occur to you, gentle reader, that -aristocracy is essentially common, essentially vulgar? To a large -vision the distinction between king and carpenter, between the man with -a million dollars and the million men with one dollar looks trivial and -unimportant. Only a squat and squinting soul in a cellar and blinking -through the twilight could discover agitating differences of rank -between Fifth Avenue and Grand Street, between first floor front and -attic rear, between flesh ripening to rot in silk and flesh ripening -to rot in cotton. To an infinitesimal insect an infinite gulf yawns -between the molecules of a razor’s edge. - -I often found my club a convenience, for in those busiest days of my -financial career I had much private conferring--or conspiring, if you -choose. Never had I found it so convenient as when for the first time -there was pain and shrinking at the thought of going home, of seeing -my wife and Margot. My Margot! When she was a baby how proudly I had -wheeled her along the sidewalks of Passaic in the showy perambulator -we bought for her--and the twenty-five dollars it cost loomed mighty -big even to Edna. And in Brooklyn, what happy Sundays Edna and I had -had with her, when I would hire a buggy at the livery stable round the -corner and we would go out for the day to some Long Island woods; or -when we would take her down to the respectable end of Coney Island to -dig in the sand and to wade after the receding tide. My Margot! No -longer mine; never again to be mine. - -One evening I had an appointment at the Amsterdam with a Western -millionaire, Charles Murdock, whom I had interested in a Canada railway -to tap a Hudson Bay spruce forest. He was having trouble with his -wife and something of it had come out in the afternoon newspapers. At -the last moment his secretary--who, by the way, afterwards married -the divorced Mrs. Murdock--telephoned that Murdock could not keep -his engagement to dine. I looked about for some one to help me eat -the dinner I had ordered. There are never many disengaged men in the -Amsterdam. The fashionable rich come only when they have business with -the pariahs. The pariahs prefer their own houses or the barrooms and -cafés of the big hotels. I therefore thought myself lucky when I found -Bob Armitage sulking in a huge leather chair and got him to share my -dinner. Armitage was one of my railway directors. He had helped me -carry through the big stroke that made me, had joined in half a dozen -of my enterprises in all of which I had been successful. There was no -man of my acquaintance I knew and liked so well as Armitage. Yet it had -so happened that we had never talked much with each other, except about -business. - -It promised to be a silent dinner. He was as deep in his thoughts as -I was in mine--and our faces showed that neither of us was cogitating -anything cheerful. On impulse I suddenly said: - -“Bob, do you know about fashionable New York society?” - -I knew that he did; that is to say, I had often heard he was one of -the heavy swells, having all three titles to fashion--wealth, birth, -and marriage. But I now pretended ignorance of the fact; when you wish -to inform yourself thoroughly on a subject you should always select an -expert, tell him you know nothing and bid him enlighten you from the -alphabet up. - -“Why do you ask?” said Armitage. “Do you want to get in? I had a notion -you didn’t care for society--you and your wife.” - -Armitage didn’t go to Holy Cross, but to St. Bartholomew’s. So he had -never known of my wife’s activities, knew only the sort of man I was. - -“Oh, I forgot,” he went on. “You’ve a daughter almost grown. I suppose -you want her looked after. All right. I’ll attend to it for you. Your -wife won’t mind my wife’s calling? I’d have sent her long ago--in fact, -I apologize for not having done it. But I hate the fashionable crowd. -They bore me. However, your wife may like them. Women usually do.” - -It was at my lips to thank him and decline his offer. Then it flashed -into my mind that perhaps my one hope of getting back my wife and -daughter, of restoring them to sanity, lay in letting them have what -they wanted. Another sort of man might have deluded himself with the -notion that he could set his foot down, stamp out revolt, compel his -family to do as he willed. But I happen not to be of that instinctively -tyrannical and therefore inherently stupid temperament. - -Armitage ate in silence for a few moments, then said: - -“I’ll have you elected to the Federal Club.” - -“This club is all I need,” said I. - -He smiled sardonically. I didn’t understand that smile then, because I -didn’t know anything about caste in New York. “You let me look after -you,” said he. “You’re a child in the social game.” - -“I’ve no objection to remaining so,” said I. - -“Quite right. There’s nothing in it,” said he. “But you must remember -you’re living in a world of rather cheap fools, and they are impressed -by that nothing. On the other side of the Atlantic the social prizes -have a large substantial value. Over here the value’s small. Still it’s -something. You wouldn’t refuse even a trading stamp, would you?” - -I laughed. “I refuse nothing,” said I. “I take whatever’s offered me. -If I find I don’t want it, why, what’s easier than to throw it away?” - -“Then I’ll put you in the Federal Club. You could have made me do it, -if you had happened to want it. So, why shouldn’t I do it anyhow, in -appreciation of your forbearance? You don’t realize, but I’m doing for -you what about two thirds of the members of this club would lick my -boots to get me to do for them.” - -“I had no idea the taste for shoe polish was so general here,” said I. - -“It’s a human taste, my dear Loring,” replied he. “It’s as common as -the taste for bread. All the men have it. As for the women they like -nothing so well. Having one’s boots licked is the highest human joy. -Next comes licking boots.” - -“You don’t believe that?” said I, for his tone was almost too bitter -for jest. - -“You aren’t acquainted with your kind, old man,” retorted he. - -“I don’t know the kind you know,” said I. And then I remembered my wife -and my daughter. There must be truth in what Armitage had said; for, -my beautiful wife and my sweet daughter, both looking so proud--surely -they could not be rare exceptions in their insensibility to what seemed -to me elemental self-respect. - -“You don’t know your kind,” he went on, “because you don’t indulge in -cringing and don’t encourage it. You’re like the cold, pure-minded -woman who goes through the world imagining it a chaste and austere -place because her very face silences and awes sensuality. You are part -of the small advance guard of a race that is to come.” He grinned -satirically. “Perhaps you’ll drop out in the next few months. We’ll -see.” - -When the silence was again broken, it was broken by me. “Do you know a -school kept by a woman named Ryper?” I inquired. - -“Sure I do,” replied he. He gave me a shrewd laughing glance. “The -daughter isn’t learning anything?” - -“Nothing but mischief,” said I. - -“That’s what Ryper’s for. But what does it matter? Why should a woman -learn anything? They’re of no consequence. The less a man has to do -with them the better off he will be.” - -“They’re of the highest consequence,” said I bitterly. “They have the -control of the coming generation.” - -“And a hell of a generation it’s to be,” cried he, suddenly rousing -from the state of bored apathy in which he seemed to pass most of his -time. “You’ve got me started on the subject that’s a craze with me. I -have only one strong feeling--and that is my contempt for woman--the -American woman. I’m not speaking about the masses. They don’t count. -They never did. They never will. No one counts until he gets some -education and some property. I suppose the women of the masses do as -well as could be expected. But how about the women of the classes -with education and property? Do you know why the world advances so -slowly?--why the upper classes are always tumbling back and everything -has to be begun all over again?” - -“I’ve a suspicion,” said I. “Because the men are fools about the women.” - -“The sex question!” cried Armitage. “That’s the only question worth -agitating about. Until it’s settled--or begins to be settled--and -settled right, it’s useless to attempt anything else. The men climb -up. The women they take on their backs become a heavier and heavier -burden--and down they both drop--and the children with them. Selfish, -vain, extravagant mothers, crazy about snobbishness, bringing up their -children in extravagance, ignorance and snobbishness--that’s America -to-day!” - -“The men are fools about the women, and they let the women make fools -of themselves.” - -“The men are fools--but not about the women,” said Armitage. “How much -time and thought for your family have you averaged daily in the last -ten years?” - -“I’ve been busy,” said I. “I’ve had to look out for the bread and -butter, you know.” - -“Exactly!” exclaimed he, in triumph. “You think you’re fond of your -family. No doubt you are. But the bottom truth is you’re indifferent to -your family. I can prove it in a sentence: You attend to anything you -care about; and you haven’t attended to them.” - -I stared at him like a man dazzled by a sudden light--which, in fact, I -was. - -“Guilty or not guilty?” said he, laughing. - -“Guilty,” said I. - -“The American man, too busy to be bothered, turns the American woman -loose--gives her absolute freedom. And what is she? A child in -education, a child in experience, a child in taste. He turns her loose, -bids her do as she likes--and, up to the limit of his ability gives -her all the money she wants. He prefers her a child. Her childishness -rests his tired brain. And he doesn’t mind if she’s a little -mischievous--that makes her more amusing.” - -“You are married--have children,” said I, too serious to bother about -tact. “How is it with you?” - -He laughed cynically. “Don’t speak of my family,” said he. “I tried the -other way. But I’ve given up--several years ago. What can _one_ do in a -crazy crowd?” - -“Not much,” confessed I, deeply depressed. - -“The women stampede each other,” he went on. “Besides, no American -woman--none that I know--has been brought up with education enough -to enable her to make a life for herself, even when the man tries to -help her. To like an occupation, to do anything at it, you’ve got -to understand it. Being a husband and father is an occupation, the -most important one in the world for a man. Being a wife and mother is -an occupation--the most important one in the world for a woman. Are -American men and women brought up to those occupations--trained in -them--prepared for them? The most they know is a smatter at the pastime -of lover and mistress--and they’re none too adept at that.” - -“I believe,” said I, “that in my whole life I’ve never learned so much -in so short a time.” - -“It’ll do you no good to have learned,” rejoined Armitage. “It will -only make you sad or bitter, according to your mood. Or, perhaps some -day you may reach my plane of indifference--and be amused.” - -“Nothing is hopeless,” said I. - -“The American woman is hopeless,” said he. “Her vanity is -triple-plated, copper-riveted. She’s hopeless so long as the American -man will give her the money to buy flattery at home and abroad; for, -so long as you can buy flattery, you never find out the truth about -yourself. And the American man will give her the money as long as he -can, because it buys him peace and freedom. He doesn’t want to be -bothered with the American woman--except when he’s in a certain mood -that doesn’t last long.” - -“There are exceptions,” said I--not clear as to what I meant. - -“Yes--there are exceptions,” said he. “There are American men who spend -time with the American woman. And what does she do to them? Look at -the poor asses!--neglecting their business, letting their minds go to -seed. They don’t make her wise. She makes them foolish--as foolish as -herself--and her children.” - -You may perhaps imagine into what a state this talk of Armitage’s threw -me. He was talking generalities. But every word he spoke went straight -home to me. He had torn the coverings from my inmost family life, had -exposed its soul, naked and ugly, to my fascinated gaze. - -He finished dinner, lighted a cigarette--sat back watching me with a -mysterious smile, half amused, wholly sympathetic, upon his handsome -face, younger than his forty-five years--for he was considerably older -than I. I was hardly more than barely conscious of that look of his, or -of his presence. Suddenly I struck my fist with violence upon the arm -of my chair. And I said: - -“I _will_ do something! It is _not_ hopeless!” - -He shook his head slowly, at the same time exhaling a cloud of smoke. -“I tried, Godfrey,” said he, “and I had a better chance of success -than you could possibly have. For my wife had been brought up by a -sensible father and mother in a sensible way, and she had been used to -fashionable society all her life and, when I married her, seemed to -have proved herself immune. A few years and--” His cynical smile may -not have been genuine. “She leads the simpletons. But you’ll see for -yourself.” - -“When you know what to do, and feel as you do,” said I, “why did you -suggest our going into your society?” - -“It isn’t mine,” laughed he. “It’s my wife’s. It doesn’t belong to the -men. It belongs to the women.” - -“Into your wife’s society?” persisted I. - -“Why did I suggest it? Because I wished to please you, and I know you -like to please your wife. And she’s an American woman--therefore, -society mad. She has her daughter at the Ryper joint, hasn’t she?” - -I sat morosely silent. - -“Oh, come now! Cheer up!” cried he, with laughing irony. “After all, -you can’t blame the American woman. She has no training for the career -of woman. She has no training for any serious career. She’s got to do -something, hasn’t she? Well, what is there open to her but the career -of lady? That doesn’t call for brains or for education or for taste. -The dressmaker and milliner supply the toilet. The architect and -decorator and housekeeper and staff supply the grand background. Father -or husband supplies the cash. A dip into a novel or book of culture -essays supplies the gibble-gabble. A nice easy profession, is lady--and -universally admired and envied. No, Loring, it isn’t fair to blame her.” - -We strolled down Fifth Avenue. After he had watched the stream of -elegant carriages and automobiles, some of the too elegant automobiles -having their interiors brightly lighted that the passersby might not -fail to see the elaborate toilets of the occupants--after he had -observed this procession of extravagance and vanity, with only an -occasional derisive laugh or “Look there! Don’t miss that lady!” he -burst out again in his pleasantly ironical tone: - -“How fat the women are getting!--the automobile women! And how the -candy shops are multiplying. Candy and automobiles!--and culture. Let -us not forget culture.” - -“No, indeed,” said I grimly. “Let’s not forget the culture.” - -“I was telling my wife yesterday,” said Armitage, “what culture is. -It is talking in language that means nothing about things that mean -less than nothing. But watch the ladies stream by, all got up in their -gorgeous raiment and jewels. What have they ever done, what are they -doing, that entitles them to so much more than their poor sisters -scuffling along on the sidewalk here?” - -“They’ve talked and are talking about culture,” said I. “And don’t -forget charity.” - -“Ah--charity!” cried he gayly. “Thank you. I see we understand each -other.” He linked his arm affectionately in mine. “Charity! It’s -the other half of a lady’s occupation. Charity! Having no fancy for -attending to her own business, she meddles in the business of the -poor, tempting them to become liars and paupers. Your fine lady is a -professional patronizer. She has no usefulness to contribute to the -world. So, she patronizes--the arts with her culture--the poor with -her charity, and the human race with her snobbishness.” - -He was so amused by his train of thought that he lapsed into silence -the more fully to enjoy it; for, every thought has its shadings that -cannot be expressed in words yet give the keenest enjoyment. When he -spoke again, it was to repeat: - -“And what have these ladies done to entitle them to this luxury? Are -they, perchance, being paid for giving to the world, and for inspiring, -the noble sons and daughters who drive coaches and marry titles?” - -“But what do we men do? What do _I_ do--that entitles me to so much -more than that chap perched on the hansom? I often think of it. Don’t -you?” - -“Never,” laughed Armitage. “I never claw my own sore spots. There’s -no fun in that. Always claw the other fellow’s. There’s a laugh and -distraction for your own troubles in seeing him wince.” - -“Is that why you’ve been clawing mine?” said I. - -We were pausing before his big house, at the corner of the Avenue. “If -I have been I didn’t know it,” said he. He glanced up at his windows -with a satirical smile. “This evening I’ve been breaking my rule and -clawing at my own.” He put out his hand. “Let the social business take -its course,” advised he with impressive friendliness. “You and I can’t -make the world over. To fight against the inevitable merely increases -everyone’s discomfort.” - -“Perhaps you’re right,” said I. - -I agreed with his conclusion that it was best to let things alone, -though I reached that conclusion by a different route. I had in mind my -forlorn hope of good results from a homeopathic treatment. I saw how -impossible it was to undo the practically completed training of a grown -girl. I appreciated the absurdity of an attempt radically to change -Edna’s character--an absurdity as great as an attempt to make her a -foot taller or to alter the color of her eyes. The one hope, it seemed -to me--and I still think I was right--was that, when they had social -position, when there should no longer be excuse for fretting lest some -one were thinking them common, they might calm down toward some sort of -sanity. - -Bear in mind, please, that at the time I did not have the situation, -nor any idea of it, and of how to deal with it, definitely and clearly -in mind. I was groping, was seeing dimly, was not even sure that I saw -at all. I was like a thousand other busy American men who, after years -of absorption in affairs, are abruptly and rudely awakened to the fact -that there is something wrong at home where they had been flattering -themselves everything was all right. - -The things Armitage had said occupied my mind, almost to the exclusion -of my business. The longer I revolved them, the better I understood the -situation at home. I could not but wonder what wretched catastrophe in -his domestic life had made him so insultingly bitter against women. I -felt that he was unfair to them; any judgment that condemned a class -for possessing universal human weakness must be unfair. At the same -time I believed he had excuse for being unfair--the excuse of a man -whose domestic life is in ruins. I began to see toward the bottom of -the woman question--the nature and the cause of the crisis through -which women were passing. - -The modern world, as I had read history enough to know, had suddenly -and completely revolutionized the conditions of life. The male sex, -though poorly where at all equipped to meet the new conditions, still -was compelled to meet them after a fashion. A river that for ages has -moved quietly along in a deep bed, all in a night swells to many times -its former size and plays havoc with the surrounding country. That -was a fairly good figure for the new life science and machinery had -suddenly forced upon the human race. The men living in the inundated -region--where floods were unknown, where appliances, even ideas -for combating them did not exist--the men, hastily, hysterically, -incompetently, but with resolution and persistence, because forced by -dire necessity, would proceed to deal with that vast new river. Just so -were the men of our day dealing with the life of steam and electricity, -of ancient landmarks of religion and morality swept away or shifted, of -ancient industrial and social relations turned upside down and inside -out. The men were coping with the situation after a fashion. But the -women? - -These unfortunate creatures, faced with the new conditions, were in -their greater ignorance and incapacity and helplessness, trying to -live as if nothing had occurred!--as if the old order still existed. -And the men, partly through ignorance, partly through preoccupation -with the new order, partly through indifference and contempt veiled -as consideration for the weaker sex, were encouraging them in their -fatal folly. Was it strange that the women were deceived, remained -unconscious of their peril? No, it was on the contrary inevitable. When -men, though working away under and at the new conditions, still talked -as if the old conditions prevailed, when preachers still preached that -way, and orators still eulogized the thing that was dead and buried as -if it lived and reigned, when in order to find out the change you had -to disregard the speech, the professions, the confident assertions of -all mankind and observe closely their actions only--when there was this -universal unawareness and unpreparedness, how could the poor women be -condemned? - -I could not but admit to myself that in his account of the doings of -the women Armitage was only slightly if at all exaggerating. But with -my more judicial temperament that had won me fortune and leadership -while hardly more than a youth, I could not join him in damning the -women for their folly and idleness and uselessness. - -So, the immediate result of Armitage’s talk was a gentler and -thoroughly tolerant frame of mind toward my wife, both as to herself -and as to what she had done to our daughter. After all, I had for wife -only the typical woman--and a rarely sweet and charming example of -the type. And my daughter was no worse, perhaps was better, than the -average girl of her age and position. What did I think I had--or ought -to have--in the way of wife and daughter, anyhow? What was this vague, -sentimental dream of family life? If I were by some magic to find -myself possessed of the sort of family I thought I wanted, wouldn’t I -be more dissatisfied than at present? When I had a wife and a daughter -who _looked_ so well and did nothing but what everyone around me -regarded as right and proper, was I not unjust in my discontent? - -I had not seen Edna or Margot for several days before my talk with -Bob Armitage. I did not see Edna for several days afterwards, though -I dined at home every evening and did not go out after dinner. I was -debating how to make overtures toward a reconciliation when she came -into my study. She had an air of coldness and constraint--the air of -the woman who is inflicting severe punishment upon an offending husband -by withholding herself from him. She said: - -“Mrs. Robert Armitage has asked me to dine on Thursday evening.” - -I replied hesitatingly: “Thursday-- I’ve an engagement for Thursday--a -dinner.” - -In her agitation she did not note that I had not finished. Dropping her -coldness, she flashed out fiercely: - -“We’ve simply _got_ to accept! It’s our chance. We may not have it -again. It’s what I’ve been waiting for ever since we moved to this -house. And I can’t go alone. Oh, how selfish you are! You never think -of anything but your own comfort. And you can’t or won’t realize any of -the higher things of life for which I’m striving. It is too horrible!” - -If any male reader of this story has known a woman who was, up to a -certain time, always able to rouse a strong emotion in him--of love -or anger, of pleasure or pain--a woman toward whom he could not be -lukewarm, and if that reader can recall the day on which he faced that -woman in a situation of stress and found himself calm and patient and -kind toward her---- - -I was surprised to find that Edna was not moving me. Her loveliness -did not stir a single tiny flame of passion. Her abuse did not excite -resentment or dread. “Just a moment, my dear,” said I with the -tranquillity of a judge. “I was trying to say that I would break my -engagement.” - -I saw that she did not believe me but imagined her outburst had -terrified and cowed me into submission. How dispassionately I observed -and judged! - -“Accept, if you wish,” I went on. “I like Armitage. We’ve been friends -for years.” - -“Why didn’t you tell me so?” demanded she. “Why have you been plotting -against me all this time?” - -“You forbade me to speak of business,” said I. “So I have never spoken -of my business friends.” - -Her anger against me was almost beyond control. If she had been a lady -born, if she had not had a past to live down, a childhood of vulgar -surroundings and actions, she would have given way and abused like a -fish wife. A lady born dares excesses of passion that a made lady, -with her deep reverence for the ladylike, would shrink from. She said -through clinched teeth: - -“I find out that Mrs. Armitage, the leader of the younger set, the -most fashionable woman in New York, has been eager to know me for a -long time. And _you_ have been preventing it!” - -“How?” said I, amused, but not showing it. - -“She called here the other day. She was as friendly as could be. We -became friends at once. She said that for months she had been at her -husband to get her leave to call on me, but that he and you, between -you, had neglected to arrange it.” - -I saw how this notion of the matter delighted her, and that the truth -would enrage her, would make her dislike me more than ever. So, I held -my peace and thought, for the first time, I believe, how tiresome a -woman without a sense of humor could become--how tryingly tiresome. - -“She and I are going to do a lot of things together,” continued Edna in -the same intense humorless way. “I always knew that if I got a chance -to talk with one of those women who could appreciate me, I’d have no -further trouble. I knew I was wasting time on those religious fakirs -and frumps, but I was always hoping that through them I’d somehow meet -a woman of my own sort. Now I’ve met her, and something tells me I’ll -have no further trouble.” - -“Probably you’re right,” said I. - -“How it infuriates me,” she went on, “to think I’d have been spared -all the humiliations and heartaches I’ve suffered, if you had used -your influence with Robert Armitage months--years ago. But no--you -don’t want me to get on. You wanted to stick in the mud. So I had to -suffer--and Margot, too.” - -“Well, it’s all right now,” said I, probably as indifferently as I -felt. Why had God seen fit to create women without the sense of humor? -Perhaps to save men from falling altogether under their rule. - -“The sufferings of that poor child!” cried Edna. “And the very day -after Mrs. Armitage came, Gracie Fortescue asked her to a party, and -all the girls have taken her up. Gracie Fortescue is a niece of Hilda -Armitage. Her brother married a Fortescue.” - -“Really?” said I. “And Margot is happy?” - -“No thanks to you,” retorted Edna sourly. - -“Well, plunge in, my dear,” said I, beginning to examine the papers -before me on the desk. “Only--spare me as much as possible. I need all -my time and strength for my work.” - -“But you’ll have to go with me to dinners, and to the opera -occasionally. I can’t do this thing altogether alone.” - -“Say I’m an invalid. Say I’m away. They don’t want me, anyhow. Armitage -doesn’t go with his wife.” - -“But that’s different,” cried she in a fever. “_She_ has always had -social position. It doesn’t matter if people do talk scandal about her. -_I_ can’t afford to cause gossip.” - -“Why should they gossip? But no matter. I don’t want to worry with -that--that higher life, let us call it. Or to be worried with it. Do -the best you can for me. I’m a man’s man--always have been--always -shall be. If you’ve got to have a man to take you about, dig up one -somewhere. I’m willing to pay him well.” - -“Always money!” exclaimed she in deep disgust. - -I laughed. “Not a bad thing, money,” said I. - -“It would never have got me Mrs. Armitage’s friendship,” said she -loftily. - -“You think so?” said I amiably. “All right, if it pleases you. -But--take my advice, my dear--enjoy yourself to the limit with -highfaluting _talk_ about the worthlessness of money and that sort -of rot. But don’t for a minute lose your point of view and convince -yourself.” - -“Thank God I’ve got a vein of refinement, of idealism in my nature,” -said Edna. “I wouldn’t have as sordid an opinion of human nature as you -have for anything in the world.” - -“You can afford not to have it, my dear,” said I. “So long as I know -the truth, and so make the necessary money to keep us going, you are -free to indulge your lovely delusions. Have your beautiful, unmercenary -friendship with Mrs. Armitage and the other ladies. I’ll continue -to make it financially worth their husbands’ while to encourage the -friendships.” - -“I thought so!” cried she. “You believe Mrs. Armitage has taken me up -for business reasons.” - -“If you had been some poor woman--” I began mildly. - -“Don’t be absurd!” cried my wife. “How could there be an equal and -true friendship between Mrs. Armitage and a woman with none of the -surroundings of a lady, and with no means of gratifying the tastes -of a lady? But that doesn’t mean that Mrs. Armitage is a low, sordid -woman. She has a beautiful nature. Money is merely the background of -high society. It simply gives ladies and gentlemen the opportunity -to set the standards of dress and manners and taste. And of course -they’re careful whom they associate with. Who wants to be annoyed -by adventurers and climbers and all sorts of dreadful mercenary, -self-seeking people?” - -“Who, indeed?” said I. - -It gently appealed to my sense of the ridiculous, to see my wife thus -changed in a twinkling into a defender and exponent of fashionable -society. It was so deliciously feminine, as fantastically humorless, -her sincere belief in the poppycock she was reeling off--the twaddle -with which Mrs. Armitage had doubtless stuffed her. The sordidness, -the vulgarity, the meanness, the petty cruelty, the snobbishness of -fashionable people--all forgotten in a moment, hastily covered deep -with the gilt and the tinsel of hypocritical virtues. What an amusing -ass the human animal is! How stupidly unconscious of its own motives! -How eagerly it attributes to itself all kinds of high motives for the -ordinary, or scrubby, or downright mean actions--and attributes the -same motives to its fellow asses, to make its own pretenses the more -plausible! An amusing ass--but it would be more amusing if it were not -so monotonously solemn, but laughed at itself occasionally. - -However---- - -The atmosphere of our home now steadily improved. The servants -began to respect us, where they had despised and had scarcely -troubled themselves to conceal their contempt. The cook sent up -more attractive--though I fear even less digestible--dishes. The -butler addressed me with a gratifying servility. The maids developed -unexpected talents, showing acquaintance with the needs and customs -of a fashionable household. The housekeeper’s soul dropped from its -theretofore insolently erect posture to all fours, and she attended -to her duties. Edna became sweet and gracious. Margot grew merry and -affectionate. All the result of Mrs. Armitage. We had been pariahs; we -were of the elect. - -I saw and felt the change distinctly at the time. But it is only in -retrospect that I take the full measure--get its full humor--and pathos. - - * * * * * - -That Armitage dinner was _the_ event of Edna’s life. She had been born; -she had married; she had given birth--all memorable and important -occurrences. But this formal début in fashionable society topped -them as the peak tops the foothills. Having seen her quivering and -hysterical excitement when we were leaving the house, I feared a -breakdown. I marveled at her apparent calmness and ease as we entered -the dining room of the Armitages. Never had she looked so well. If Mrs. -Armitage had not been a self-satisfied beauty of the dark type she -might have demolished Edna’s dream in its very realizing. But no doubt -Edna, the shrewd, had duly measured Hilda Armitage and had discovered -that it was safe to make her proud of the woman she had taken under -protection and patronage. - -There were but a dozen people in all at the dinner. It did not seem -to be much of an affair. The drawing-room was plain--nothing gaudy, -nothing costly looking. Our own dining room was much grander--to -our then uneducated taste. The guests were--just people--simple, -good-natured mortals, perfectly at their ease and putting us at our -ease. You would have wondered, after five minutes of that company, -how anyone could possibly find any difficulty in getting intimately -acquainted with them. But, as Edna knew at a glance, she and I were in -the midst of the innermost and smallest circle of the many circles one -within another that make up New York fashionable society. If on the -recommendation of the Armitages we should have the good fortune to be -accepted by that circle of circles, that circle within the circles, -there would be nothing of a social nature left for us to conquer in New -York. I was ignorant of all this at the time; had I known, I imagine -I should have remained tranquil. But Edna knew at a glance; she had -been studying these matters for years. It shows what force of character -she had that she conducted herself as if it were the most ordinary and -familiar occasion of her life. She had always said, even away back in -the days of the grand forty-dollars-a-month flat in Passaic, that she -belonged at the social top. She was undoubtedly right. The way she -acted when she arrived there proved it. - -You do not often have the chance, gentle reader, to get so well -acquainted with any human being as I have enabled you to get with Edna. -Probably you do not even know yourself so well. Therefore I suspect -that you have a wholly false notion of her--think her in every way much -worse relatively than she was. Through your novels and through the -reports your dim eyes bring to your narrow and shallow mind, you have -acquired certain habits of judging your fellow beings. - -You attach inflated importance to their unimportant surface -qualities--physical appearance, pleasant voice and manner--and to their -amiable little hypocrisies of apparent sweetness and generosity and -friendliness. You do not see the real person--the human being. You, -being by training a hypocrite and a believer in hypocrisies, scorn -human beings. Now I prefer them to the sort of people with whom you -and your false literature populate the world. In making you acquainted -with Edna--and the others in my story--I have not introduced you to bad -people, monsters, but to real beings of usual types, probably on the -whole superior to your smug self in all the good qualities. Had you -seen Edna in the Armitage house that evening you would have thought her -as incapable of calculation and snobbishness as--well, as any of the -others in that company whose whole lives were made up of calculation -and snobbishness. She--and they--looked so refined and elevated. -She--and they--talked so high-mindedly. I, who knew almost nothing at -that time except business, was listener rather than talker; and you may -be sure such a man as I, having such ignorance as mine to cover up, had -in years of practice become somewhat adept in that saving art for the -intelligent ignorant. But Edna---- - -She, the most expert of smatterers, fairly shone. With her beauty and -vivacity, her eloquent eyes and dazzling smile, and exquisite bare -shoulders, to aid her, she created an impression of brilliancy. - -“You had a good time?” said I, when we were in the motor for the home -journey. - -“I never had as good a time in my life,” she exclaimed, her voice -tremulous with ecstasy. “Did I look well?” - -“Never so well,” said I. “And you made a hit.” - -“I was careful to cultivate the women,” said she. “I’ve got to get the -women.” - -“You’ve got them,” I declared sincerely. - -“You’re sure I didn’t make some of them jealous? Did you see any signs?” - -“They liked you,” said I. - -“I had to play my cards well,” pursued she. “It was a difficult -position. I was far and away the best looking woman there, with the -possible exception of Mrs. Armitage. Did you hear her call me Edna?” - -“You and Mrs. Armitage look well together. You are of about the same -figure, and the contrast of coloring is very good.” - -“That’s why we took to each other so quickly. Each of us sets off the -other.” - -“How did you like Armitage?” I asked. - -“Oh, well enough,” said she indifferently. “I hardly noticed him--or -the other men. I had my game to play. The men don’t count in the social -game. It’s the women. I shall be nervous until I find out whether I -really got them. They are such cats!--so mean and sly and jealous. I -_detest_ women!” - -“I prefer men, myself,” said I. - -“Men!” She laughed scornfully. “I think men are intolerable--American -men. They say foreigners are better. But American men--they know -nothing but dull business or politics. They have no breadth--no -idealism. The women are far superior to the men.” - -I laughed. “No doubt you women are too good for us,” said I carelessly. -“We’re grateful that you don’t scorn us too much even to accept our -money.” - -“How coarse that is! Don’t spoil the happiest evening of my life.” - -We were at home, so she could escape from me. And I, for my part, was -as glad to be quit of her society as she could possibly have been to -get rid of me. I was beginning to realize that her conversation bored -me, that it had always bored me, that it was her sex and only her sex -that interested me. And latterly even this had lost its charm. Why? - -I have observed--and perhaps you have observed it, too--that people -of wealth and position, unless they have very striking individuality -indeed, are usually utterly devoid of charm. It is difficult to become -interested in them, to establish any sort of sympathetic current. -And you will notice that fashionable functions are dull, essentially -dull; that the animation is artificial, is supplied from without by an -orchestra or entertainers, and fails to infect the company. It was long -before I discovered the explanation for this. I at first thought it was -the stupidity that comes from a surfeit of the luxuries and pleasures. -But I am now convinced that this familiar explanation is not the true -one; that the true one is the excessive, the really preposterous -self-centeredness of people of rank and wealth. From waking until -sleeping they are surrounded by hirelings and sycophants who think -and talk only of them. Thus the rich man or woman gets into the habit -of concentrating upon self. Now the essence of charm is giving--giving -oneself out in sympathetic interest in one’s fellows. How can people, -all whose faculties are trained to work in upon themselves--how can -they have charm? An egotist, one who _talks_ only of himself, may have -charm because he gives you the impression that he is trying to please -you, that he thinks you so important that he wishes you to be sensible -of his importance. But the egotist who, whatever he _talks_, _thinks_ -only of himself--he is not only dull and bored but also a diffuser -of dullness and boredom. And that is how their servants and their -sycophants make the rich and the fashionable so dreary. - -I imagine some such effect as this was being produced upon my wife -by her surroundings of luxury. I think that may account for her long -decreasing charm for me. At any rate, soon after she was well launched -on her Elysian sea of fashion--that is to say, soon after she ceased to -have any check of social seeking to restrain her from centering all her -thoughts and actions upon herself, she lost the last bit of her charm -for me. She became radiantly beautiful. Her face took on a serene and -refinedly assured expression that made her extravagantly admired on -every hand. She became gracious to me and almost as sweet as she had -been before we moved to New York. She even let me see that, if I so -desired, she would condescend to be on terms of wifely affection with -me again. But I did not so desire. I liked her. I admired her energy, -her toilets, and, quite impersonally, her aristocratic beauty. But -I was content to be a bachelor, and I was grateful when she began to -relieve me of the tediousness of going about in her train. - -My substitute was an architect, Leon MacIlvane by name--a handsome -young fellow of about my wife’s age, though he thought her much -younger, despite Margot’s age and appearance. With his poetic dark eyes -and classic features, and rich, deep voice, MacIlvane had long been -a favorite with the young married women of the Armitage set. He was -indeed a valuable asset. The rich unmarried men were not especially -interesting; also, they were needed by the marriageable girls. -MacIlvane, not a marrying man and never making any mother uneasy by so -much as an interested glance at a daughter intended for a rich husband, -devoted himself to married women. - -“I do not care for girls,” he said to me. “They are too colorless.” - -“Why bother with women at all?” said I. “Aren’t they all colorless? -What do they know about life? What experience have they had?” - -“An intelligent woman’s mind is the complement of an intelligent man’s -mind,” said he, as if this trite old fallacy were a brilliant discovery -of his own making. “Women stimulate me, give me ideas.” - -“Oh, I see,” said I practically. “Business. Yes, an architect does deal -chiefly with the women.” - -“I didn’t mean that,” said he, showing as much anger as he dared show -the husband of the woman to whom he had attached himself. - -“Where’s the harm in it?” said I encouragingly. “You’ve got to make a -living--haven’t you? It’s good sense for a business man to cultivate -his customers.” - -He, the poseur and the small man, hated this plain truthful way of -dealing with his profession. Like all chaps of that kidney he thought -only of himself and of appearances, and sought to degrade a noble -profession to the base uses of his vanity. In fact, he had begun with -my wife because of the orders he hoped to get--for, he suspected -that once she looked about her in the fashionable world from the new -viewpoint of a fashionable person, she would want changes in her house -to make it less vividly grand. He believed she would let Hilda Armitage -educate her; and Hilda, unlike most of her friends, liked the quiet -kinds of ostentation and costliness. And he guessed correctly. He was -well paid for undertaking to replace me as escort--so far as I could -be replaced without causing scandal--and, thank heaven, that was very -far in the New York of busy and bored husbands, detesting the gaudy -gaddings their wives loved. - -Soon he was serving my wife for other reasons than pay. I saw something -of him from time to time, and I presently began to note a change in his -manner toward me--a formal politeness, an exaggeration of courtesy. I -spoke to Armitage about it. Armitage and I had become the most intimate -of friends--knocked about together in the evenings, were more closely -associated than ever in business. - -“Bob,” said I to Armitage, “what ails that ass, MacIlvane? He treats -me as if he were in love with my wife.” - -Armitage laughed. “That’s it,” said he. “My wife’s spaniel, Courtleigh, -who writes poetry, treats me the same way. Get any anonymous letters -yet?” - -“Two,” said I. - -“Servants,” said he. “I suppose you burnt them? You didn’t show them to -your wife?” - -“Heavens, no,” replied I. “Why unsettle her? Why upset a pleasant -arrangement? My wife finds MacIlvane useful. I find him invaluable. He -saves me hours of time. He spares me hours of boredom.” - -“My feeling about Courtleigh,” said Armitage. “And both those chaps are -comfortably trustworthy.” - -“I hadn’t thought of MacIlvane in that way,” said I. “I know my -wife--and that’s enough.” - -Armitage reflected with an amused smile on his face. Finally, he -said: “I don’t suppose there ever were since the world began so -thoroughly trustworthy women as these American women of the fashionable -crowd--those that have very rich husbands--and only those, of course, -are really fashionable. They may flirt a little, but never anything -serious--never anything that’d give their husbands an excuse for -throwing them out--and lose them their big houses and big incomes and -social leadership.” - -I had not thought of these aspects of the matter. I based my feeling of -security solely on my knowledge of my wife’s intense self-absorption. -All the springs of sentiment--except the shallow spring of highfaluting -talk--had dried up in her. She would listen to MacIlvane’s flatteries -as long as he cared to pour them out. But if he ever tried to get her -to think of _him_, she would feel outraged. - -“I suppose,” pursued Armitage, “we’d be tremendously amused if we -could overhear those chaps talking to our wives about us. They don’t -dare presume to the extent of mentioning our names. But they hand -out generalities of roasting--how stupid most American men are, how -superior the women are, what a tragic condescension for a wonderful -American woman to have to live with a man who couldn’t appreciate her.” - -I nodded and laughed. - -“Nothing a woman loves so much--an American woman with a little -miseducation befogging her mind and fooling her as to its limited -extent--nothing she so dearly loves as to hear that she has a -great intellect and a great soul, complex, mysterious, beyond the -comprehension of the vulgar male clods about her. That’s why they -like foreigners. You ought to watch those foreign chaps flatter our -women--make perfect fools of them.” - -But I had no desire to watch women in any circumstances. I had no -active resentment against them as had Armitage. I simply wished to -be let alone, to be free to pursue my ambitions and my ideas of -self-development. I had ceased to feel about Margot. I was merely glad -she was not a boy; for I felt that if she were a boy, I should have -to assert myself and do some drastic and disagreeable--and almost -certainly disastrous--disciplining in my family. - -About a year and a half after my wife achieved her ambition, I began to -feel that she was spiritually bearing down upon me in pursuance of some -new secret plan. - -During the year and a half she had been playing the fashionable social -game with the strenuous enthusiasm which only a woman--I had almost -said only an American woman--seems able to inject into the pursuit -of objects that are of no consequences whatsoever. And, in spite of -the useful MacIlvane I had been compelled to assist her far more than -was to my liking. I went about enough to get a thorough insight into -fashionableness--and a profound distaste for it. Of the many phases, -ludicrous, repellent, despicable, pitiful, there was one that made a -deep impression upon me. It amazed me to find that the “best” class -of people was, if possible, more vulgarly snobbish than the class -from which I had come--even than the “Brooklyn bounders.” I could -not comprehend--I cannot comprehend--how those who have had the best -opportunities are no more intelligent, no broader of mind than those -who have had no opportunities at all. The ignorance, the narrowness of -the men and women of the comfortable classes!--the laziness of their -minds!--the shallow cant about literature, art and the like! Really, -intelligence, activity of mind, seems confined to the few who are -pushing upward; and the masses of mankind in all classes seem contented -each class with its own peculiar wallow of ignorance. - -But to Edna’s secret plan. If you are a married man you will at once -understand what I mean when I speak of having a vague sensation of -being borne down upon. She said nothing; she did nothing. But I knew -she was making ready to ask something to which she believed she could -get my consent only by the use of all her tact and skill and charm--for -she did not know her charms had ceased to charm, but thought them more -potent than ever. I waited with patience and composure; and in due time -she began cautious open approaches. - -“Margot is almost ready to come out,” said she. - -“Money?” said I, smiling. - -She rebuked this coarseness amiably. “_Everybody_ isn’t _always_ -thinking of money, dear,” said she. - -“But why talk to _me_ about anything else? That’s my only department in -the family.” - -She deigned a smile for my pleasantry, then went on in her usual -serious way: “I wish to consult you about her education.” - -“Oh--finish as you’ve begun,” said I. “I suppose it’s the best that can -be done for a girl.” - -“But I can’t find what I want,” said she, with an expression of sweet -maternal solicitude. “I’ve always been determined Margot should have -the best education any girl in the whole world could get.” - -“Go ahead,” said I. “See that she gets it.” - -“She shall have the perfect equipment of a lady--of a woman of the -world,” continued Edna, with growing enthusiasm. “She has the beauty to -set it off--and we can afford to give it to her. I am willing to make -any sacrifices that may be necessary.” - -I pricked up my ears. I always do when anyone, male or female, uses -that word sacrifice. I know a piece of selfishness is coming. - -“As I was saying,” pursued Edna, with the serene look of the -self-confident woman who is taking her husband in firm, strong hands, -“I have been unable to find what I want for her. Mrs. Armitage tells me -I’ll not find it except in Paris.” - -“Well--why not go to Paris?” said I. - -Did you ever lift an empty box that you thought full and heavy? My wife -looked as if she had just done that exceedingly uncomfortable thing. -“But I don’t see-- I--I-- It would be a terrible sacrifice to have to -go and live in Paris,” stammered she. - -“Then don’t do it,” said I. - -“But I must think of Margot!” exclaimed she hastily. - -“Oh, Margot seems to be stepping along all right. She’ll never miss -what she doesn’t know about.” - -“But you must realize, dear, what an education she’d get in Paris. And -I suppose it would do me good, too. It’s a shame that I don’t speak -French. Everyone except me speaks it. They all had French governesses -when they were children.” - -“Some of them had--and some hadn’t,” said I. “Armitage has told me -things about your friends that make me suspect they’re doing fully as -much bluffing as we are.” - -She winced, and sighed the sigh of the lady patient with a low husband. -“Then you think I ought to go?” said she. - -“I think you ought to do as you like,” said I. “I always have thought -so. I always shall.” - -“And,” continued she absently, “the society over there must be -charming. Really, I need the education as much as Margot does. I do -surprisingly well, considering what my early opportunities were.” - -“I’ve never once heard you give yourself away,” said I. - -“I’m not that stupid,” replied she. “But--a while in France--on the -Continent--and in England perhaps----” - -“How long would you be gone?” interrupted I, to show her that all this -beating round Robin’s barn was superfluous. - -She gave me a coquettish look: “How long could you spare me?” - -“I can’t tell till I’ve tried,” said I, with a gallant smile--but with -no move toward her. You women who would be wise, distrust the gallantry -that is content with speech and look. - -“You understand,” pursued she, “if I started this thing I’d put it -through--no matter how much I missed you or how homesick I was over -there.” - -“You always do put things through,” said I admiringly. “When have you -planned to start?” - -“I haven’t planned at all, as yet,” replied she--and I saw she thought -I had set a trap for her, and was delighted with herself for having -dodged it. Certainly never was there a husband with whom indirection -was more unnecessary. Yet she would not realize this, partly because -she had never bothered to discover what manner of man I was, partly -because she had one of those natures that move only by secrecy and -indirection. - -“Do you expect me to go over with you?” inquired I. - -“I only wish you would!” exclaimed she, but I distrusted her enthusiasm. - -“Couldn’t MacIlvane take you over and settle you?” - -Her face clouded. Her lip curled slightly. “I don’t like him as I did,” -said she. “I’ve found out he’s ridiculously vain and egotistical.” - -I laughed outright. - -“What is it?” inquired she, elevating her eyebrows. She had always -disapproved my sense of humor. - -“So he’s been making love to you--eh?” said I. - -“No, indeed!” cried she, bridling haughtily. “He’d not dare. But I saw -he was beginning to presume in that direction, and I checked him.” - -“Oh, he’s harmless,” said I. “Keep friendly with him. He’d be the very -person to settle you in Paris. He lived there several years.” - -“It would cause scandal,” said she. “If you can’t go, I can do well -enough alone, I’m sure.” - -“I’d only be in the way,” said I. “Let me know when you wish to go, and -I’ll try to arrange it. But I can’t get away for at least three months.” - -“That would be too late,” said she. “Margot must be started at once. -She hasn’t any too much time before her coming out. Also, Mrs. Armitage -is sailing in two weeks, and she would be a great help.” - -“Then you have decided to sail in two weeks?” said I, adding before -she had time to get beyond a gathering frown of protest, “That suits -me. I’ll make my own plans accordingly.” - -And in two weeks they sailed, I watching the big ship creep out of dock -and drop slowly down the river. Armitage and I drove away from the pier -together. We were in such high spirits that we had champagne with our -lunch. - - - - -VI - - -Armitage and I were together every day. He attracted me for the -usual reason of congeniality, and also because he was giving me a -liberal education. I have never cared for books or, with two or three -exceptions, for book men. About both there is for me an atmosphere of -staleness, of tedium. I prefer to get what is in the few worth-while -books through the medium of some clear and original mind--such a mind -as Armitage had. He ought to have been a great man. No, he was a great -man; what I mean to say is that his talents ought to have won his -greatness recognition. He did not lack capacity or energy; he showed a -high degree of both in the management and increase of his fortune. He -lacked that species of vanity, I guess it is, which spurs a man to make -himself conspicuous. Also he had a kind of laziness, and chose to be -active only in the way that was easiest and most agreeable for him--the -making of money. - -His father had been rich, and his grandfather; his great grandfather -had been one of the richest men in Revolutionary times. His father -was regarded as a crank because he had imagination, and therefore -despised the conventional ideas of his own generation; to be regarded -as thoroughly sane and sensible, you must be careful to be neither, -but to pattern yourself painstakingly upon the particular form -of feeble-mindedness and conventional silliness current in your -time. Armitage’s father resolved that his son should not have his -individuality clipped and moulded and patterned by college and caste -into the familiar type of upper-class man. So Armitage went to public -school, graduated from it into a factory, then into an office, himself -earned the money to carry out the ambitions for study and travel with -which his father had inspired him. - -I think there was nothing worth the knowing about which Armitage had -not accurate essential information--books, plays, pictures, music, -literature, history, economics, science, medicine, law, finance. He -was a good shot and a good horseman, could run an automobile, take it -to pieces, put it together again. He was a practical mechanic and a -practical railroad man. He had a successful model farm. “It doesn’t -take long to learn the essentials about anything,” said he, “if you -will only put your whole mind on it and not let up till you’ve got what -you want. And the trouble with most people--why, they are narrow and -ignorant and incompetent--it isn’t lack of mind, but lack of interest. -They have no curiosity.” Nor was my friend Armitage a smatterer. He -didn’t try to _do_ everything; he contented himself with knowledge, and -_did_ only one thing--made money out of railroads. - -When he saw that I really wished to be educated, he amused himself by -educating me. Not in a formal way, of course; but simply talking along, -about whatever happened to come up. I have never known a man to get -anywhere, who did not have an excellent memory. Lack of memory--which -means lack of the habit and power of giving attention--is the cause of -more failures than all other defects put together. If you don’t believe -it, test the failures you know; perhaps you might even test your own -not too successful self. I had an unusual memory; and I don’t think -Armitage or anyone ever told me anything worth knowing that I did not -stick to it and keep it where I could use it instantly. - -Several months after his wife and mine departed, we were walking in the -park one afternoon--the usual tramp round the upper reservoir to reduce -or to keep in condition. He said in the most casual way: - -“My wife is coming next week, and will get her divorce at once.” - -Taking my cue from his manner I showed even less surprise then I felt. -“This is the first I’ve heard of it,” said I. - -“Really?” said he carelessly. “Everyone knows.” He laughed to himself. -“She is to marry Lord Blankenship--the Earl of Blankenship.” - -“And the children?” said I. - -He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Her people will look -after them. She has spoiled them beyond repair. I have no interest -in them--nor they in me.” After a little tramping in silence, he -halted and rested his hands on the railing and looked away across the -lakelike reservoir, its surface tossed up into white caps by the -wind. “I loved her when we were married,” said he. “That caused all -the mischief. I let her do as she pleased. She was a fine girl--good -family but poor. She pretended to be in sympathy with my ideas.” His -lip curled in good-humored contempt. “I believed in her enthusiasm. -My father--wonderfully sane old man--warned me she was only after our -money, but I wouldn’t listen. Tried to quarrel with him. He wouldn’t -have it--gave me my way. It’s not strange I believed in her. She looked -all that’s high-minded--and delicate--and what they call aristocratic. -Well, it _is_ aristocratic--the reality of aristocracy.” - -“Perhaps she was sincere,” said I, out of the depths of my own -experience, “perhaps she honestly imagined she liked and wanted the -sort of life you pictured. We are all hypocrites, but most of us are -unconscious hypocrites.” - -“No doubt she did deceive herself--in part at least,” he admitted. “For -a year or so after our marriage she kept up the bluff. I didn’t catch -on--didn’t find her out--until we began to differ about bringing up the -children. Even then, I loved her so that I let her have her way until -it was too late.” - -“But,” said I, “don’t you owe it to them to----” - -He interrupted with an impatient, “Didn’t I try? But it was hopeless. -To succeed in this day, I’d have had to take the children away off -into the woods, with the chances that even there the servants I’d -be compelled to have would spoil them--would keep them reminded of -the rotten snobbishness they’ve been taught.” He laughed at me with -mocking irony. “You have a daughter,” said he. “What about her?” - -“I was thinking of your boy,” said I. - -He frowned and looked away. After a long pause--“Hopeless--hopeless,” -said he. “Believe me--hopeless. The boy is like her. No, I’ll have to -begin all over again.” - -I gave an inquiring look. - -“Marry again,” explained he. “Another sort of woman, and keep her -and her children away from this world of ours. I’d like to try the -experiment. But--” He laughed apologetically. “I’m afraid I love -the city and its amusements too well. I’m not as determined nor as -ardent as I once was. What does it matter, anyway? So long as we are -comfortable and well amused, why should we bother?” After a silence, -“Another mistake I made--the initial mistake--was in giving her a -fortune. She is almost as well fixed as I am. Don’t make that mistake, -Godfrey.” - -“I’ve already done it,” said I. “And I shall never be sorry that I -did. I gave my wife the first large sum I made, and I’ve added to it -from time to time. I wanted her and Margot to be safe, no matter what -happened to me.” - -“A mistake,” he said. “A sad mistake. I know how you felt. I felt the -same way. But there’s something worse than the more or less sentimental -aversion to being loved and considered merely for the money they can -get out of you and can’t get without you.” - -“Nothing worse,” I declared. - -“Yes,” he replied. “It’s worse to give a foolish woman the power to -make a fool of herself, of her children, and of you.” - -“That is bad, I’ll admit,” said I. “But the other is worse--at least to -me.” - -“You’d refuse to make a child behave itself, through the selfish fear -that it would hate you for doing so.” - -I laughed. “You know my weakness, I see,” said I. - -“There’s the foolish American husband and father. No wonder all the -classes that ought to be leaders in development and civilization are -leaders only in luxury and folly.” - -“Oh, let them have a good time--what they call a good time,” said I. -“As you said a moment ago, it doesn’t matter.” - -“If it only were a good time--to be ignorant and snobbish and lazy, to -drive instead of walking, to eat and drink instead of thinking, to be -waited upon instead of getting the education and the happiness that -come from serving others. Don’t laugh at me. After all, while you and -I--all our sort of men--are greedy, selfish grabbers, making thousands -work for us, still we do build up big enterprises, we do set things to -moving, and we do teach men the discipline of regular work by forcing -them to work for us at more or less useful things.” - -No doubt you, gentle reader, have fallen asleep over this conversation. -I understand perfectly that it is beyond you; for you have no -conception of the deep underlying principles of the relations of men -and men or men and women. But there may be among my readers a few who -will see interest and importance in this talk with Armitage. It is -time the writers of stories concerned themselves with the realities of -life instead of with the showy and sensational things that obscure or -hide the realities. What would you think of the physiologist who issued -a treatise on physiology with no mention or account of the blood? Yet -you read stories about what purports to be life with no mention or -account of money--this, when in any society money is the all-important -factor. Put aside, if you can, the prejudices of your miseducation and -æsthetics, of your false culture and your false refinement, open your -mind, _think_, and you will see that I am right. - -When we were well down toward the end of the Park, Armitage said: -“Pardon me a direct question. Have you and your wife separated?” - -“No,” said I. “She has gone abroad to round out Margot’s education--and -her own.” - -“You know what that means?” - -“In a general way,” replied I. “I’m letting them amuse themselves. They -don’t need me, nor I them. Perhaps when they come back--” I did not -finish my sentence. - -He laughed. “That means you don’t really care what happens when they -come back.” - -My smile was an admission of the correctness of his guess. We dropped -our domestic affairs and took up the matters that were more interesting -and more important to us. - -If you have good sight, unimpaired eyes, you go about assuming--when -you think of it at all--that good sight is the rule in the world and -impaired eyes the exception. But let your sight begin to fail, let -your eyes become darkened, and soon you discover that you are one of -thousands--that good sight is the exception, that almost everyone -has something the matter with his eyes. The reason human beings know -so little about human nature, the reason the sentimental flapdoodle -about human virtues, in the present not very far-advanced stage of -human evolution, is so widely believed and doubt of it so indignantly -denounced as cynicism, lies in the fact that the average human being is -ignorant of the afflictions of his own soul. This would be pleasant and -harmless enough, and to destroy the delusion would be wickedly cruel, -were it not that the only way to cure ailments of whatever sort is to -diagnose them. What hope is there for the man devoured of a fever who -fancies and insists that he is healthy? What hope is there for the man -who eats pleasant-tasting slow poison under the impression that it is -food? What a quaint notion it is that the truth, the sole source of -health and happiness, is bad for some people, chiefly for those sick -unto death through the falsehoods of ignorance and vanity! We humans -are like the animal that claws and bites the surgeon who is trying to -set its broken leg. - -But I am wandering a little. Discover that you have any ailment of -body or of soul, and you soon discover how widespread that ailment is. -You do not even appreciate how widespread, incessant, and poignant are -the ravages of death until your own family and friends begin to die -off. I had no notion of the extent of the social or domestic malady -of abandoned husbands and fathers until I became one of that curious -class. - -Among the masses there is the great and growing pestilence of abandoned -wives--husbands, worn out by the uncertainties of the laboring man’s -income, and disgusted with the incompetence of their wives and with the -exasperations of the badly brought up children--such husbands flying by -tens of thousands to escape what they cannot cure or endure. Among the -classes, from the plutocracy down to and through the small merchants -and professional men, I now discovered that there was a corresponding -and reversed disease--the abandoned husband. - -The husband and father, working hard and presently accumulating enough -for ease in his particular station of life, suddenly finds himself -supporting, with perhaps all the money he can scrape together, a -distant and completely detached family. He mails his money regularly, -and with a fidelity that will appear grotesque, noble, or pitiful -according to the point of view. In return he gets occasional letters -from the loved ones--perfunctory these letters somehow sound, or would -sound to the critical, though they are liberally sprinkled with loving, -even fawning phrases, such as “dear, sweet papa” and “darling husband.” -Where are “the loved ones?” If the family home is in a small town or -country, they are in New York or some other city of America usually. If -the family home is in the city, they are abroad. What are they doing? -Sacrificing themselves! Especially poor wife and mother. She would -infinitely prefer being at home with beloved husband. But she must -not be selfish. She must carry her part of their common burden. While -_he_ toils to provide for the children, _she_ toils in the loneliness -or unhappiness of New York or Paris or Rome or Dresden or Genoa. And -what is she toiling at in those desert places? Why, at educating the -children! - -Sometimes it’s music. Sometimes it’s painting. Again it’s “finishing,” -whatever that may mean, or plain, vague “education.” There was a time -when men of any sort could be instantly abashed, silenced and abased by -the mere pronouncing of the word education. That happy day for mental -fakers is nearing its close. Now, at the sound of the sacred word many -a sensible, practical man has the courage to put on a grin. I have been -credited with saying that a revival of the declining child-bearing -among American women might be looked for, now that they have found the -usefulness of children as an excuse for escape from home and husband. -I admit having said this, but I meant it as a jest. However, there -is truth in the jest. I don’t especially blame the women. Why should -they stay at home when they have no sympathy with the things that -necessarily engross the husband? Why stay at home when it bores them -even to see that the servants carry on the house decently? Why stay at -home when they simply show there from day to day how little they know -about housekeeping? Why stay at home when there is an amiable fool -willing to mail them his money, while they amuse themselves gadding -about Europe or some big city of America? - -Abandoned wives at the one end of the social scale, abandoned husbands -at the other end. Please note that in both cases the deep underlying -cause is the same--money. Too little money, and the husband flies; too -much money, and it is the wife who breaks up the family. - -As soon as I discovered, by being elected to membership, the existence -of the universal order of abandoned husbands I took the liveliest -interest in it. I was eager to learn whether there was another fool -quite so foolish as myself, also whether the other fools were aware of -their own folly. I found that most of them were rather proud of their -membership, indulged in a ludicrous cocking of the comb and waggling of -the wattles when they spoke of “my family over on the other side for a -few years,” or of “my wife, poor woman, exiled in Paris to cultivate my -daughter’s voice,” or of “my invalid wife--she has to live in the south -of France. It’s a sad trial to us both.” - -Then--but this came much later--I discovered that these credulous, -money-mailing fools, including myself, were not quite so imbecile, as -a class, as they seemed to be. I discovered that they were secretly, -often unconsciously, glad to be rid of their uncongenial families, -and regarded any money they mailed as money well spent. They toiled -cheerfully at distasteful tasks to get the wherewithal to keep their -loved ones far, far away! - -The absence of Edna and Margot was an enormous relief to me. Edna was -constantly annoying me to accompanying her to places to which I did -not care to go. I like the theatre and I rather like some operas, -but when I go to either it is for the sake of the performance. Going -with Edna and her friends meant a tedious social function. We arrived -late; we did not hear the play or the opera. As for the purely social -functions, they were intolerable. Perhaps I should not have been so -unhappy had I been the kind of man who likes to talk for the sake of -hearing his own voice. Women are attentive listeners when the man who -is talking is worth flattering. But I talk only for purpose, and when I -listen I wish it to be to some purpose also. So, Edna, always urging me -to do something distasteful or giving me the sense that she was about -to ask me, or was irritated against me for being “disobliging”--Edna -made me uncomfortable, increasingly uncomfortable as I grew more -intelligent, more critical, more discriminating. As for Margot, I could -not talk with her ten minutes without seeing protrude from her sweet -loveliness some vulgarity of snobbishness. It irritated me to hear her -speak to a servant. I had to rebuke her privately several times for -the tone she used in addressing her governess or my secretary--this -when her mother and all her mother’s friends used precisely the same -repellent “gracious” tone in the same circumstances. I saw that she, -sometimes instinctively, again deliberately tried to hide her real self -from me, that I was making a hypocrite of her. Any sort of frankness or -sympathy between her and me was impossible. - -A few weeks after their departure I closed the house. It came to me -that I need endure its discomforts no longer, that I could get rid of -those smelly, dull-witted, low-minded foreign animals, that I need -not endure food sent up from a kitchen as to which I had from time to -time disgusting proofs that it was not clean. I closed the house and -left the mice and roaches and other insects to such short provender -as would be provided by caretaker and family. I took an apartment in a -first-class hotel. - -When Armitage got clear of his wife he took the adjoining apartment. -And how comfortable and how cheerful we were! - -The women with their incompetence and indifference have about destroyed -the American home. To get good service, to have capable people -assisting you, you must yourself be capable. The incapacity of the -“ladies” has driven good servants out of the business of domestic -service, has left in it only the worthless and unreliable creatures -who now take care of the homes. If you find any part of the laboring -class deteriorating, don’t blame them. To do that is to get nowhere, -is to be unjust and shallow to boot. Instead, look at the employers of -that labor. Every time, you will find the fault is there, just as an -ill-mannered or a bad child means unfaithful parents. The masses of -mankind must have leadership, guidance, example. My experience has been -that they respond when the dominating classes do their duty--that is, -pay proper wages, demand good service, _and know what good service is_. - -What a relief and a joy that hotel was! Armitage and I had our own -cook, and so could have the simple dishes we liked. We attended to the -marketing--and both knew what sort of meat and vegetables and fruit to -buy, and were not long trifled with by our butcher, our grocer, and our -dairyman, spoiled though they were by the ladies. And our apartments -were clean--really clean, and after the first few weeks our servants -were contented, and abandoned the evil ways slip-shod mistresses had -got them into. Pushing my inquiries, I found that not only our hotel, -but every first-class hotel in the fashionable district was filled with -the remnants of shattered homes--husbands who had compelled their wives -to give up the expensive and dirty attempts at housekeeping; husbands -who had abandoned their families in country homes or in other cities -and towns and had, surreptitiously or boldly, returned to bachelor -bliss; husbands who had been abandoned by their families, none of these -last cases being more heart-breaking than Armitage’s or my own. The -story ran that he was on the verge of melancholia because his beautiful -wife had cast him off. There was no more truth in this than there would -have been in a tale of my lonely grief. Had it not been for Armitage, -pointing out to me the truth, I might have fancied myself a deserted -unfortunate. It would not have been an isolated instance of a human -being not knowing when he is well off. - - * * * * * - -I did not see my family again until the following spring. Business -compelled me to go abroad, and they had come over to London for the -season. - -When I descended from the train at Euston, a little confused by the -strangeness, I saw my wife a few yards down the platform. Beside her -stood a tall, beautiful young woman, whom I did not instantly recognize -as my daughter. Both were dressed with the perfection of taste and of -detail that has made the American woman famous throughout the world. I -like well-dressed women--and well-dressed men, too. I should certainly -have been convicted of poor taste had I not been dazzled by those two -charming examples of fashion and style. They looked like two lovely -sisters, the elder not more than five or six years in advance of the -younger. I was a youthful-looking man, myself--except, perhaps, when -I was in the midst of affairs and took on the air of responsibility -that cannot appear in the face of youth. But no one would have believed -there were so few years between Edna and me. Nor was she in the least -made-up. The youth was genuinely there. - -That meeting must have impressed the by-standers, who were observing -the two women with admiring interest. I felt a glow of enthusiasm at -sight of these elegant beauties. I was proud to be able to claim them. -As for them, they became radiant the instant they saw me. - -“Godfrey!” cried Edna loudly, rushing toward me. - -“Papa--dear old papa!” cried Margot, waving her arms in a pretty -gesture of impatient adoration while her mother was detaining me from -her embrace. - -“Well--well!” cried I. “What a pair of girls! My, but you’re tearing it -off!” - -They laughed gayly, and hugged and kissed me all over again. For a -moment I felt that I had been missed--and that I had missed them. A -good-looking, shortish and shy young man, dressed and groomed in the -attractive English upper-class way of exquisiteness with no sacrifice -of manliness, was now brought forward. - -“Lord Crossley--my husband,” said Edna. - -“Pleased, I’m sure,” murmured the young man, giving me his hand with an -awkwardness that was somehow not awkward--or, rather, that conveyed a -subtle impression of good breeding. “Now that you’ve got him--or that -he’s got you,” proceeded he, “I’ll toddle along.” - -My wife gave him her hand carelessly. “Until dinner,” she said. - -Margot shook hands with him, and nodded and smiled. When he was gone -I observed the carriage near which we were standing--and I knew at -once that it was my wife’s carriage. It was a grand car of state, yet -quiet and simple. I often looked at it afterwards, trying to puzzle -out how it contrived to convey two exactly opposite impressions. I -could never solve the mystery. On the lofty box sat the most perfect -model of a coachman I had seen up to that time. Beside the open door -in the shallow, loftily hung body of the carriage stood an equally -perfect footman. I was soon to get used to that marvelous English -ability at specializing men--a system by which a man intended for a -certain career is arrested in every other kind of growth, except only -that which tends to make him more perfect for his purpose. Observing -an English coachman, or valet or butler or what not, you say, “Here is -a remarkably clever man.” Yet you soon find out that he is practically -imbecile in every other respect but his specialty. - -We entered the carriage, I sitting opposite the ladies--and most -uncomfortable I was; for the carriage was designed to show off its -occupants, and to look well in it they had to know precisely how to -sit, which I did not. No one noticed me, however. There was too much -pleasure to be got out of observing Edna and Margot, who were looking -like duchesses out of a storybook. I knew they were delightfully -conscious of the sensation they were making, yet they talked and -laughed as if they were alone in their own sitting room--a trick which -is part of that “education” of which you have heard something, and will -hear still more. The conversation seemed easy. In fact, it was only -animated. It was a fair specimen of that whole mode of life. You have -seen the wonderful peaches that come to New York from South Africa -early in the winter--have delighted in their exquisite perfection of -color and form. But have you ever tasted them? I would as lief eat -sawdust; I would rather eat it--for, of sawdust I should expect nothing. - -“That young man is the Marquis of Crossley,” said my wife. - -I liked to hear her pronounce a title in private. It gave you the sense -of something that tasted fine--made you envy her the sensation she was -getting. “Who is he?” said I. - -Margot laughed naïvely--an entrancing display of white teeth and -rose-lined mouth. “Marquis of Crossley, papa,” she said. “That’s -all--and quite enough it is.” - -“I don’t know much about the big men in England,” said I. “He looked -rather young to amount to very much.” - -“He’s as old as you are,” said Edna, a flash of ill-humor appearing and -vanishing. - -I was astonished. “I thought him a boy,” said I. - -“He’s one of the greatest nobles in England--one of the greatest in -Europe,” said Edna--and I saw Margot’s eyes sparkling. - -“He seemed a nice fellow,” said I amiably. “How you have grown, Margot!” - -“Hasn’t she, though!” cried my wife. “Aren’t you proud of her?” - -“I’m proud of you both,” said I. “You make me feel old and dingy.” - -“You’ve been working too hard, poor dear,” said Edna tenderly. “If you -only would stay over here and learn the art of leisure.” - -“I’m afraid I’d be dismally bored,” said I. - -I had heard much about the art of loafing as practiced by Europeans, -and I had not been attracted by what I had heard. It was inconceivable -to me that intelligent grown men could pass their time at things about -equal to marbles and tops. But I suppose I am abnormal, as they allege. -Many men seem to look on mental effort of any kind as toilsome, and -seize the first opportunity to return to the mindless frolickings of -the beasts of the field. To me mental effort is a keen pleasure. And I -must add I can’t help thinking it is to everybody who has real brains. - -The conversation would have died in distressing agony had it -not been for the indomitable pluck of my wife. She struggled -desperately--perhaps may even have deceived herself into thinking -that she was glad to see me and that the carriage was the scene of a -happy reunion. But I, who had a thorough training in quickly sizing up -situations, saw the truth--that I was a rank outsider, to both wife and -daughter; that they were strangers to me. I began to debate what was -the shortest time I could decently stop in London. - -“We are to be presented at Court next week,” said Edna. - -Margot’s eyes were again sparkling. It was the sort of look the -novelists put on the sweet young girl’s face when she sees her lover -coming. - -“Yes--next week--next Thursday,” said Edna. “And so another of the -little duchess’s dreams is coming true.” - -“Is it exciting?” said I to Margot. Somehow reference to the “little -duchess” irritated me. - -“Rather!” exclaimed Margot, fairly glowing with ecstasy. “You put -on the most wonderful dress, and you drive in a long, long line of -wonderful carriages, with all the women in wonderful dresses. And -you go into the palace through lines and lines of gorgeous liveries -and uniforms--and you wait in a huge grand room for an hour or so, -frightened to death--and then you walk into the next room and make the -courtesy you have been practicing for weeks--and you pass on.” - -“Good!” cried I. “What then?” - -“Why you go home, half dead from the nervous shock. Oh, it’s wonderful!” - -It seemed to me--for I was becoming somewhat critical, as is the habit -in moods of irritation--it seemed to me that Margot’s elaborate and -costly education might have included the acquiring of a more extensive -vocabulary. That word wonderful was beginning to get on my nerves. -Still, this was hyper-criticism. A lovely woman does not need a -vocabulary, or anything else but a lovely dress and plenty of money to -provide background. “Yes--it must be--wonderful,” said I. - -“We’ve been working at it for weeks, mamma and I,” continued she. “I’m -sure we shall do well. I can hardly wait. Just fancy! I’m to meet the -_king_ and the _queen_!” - -I saw that Edna was in the same ecstatic trance. I leaned back and -tried to distract myself with the novelty of London houses and crowds. -It may be you understand the mingling of pity, contempt, anger, and -amusement that filled my breast. If you do not understand, explanation -would merely weary you. I was no longer proud of my beautiful family; -I wished to get away from them, to forget them. Edna and Margot -chatted on and on about the king and queen, about the various titled -people they knew or hoped to know, about the thrills of aristocratic -society. I tried not to listen. After a while I said, with I hope not -unsuccessful attempt at amiability: - -“I’m sorry I shan’t be here to witness your triumph.” - -Across Edna’s face swept a flash of vivid--I had almost said -vicious--annoyance. “You’re not going before the drawing-room at -Buckingham Palace!” cried she. - -“I’ll have to,” said I. - -“But you can’t!” protested Margot, tears of vexation in her eyes. -“Everyone will think it’s dreadfully queer.” - -“Don’t fret about that, my dear,” replied I lightly. “I know how it is -over here. So long as you’ve got the cash they’ll never ask a question. -We Americans mean money to them--and that’s all.” - -“Oh, papa!” cried Margot. - -“Don’t put such ideas into the child’s head, Godfrey,” said my wife, -restraining herself in a most ladylike manner. - -“She knows,” said I. “So do you. Money is everything with aristocracies -everywhere. They must live luxuriously without work. That can’t be done -without money--lots of money. So aristocrats seriously think of nothing -else, whatever they may talk.” - -“You’ll have a better opinion of them when you know them,” said Edna, -once more serene and sweetly friendly. - -“I don’t think badly of them,” I replied. “I admire their cleverness. -But you mustn’t ask me to respect them. They hardly expect it. They -don’t respect themselves. If they did, they’d not be stealing, but -working.” - -Margot listened with lowered eyes. I saw that she was ashamed of and -for me. Edna concealed her feelings better. She forced an amiable -smile. “I don’t know much about these things,” she said politely. -“But, Godfrey, you mustn’t desert us, at least not until after the -drawing-room. I’ve told our ambassador you’re to be here, and he has -gone to no end of trouble to arrange for you.” - -“Howard?” said I. “That pup! I despise him. He’s a rotten old snob. -They tell me his toadyism turns the stomach of even the English. He’s a -disgrace to our country. But I suppose he’s little if any worse than -most of our ambassadors over here. They’ve all bought their jobs to -gratify their own and their wives’ taste for shoe polish.” - -This speech so depressed the ladies that their last remnant of vivacity -fled, not to return. You are sympathizing with them, gentle reader, -and they are welcome to your sympathy. We drove in silence the rest -of the way to the hotel in Piccadilly, where they were installed in -pompous luxury and had made equally luxurious provision for me. When I -was alone with my valet I reasoned myself out of the grouchy mood into -which the evidences of my family’s fresh access of folly had thrown -me. To quarrel with them, to be irritated against them, was about as -unreasonable as attacking a black man for not being white. I had long -since realized, as the result of much experience and reflection, that -character is no more to be changed than any other inborn quality. -My wife had been born an aristocrat, and had brought into the world -an aristocratic daughter. She was to be blamed neither for the one -thing nor for the other. And it ill became my pretensions to superior -intellect to gird at her and at Margot. The thing for me to do was to -let them alone--keep away. - -At dinner, which was served in our apartment, I took a different tone -with them, and they met me more than half way. So cheered was my lovely -daughter that after dinner she perched on the arm of my chair and -ventured to bring up the dangerous subject. Said she: - -“You’re not going to be mean to me and run away, are you, papa?” - -Looking at Edna, but addressing Margot, I replied: “Your mother will -tell you that it’s best. We three never can agree in our ideas of -things. I’m an irritation. I spoil your pleasure.” - -“No--no, indeed!” cried the girl. “I’ve been looking forward to your -coming. I’ve been telling everybody how handsome and superior you are. -And I want them to see for themselves.” - -Most pleasant to hear from such rare prettiness, and most sincerely -spoken. - -“So many of the American men in society over here are common,” -proceeded she, “and even those who aren’t so very common somehow seem -so. They are down on their knees before titles, and they act--like -servants. Even Mr. Howard-- He oughtn’t to show his feelings so -plainly. Of course we all feel impressed and honored by being taken up -by real titled people of old families, but it’s such bad form to show, -and it interferes with getting on. When I’m talking to Lord Crossley -about that drawing-room, I act as if it were nothing.” - -“I see you are being well educated,” said I, laughing. - -“Oh, yes. Mamma and I have worked. We’ve not had an idle moment.” - -“I believe you,” said I. - -“You _will_ stay, papa--won’t you?” - -I shook my head. But it was no longer the positive gesture. My -besetting sin, my good nature, had possession of me. Remember, it was -after dinner, and my beautiful daughter was caressing my cheek and was -pleading in a voice whose modulations had been cultivated by the best -masters in Paris. - -“But I don’t want people to think I was deceiving them about my papa.” - -“I’m willing to be exhibited to a select few in the next two or three -days,” I conceded. “They will tell the others.” - -And with that they had to be content. In the faint hope of inducing me -to change my mind, Edna--the devoid of the sense of humor--took me to -a tailor’s and had me shown pictures and models of the court costume I -would wear. But I remained firm. A sense of humor would have warned her -that a person of my sort would have an aversion to liveries of every -kind, to any costume that stamps a man as one of a class. I am perhaps -foolishly jealous of my own individuality. But I cannot help it. A -king in his robes, a general in his uniform--except in battle where -it’s as necessary and useful as night shirt or pajamas in bed--any -sort of livery seems pitiful and contemptible to me. I will wear the -distinguishing dress of the human race and the male sex, but further -than that classification I refuse to move. Also, what business had I, -citizen of a democracy whose chief idea is the barbarism and silliness -of aristocracy--what business had I going to see a king and a queen? -I should have felt that I was aiding them in the triumph of dragging -democracy at their chariot wheels. No, I would not go to levees and -drawing-rooms. You may say I showed myself an absurd extremist. Well, -perhaps so. But, as it seems to be necessary to go to one extreme -or the other, I prefer the extreme of exaggerated and vainglorious -self-respect. - -“The king and queen are no doubt nice people,” said I to Margot. “But -if I meet them, it must be on terms of equality--and for some purpose -less inane than exchanging a few set phrases.” - -Edna and Margot seemed to feel that they had, on the whole, a -presentable specimen of male relative to exhibit; for they made the -most of the four days I gave them. Through Hilda Armitage, now Lady -Blankenship, and much freshened up by the more congenial atmosphere, -they had got in with the set that is the least easy of access to -Americans--though, of course, it is not actually difficult for any -American with plenty of money and a willingness to spend and good -guidance in how to spend. And I must admit I enjoyed myself in those -four days. The women were, for the most part, rather slow, though I -recall two who had real intelligence, and I don’t think there was a -single one quite so devoid of knowledge of important subjects as our -boasted “bright” American women. The men were distinctly attractive. -They had information, they had breadth--the thing the upper-class -men of America often lack. Also, they were entirely free from that -ill-at-easeness about their own and their neighbor’s position in -society which makes the American upper classes tiresome and ridiculous. - -It amused me to observe the Americans in this environment. Both our -women and our men seemed uneasy, small, pinched. You could distinguish -the American man instantly by his pinched, tight expression of an -upper servant out for a holiday. I could feel the same thing in our -women, but I doubt not their looks and dress and vivacity concealed -it from the Englishmen. Anyhow, women are used to being nothing in -themselves, to taking rank and form from their surroundings. While -with us it seems to be true that the women are wholly responsible for -social position with all its nonsense, the deeper truth is that they -owe everything to the possessions of their fathers or husbands. Without -that backing they would be nothing. Everything must ultimately rest -upon a substantiality. In themselves, unsupported, the women’s swollen -pretensions would vanish into thin air. - -Lord Crossley was to have dined with us my first evening in London, but -was prevented by suddenly arising business in the country. Next day -he came to lunch, and I at once saw that he was after Margot hammer -and tongs. I discovered it not by the way he treated her, but by his -attitude toward her mother and me. He seemed a thoroughly satisfactory -young man in every way, and I especially liked his frankness and -simplicity. Edna had devoted a large part of a long sight-seeing tour -with me to an account of his grandeur in the British aristocracy. -Having had experience at that time of the American brand of aristocracy -only, I was ignorant of the European kinds that have the aristocratic -instinct in the most acute form--the ingrowing form. I know now that -our own sort, unpleasant and unsightly though it is, cannot compare in -malignance, in littleness and meanness of soul with the European sort. -Just as the noisy blowhard is a modest fellow and harmless, and on -acquaintance lovable in comparison with the silent, brooding egotist, -just so is the American aristocrat in comparison with the European. -An American aristocrat has been known to forget himself and be human. -I recall no instance of that sort in an European born and bred to the -notion that his flesh and blood are of a subtler material than the -flesh and blood of most men. However, as I was saying, at the time of -my first visit to Europe I knew nothing of these matters, and Lord -Crossley seemed to me a simple, ingenuous young man, most attractively -boyish for his years. - -“That chap wants to marry Margot,” said I to Edna when we were alone -later in the afternoon. - -“I think so,” said she. “Several young men wish to marry her. But she -is in no hurry. She’s not nineteen yet, and she would like a duke.” - -“To be sure,” said I. “But she may not be able to love a duke.” - -“I never heard of a girl who wouldn’t love a duke if she got the -chance,” said Edna. “There are only five--English dukes, I mean--who -are eligible. Margot has met three of them--and one, the Duke of -Brestwell, has taken quite a fancy to her.” Carelessly, but with -nervous anxiety underneath, “You wouldn’t have any objection?” - -“I? Why?” - -“Oh--you are so--so peculiar in some ways.” - -“Anyone who pleases Margot will suit me,” said I. - -“We were afraid you’d be prejudiced against titles. You’ve been with -that eccentric Mr. Armitage so much--and you always have been against -the sort of things Margot and I like.” - -“I’ve no objection to titles,” said I. “In fact, I think Margot will be -happier if she marries a title. You’ve educated her so well that she’ll -never see the man or think of him.” - -“How little you know her!” cried Edna, pathetically. “And how unjust -to me your prejudices make you. I’ve brought her up to be all -refinement--all sentiment--all heart. She looks only at the highest and -best.” - -“At the duke,” said I. - -“Certainly at the duke,” said she. “Her tastes are for the life where a -woman can show her beauty of soul to the best advantage and can do the -most good. There is no career for a woman in America. But over here a -woman married into the aristocracy has a real career.” - -“At what?” said I. - -“As a recognized social leader. As a leader in charities and all sorts -of good movements.” - -“Ah, I see,” said I--and there I stopped, for I had learned not to -argue with my wife--or with anyone else, male or female--when the -subject is sheer twaddle. “Yes, I think Margot would do well to marry -over here and to have a dazzling career. I’m sure she’d never get tired -of this--pardon me--treadmill. I observe that it’s better organized -than the imitation one we have over in ‘the States.’” - -“I should say!” cried Edna. “You’ve no idea how cheap and common the -best you have in New York is beside the social life here. I’ve been -here only a year, but already there have been the greatest changes in -me. Don’t you notice?” - -“I do,” said I. “And I can honestly say you have changed for the -better. You’ve learned to cover it up.” - -She looked inquiringly at me, but I did not care to explain what the -“it” was that she had learned to cover. A slight flush appeared in -her cheeks, and I knew intuitively that she thought I was alluding to -her humble origin. I did not disabuse her mind of this impression. -She would have been angry had I explained that I meant her social -ambitions which I thought vulgar and she thought refined. Both she -and Margot, except in occasional unguarded moments in privacy, had -indeed vastly improved in manners. They had learned the trick of the -aristocrats they associated with--the trick of affecting simplicity and -equality and quietly confident ease. There was a notable difference, -and altogether in their favor, between their manners and the manners -of the former Mrs. Armitage and other American women. Whatever might -justly be said in the way of criticism of my wife, it assuredly could -not be said that she was lacking in agility at “catching on.” Armitage -once said to me, “Your wife is a marvelous woman. I never saw or heard -of her making a break.” This tribute can be appreciated only when you -recall whence she sprung--and how much of her origin remained with -her--necessarily--through all her climbings and soarings. - -“You prefer it over here?” said I--we were still driving. - -“If it weren’t for you, I’d never go back,” said she. - -“For me?” said I. “Oh, don’t bother about me.” - -“But I do,” replied she sweetly. And her hand covertly stole into mine -for a moment. “Sometimes I get so homesick, Godfrey, that’s it all I -can do to fight off the impulse to take the first steamer.” - -I tried to look as a man should on hearing such pleasant and -praiseworthy sentiments from the wife of his bosom. - -“You’ve acted cold and--and reserved with me,” she went on. “I wanted -to come to you last night. But I hadn’t the courage. You are such a -mixture of tenderness and--and aloofness. You have the power to make -even me feel like a stranger.” - -“I’m sure I don’t mean to be that way,” said I, thoroughly -uncomfortable. - -“Margot was speaking of it,” proceeded Edna. “She said--poor -affectionate child--that she hardly dared put her arms round you and -kiss you. You oughtn’t to repulse the child that way, Godfrey. She -has a tender, loving heart. And she adores you. She and I talk of you -a long time every day. I’d insist on it as a matter of duty--for I’d -not let your child forget you. But I don’t need to insist. She refers -everything to you, and whenever she’s unusually happy, she always says: -‘If papa could only be enjoying this with us!’” - -I saw that she had worked herself up into a state of excitement. -My good sense told me that there was no genuineness in either her -affection or Margot’s. But I had no doubt they both thought themselves -genuine. And that was quite enough to give me, the easy-going American -slob of a husband and father, an acute attack of guilty conscience. The -upshot was---- - -But you who have an impressionable heart and a keen sense of your own -shortcomings can guess what it was. Edna and I resumed the relations -of affectionate husband and wife for the rest of my--brief--stop in -London. I remained several days longer than I had intended--stayed -on because I did not wish to hurt her feelings. And I bought her -and Margot all sorts of jewelry and gew-gaws, largely increased her -personal fortune, did not utter a word that would ruffle either of -them. And I left them convinced that I was going only because business -not to be neglected compelled. - -They say that the hypocrite wife is a common occurrence. I wonder if -the hypocrite husband is rare. I wonder if there are not more instances -than this one of the husband and the wife playing a cross game of -hypocrisy, with each fancying the other deceived? - -So busy was I with my own laborings to deceive my wife as to the true -state of my feelings toward her that not until I was halfway across -the Atlantic did I happen to think the obvious thought. You, gentle -reader, have not thought it. But perhaps some more intelligent species -of reader has. In mid-Atlantic, I suddenly thought: “Why she--she and -Margot--were playing a game--the same game. For what purpose?” - -It was not many months before I found out. - - - - -VII - - -That summer Armitage was spending the week ends out on Long Island -at the country place of his sister, Mrs. Kirkwood. He kept his -yacht in the tiny harbor there and made short cruises in the -Sound and up the New England coast. Naturally I often went with -him. Those parties usually amused me. He knew a dozen interesting -people--working people--such as Boris Raphael, the painter, and his -wife, the architect, the Horace Armstrongs who had been divorced and -remarried, a novelist named Beechman who wrote about the woods and -lived in the wilderness in the Southwest most of the year, Susan Lenox -the actress--several others of the same kind. Then there was his -sister--Mary Kirkwood. - -For a reason which will presently appear I have not before spoken of -Mrs. Kirkwood, though I had known her longer than I had known Armitage. -Her husband had been treasurer of the road when I was an under Vice -President. He speculated in the road’s funds and it so happened that, -when he was about to be caught, I was the only man who could save him -from exposure. Instead of asking me directly, he sent his wife to me. -I can see her now as she was that day--pale, haggard, but with that -perfect composure which deceives the average human being into thinking, -“Here is a person without nerves.” She told me the whole story in -the manner of one relating a matter in which he has a sympathetic but -remote interest. She made not the smallest attempt to work upon my -feelings, to move me to pity. “And,” she ended, “if you will help him -cover up the shortage, it will be made good and he will resign. I shall -see to it that he does not take another position of trust.” - -“Why didn’t he come to me, himself?” said I. “Why did he send you?” - -She looked at me--a steady gaze from a pair of melancholy gray eyes. “I -cannot answer that,” said she. - -“I beg your pardon,” stammered I; for I guessed the answer to my -question even as I was asking it. I knew the man--an arrogant coward, -with the vanity to lure him into doing preposterous things and wilting -weakness the instant trouble began to gather. “You wish me to save -him?” I said, still confused and not knowing how to meet the situation. - -“I am asking rather for myself,” replied she. “I married him against -my father’s wishes and warning. I have not loved him since the second -month of our marriage. If he should be exposed, I think the disgrace -would kill me.” Her lip curled in self-scorn. “A queer kind of pride, -isn’t it?” she said. “To be able to live through the real shame, and to -shrink only from the false.” - -“I’ll do it,” said I, with a sudden complete change of intention. “That -is, if you promise me he will resign and not try to get a similar -position elsewhere.” - -“I promise,” said she, rising, to show that she was taking not a moment -more of my time than was unavoidable. “And I thank you”--and that was -all. - -I kept my part of the agreement; she kept hers. In about two years she -divorced him because he was flagrantly untrue to her. He married the -woman and supported her and himself on the allowance Mary Kirkwood -made him as soon as her father’s death let her into her share of the -property. When I saw her again--one night at dinner at her brother’s -house, before his wife divorced him--we met as if we were entire -strangers. Neither of us made the remotest allusion to that first -meeting. - -Going down to her house with Armitage often and being with her on the -yacht for days together, I became fairly well acquainted with her, -although she maintained the reserve which she did not increase for a -stranger or drop even with her brother. You felt as if her personality -were a large and interesting house, with room after room worth -seeing, most attractive--but that no one ever was admitted beyond the -drawing-room, not for a glimpse. - -Don’t picture her as of the somber sort of person. A real tragedy -can befall only a person with a highly sensitive nature. Such -persons always have sense of proportion and sense of humor. They do -not exaggerate themselves; they see the amusing side of the antics -of the human animal. So they do not pull long faces and swathe -themselves in yards of crêpe and try to create an impression of -dark and gloomy sorrow. They do not find woe a luxury; they know it -in its grim horror. They strive to get the joy out of life. So, -looking at Mary Kirkwood, you would never have suspected a secret -of sadness, a blighted life. As her reserve did not come from -self-consciousness--either the self-consciousness of haughtiness or -that of shyness and greenness--you did not even suspect reserve until -you had known her long and had tried in vain to get as well acquainted -with her as you thought you were at first. I imagine that in our talk -in my office about her husband I got further into the secret of her -than anyone else ever had. - -One detail I shall put by itself, so important does it seem to me. -She had a keen sense of humor. It was not merely passive, merely -appreciation, as the sense of humor is apt to be in women--where it -exists at all. It was also active; she said droll and even witty -things. When her sense of humor was aroused, her eyes were bewitching. - -What did she look like? The women all wish to know this; for, being -fond of the evanescent triumphs over the male which beauty of face -or form gives, and as a rule having experience only of those petty -victories, they fancy that looks are the important factor, the -all-important factor. In fact, the real conquests of women are not won -by looks. Beauty, or, rather, physical charm of some kind, is the lure -that draws the desired male within range. If after pausing a while he -finds nothing more, he is off again. - -Perhaps, probably, my experience with Edna has made me more indifferent -to looks than the average man who has never realized his longing to -possess a physically beautiful woman. However that may be, Mary -Kirkwood certainly had no cause to complain that Nature had not -been generous to her in the matter of looks. She was tall, she was -slender. She had a delicate oval face, a skin that was clear and -smooth and dark with the much prized olive tints in it. She had a -beautiful long neck, a great quantity of almost black hair. Her nose -suggested pride, her mouth mockery, her eyes sincerity. She was the -kind of woman who exercises a powerful physical fascination over men, -and at the same time makes them afraid to show their feelings. Women -like that tantalize with visions of what they could and would give -the man they loved, but make each man feel that it would be idle for -him to hope. In character she was very different from her cynical, -mocking brother--was, I imagine, more like her father. Mentally the -resemblance between the brother and sister was strong--but she took -pains to conceal how much she knew, where he found his chief pleasure -in “showing off.” I feel I have fallen pitifully short of doing her -justice in this description. But who can put into words such a subtlety -as charm? She had it--for men. Women did not like her--nor she them. I -state this without fear of prejudicing either women or men against her. -Why is it, by the way, that to say a man does not like men and is not -liked by them is to damn him utterly, while to say that a woman neither -likes nor is liked by her own sex is rather to speak in her favor? You -cry indignantly, “Not true!” gentle reader. But--do _you_ know what is -true and what not true? And, if you did, would you confess it, even to -yourself? - -You are proceeding to revenge yourself upon me. You are saying, “_Now_ -we know _why_ he was indifferent to his beautiful wife and to his -lovely daughter!--_Now_ we understand that fit of guilty conscience in -London!” - -Do you know? Perhaps. I am not sure. I am not conscious of any especial -interest in Mary Kirkwood until after I came back from London. I -had seen her but a few times. We had never talked so long as five -consecutive minutes, and then we had talked commonplaces. Not the -commonplaces of fashionable people, but the commonplaces of intelligent -people. There’s an enormous difference. - -The first time my memory records her with the vividness of moving -pictures is, of course, at that meeting in my office. The next time is -a few days after my return from London. I had been surfeited both in -London and on the steamer with the inane amateurs at life, the shallow -elegant dabblers in it, interesting themselves only in coaching, -bridge, and similar pastimes worthy an asylum for the feeble-minded. I -went down to the Kirkwood place with Armitage. As his sister was not in -the house we set out for a walk through the grounds to find her. At the -outer edge of the gardens a workman told us that if we would follow a -path through the swampy woods we could not miss her. - -The path was the roughest kind of a trail. Our journey was beset with -swarms of insects, most of them mosquitoes in savage humor. It lay -along the course of a sluggish narrow stream that looked malarious -and undoubtedly was. “Landscape gardening is one of Mary’s fads,” -explained her brother. “She has been planning to tackle this swamp for -several years. Now she is at it.” - -In the depths of the morass we came upon her. She was in man’s -clothes--laboring man’s clothes. Her face and neck were protected by -veils, her hands by gloves. She was toiling away with a gang of men at -clearing the ground where the drains were to center in an artificial -lake. Armitage called several times before she heard. Then she dropped -her ax and came forward to meet us. There was certainly nothing of what -is usually regarded as feminine allure about her. Yet never had I seen -a woman more fascinating. There undoubtedly was charm in her face and -in her strong, slender figure. But I believe the real charm of charms -for me was the spectacle of a woman usefully employed. A woman actually -doing something. A woman! - -After the greeting she said: “The only way I can get the men to work -in this pesthole is by working with them.” She smiled merrily. “One -doesn’t look so well as in a fresh tennis suit wielding a racket. But I -can’t bear doing things that have no results.” - -“My father insisted on bringing us up in the commonest way and with the -commonest tastes,” said Armitage, “and Mary has remained even less the -lady than I am the gentleman.” - -As the mosquitoes were tearing us to pieces Mrs. Kirkwood ordered us -back to the house. Before we were out of sight she was leading on her -gang and wielding the ax again. At dinner she appeared in all the -radiance and grace of the beautiful woman with fondness for and taste -in dress. She explained to me her plan--how swamp and sluggish, rotting -brook were to be transformed into a wooded park with a swift, clear -stream and a succession of cascades. I may add, she carried out the -plan, and the results were even beyond what my imagination pictured as -she talked. - -This first view of her life in the country set me to observing her -closely--perhaps more closely and from a different standpoint than a -man usually observes a woman. In all she did I saw the same rare and -fascinating imagination--the only kind of imagination worth while. Of -all its stupidities and follies none so completely convicts the human -race of shallowness and bad taste as its notions of what is romantic -and idealistic. The more elegant the human animal flatters itself it -is, the poorer are its ideals--that is, the further removed from the -practical and the useful. So, you rarely find a woman with so much true -poetry, true romance, true imagination as to keep house well. But Mary -Kirkwood kept house as a truly great artist paints a picture, as a -truly great composer creates an opera. In all her house there was not a -trace of the crude, costly luxury that rivals the squalor and bareness -of poverty in repulsiveness to people of sense and taste. But what -comfort! What splendid cooking, what perfection of service. The chairs -and sofas, the beds, the linen, the hundred and one small but important -devices for facilitating the material side of life, and so putting mind -and spirit in the mood for their best-- But I despair of making you -realize. I should have to catalogue, describe, contrast through page -after page. And when I had finished, those who understand what the -phrase art of living means would have read only what they already know, -while those who do not understand that phrase would be convulsed with -the cackling laughter that is the tribute of mush-brain to intellect. - -Observing Mary Kirkwood I discovered a great truth about the woman -question: the crudest indictment of the intellect of woman is the -crude, archaic, futile, and unimaginative way in which is carried on -the part of life that is woman’s peculiar work--or, rather, is messed, -muddled, slopped, and neglected. No doubt this is not their fault. But -it soon will be if they don’t bestir themselves. Already there are -American men not a few who apologize for having married as a folly of -their green and silly youth. - -So, gentle reader, though my enthusiasm tempts me to describe Mary -Kirkwood’s housekeeping in detail, I shall spare you. You would not -read. You would not understand if you did. - -The first time she and I approached the confidential was on an August -evening when we were alone on the upper deck of the yacht. The others -were in the cabin playing bridge. We had been sitting there perhaps an -hour when she rose. - -“Don’t go,” said I. - -“I thought you wished to be alone,” said she. - -“Why did you think that?” - -“Your way of answering me. You’ve been almost curt.” - -“I’m sorry. I can’t promise to talk if you stay. But I hate to be left -alone with my thoughts.” - -“I understand,” said she. And she seated herself beside the rail, and -with my assistance lighted a cigarette. - -There was a moon somewhere above the awning which gave us a roof. By -the dim, uncertain light I could make out her features. It seemed to -me she was staying as much on her own account as on mine--because she, -too, wished not to be alone with her thoughts. I had not in a long time -seen her in a frankly serious mood. - -“How much better off a man is than a woman,” said I. “A man has his -career to think about, while a woman usually has only herself.” - -“Only herself,” echoed she absently. “And if one is able to think, -oneself is an unsatisfactory subject.” - -“Extremely,” said I. “Faults, follies, failures.” - -For a time I watched the faintly glowing end of her cigarette and the -slim fingers that held it gracefully. Then she said: - -“Do you believe in a future life?” - -“Does anyone feel _sure_ of any life but this?” - -“Then this is one’s only chance to get what one wants--what’s worth -while.” - -“What _is_ worth while?” I inquired, feeling the charm of her quiet, -sweet voice issuing upon the magical stillness. “What _is_ worth while?” - -She laughed softly. “What one wants.” - -“And what do _you_ want?” - -She drew her white scarf closer about her bare shoulders, smiled -queerly out over the lazily rippling waters. “Love and children,” she -said. “I’m a normal woman.” - -That amused me. “Normal? Why, you’re unique--eccentric. Most women -want money--and yet more money--and yet more money--for more and more -and always more show.” - -“You must want the same thing,” retorted she. “You’re too sensible not -to know you can’t possibly do any good to others with money. So you -must want it for your own selfish purposes. It’s every bit as much for -show when you have it tucked away in large masses for people to gape at -as if you were throwing it round as the women do.... If anything, your -passion is cruder than theirs.” - -“I think I make money,” said I, “for the same reasons that a hen lays -eggs or a cow gives milk--because I can’t help it; because I can’t do -anything else and must do something.” - -“Did you ever try to do anything else?” - -“No,” I admitted. Then I added, “I never had the chance.” - -“True,” she said reflectively. “A hen can’t give milk and a cow can’t -lay eggs.” - -“For some time,” I went on, “I’ve been trying to find something else -to do. Something interesting. No, not exactly that either. I must find -some way of reviving my interest in life. The things I am doing would -be interesting enough if I could be interested in anything at all. But -I’m not.” - -She nodded slowly. “I’m in the same state,” said she. “I’ve about -decided what to do.” - -“Yes?” said I encouragingly. - -“Marry again,” replied she. - -I laughed outright. “That’s very unoriginal,” said I. “It puts you in -with the rest of the women. Marrying is all _they_ can think of doing.” - -“But you don’t quite understand,” said she. “_I_ want children. I -am thinking of selecting some trustworthy man with good physical -and mental qualities. I have had experience. I ought to be able to -judge--and not being in love with him I shall not be so likely to -make a mistake. I shall marry, and the children will give me love and -occupation. You may laugh, but I tell you the only occupation worthy of -a man or a woman is bringing up children. All the rest--for men as well -as for women--is--is like a hen laying eggs to rot in the weeds.... -Bringing up children to develop us, to give us a chance to make them an -improvement on ourselves. That’s the best.” - -As the full meaning of what she had said unfolded I was filled with -astonishment. How clear and simple--how true. Why had I not seen this -long ago--why had it been necessary to have it pointed out by another? -“I believe--yes, I’m sure--that’s what I’ve been groping for,” I said -to her. - -“I thought you’d understand,” said she, and most flattering was her -tone of pleasure at my obvious admiration. - -Thus our friendship was born. - -I could not but envy her freedom to seek to satisfy the longing I thus -discovered in my own heart. So strongly did the mood for confidence -possess me that only my long and hard training in self-restraint held -me from the disloyalty of speaking my thoughts. I said: - -“It’s dismal to grow old with no ties in the oncoming generation. The -sense of the utter futility of life would weigh more and more heavily. -I’m surprised that you’ve realized it so young.” - -“A woman realizes it earlier than a man,” she reminded me. “For a woman -has no career to interfere and prevent her seeing the truth.” - -A woman! Rather, a rare occasional Mary Kirkwood. Most women never -looked beyond the gratification of the crudest, easiest vanities and -appetites. “Yes, you are right,” I continued. “You ought to marry--as -soon as you can. The man isn’t important, except in the ways you -spoke of. So far as man and woman love is concerned, that quickly -passes--where it ever exists at all. But the bond of father, mother, -and children is enduring--at least, I’m sure _you_ would make it so.” - -We sat lost in thought for some time--I reflecting moodily upon my own -baffled and now seemingly hopeless longing, she probably busy with the -ideas suggested in her next speech. - -“The main trouble is money,” said she. “Except for that my husband -would have been all right. When we first met he did not know my family -had wealth. He thought I belonged to another and poor branch. And I -think he cared for me, and would have been the man I sought but for the -money. It roused a dormant side of his nature, and everything went to -pieces.” - -“Then, marry a rich man,” I suggested. - -She shook her head. “I don’t know a single rich man--except _possibly_ -my brother--who isn’t obsessed about money. The rich have a craving to -be richer that’s worse than the desire of the poor to be rich.... I -don’t know what to do. I couldn’t bring up children in the atmosphere -of wealth and caste and show--the sort of atmosphere a man or woman -crazy about money insists on creating. My father was right. He was a -really wise man. I owe to him every good instinct and good idea I have.” - -“But you must have seen some man who promised well. I think you -can trust to your judgment. You mustn’t defeat your one chance for -happiness by overcaution.” - -Again she was silent for several minutes. Then she said, with a queer -laugh and an embarrassed movement: “I have seen such a man--lately. I -like him. I think I could like him more than a little. I’ve an idea he -might care for me if I’d let him. But--I don’t know.” - -I saw that she longed to confide, but wished to be questioned. “Here on -the yacht?” said I. - -She nodded. - -“Beechman?” - -She laughed shyly yet with amusement. - -“That was an easy guess,” said I. “He’s the only man of us free to -marry.” - -“What do you think of him?” - -“The very man I’d say,” replied I. “He’s good to look at--clever, -healthy, and honest. He isn’t money-mad. He could make quite a splurge -with what he has, yet he doesn’t. He is a serious man--does not let -them tempt him into fashionable society or any other kind.” - -“What are the objections?” said she. “My father trained us to look for -the rotten spots, as he called them. He said one ought to hunt them out -and examine them carefully. Then if, in spite of them, the thing still -looked good, why there was a chance of its being worth taking.” - -“That’s precisely my way of proceeding in business,” said I. “It’s a -pity it isn’t used in every part of life--from marketing up to choosing -a friend or a husband.” - -“Well, what are the ‘rotten spots’ in Mr. Beechman?” - -“I haven’t looked for them,” said I. “No doubt they’re there, but as -they’re not obvious they may be unimportant.” - -“Can’t you think of _any_?” - -She was laughing, and so was I. Poor Beechman, down in the cabin -absorbed in bridge, how amazed he’d have been if he could have heard! -In my mind’s eye I was looking him over--a tall, fair man with good -smooth-shaven features. - -“He’s getting bald rather rapidly for a man of thirty or thereabouts,” -said I. - -“I don’t like baldness,” said she. “But I can endure it.” - -“He is distinctly vain of his looks and his strength. But he has cause -to be.” - -“All men are physically vain,” said she. “And they can’t help it, -because it is the hereditary quality of the male from fishes and -reptiles up.” - -“He’s inclined to be opinionated, and his point of view is narrow.” - -“I think I might hope to educate him out of that,” said she. “I can be -tactful.” - -“It’s certainly not a serious objection.” - -“Any other spots?” - -“He has a certain--a certain--lack of vigor. It’s a thing I’ve observed -in all professional men, except those of the first rank, those who are -really men of action.” - -She nodded. “I was waiting for that,” said she. “It’s the thing that -has made me hesitate.” She laughed outright. “What a conceited speech! -But I’m exposing myself fully to you.” - -“Why not?” said I. - -“I am picking him to pieces as if I thought myself perfection. As a -matter of fact, I know he’d fly from me if he saw me as I am.” She -reflected, laughed quietly. “But he never would know me as I am. An -unconventional woman--if she’s sensible--only shows enough of her -variation from the pattern to make herself interesting--never enough to -be alarming.” - -“You are unconventional?” - -“You didn’t suspect it?” - -“No. You smoke cigarettes--but that has ceased to be unconventional.” - -“I rather thought you had a favorable opinion of my intelligence,” said -she. - -“So I have,” said I. “To be perfectly frank, you seemed to me to have -as good a mind as your brother.” - -“That is flattering,” said she, immensely pleased, and with reason. -“Well, if you thought so favorably of my intelligence, how could you -believe me conventional?” - -“I see,” said I. “No one who thinks can be conventional.” - -“Conventionality,” said she, “was invented to save some people the -trouble of thinking and to prevent others from being outrageous through -trying to think when they’ve nothing to think with.” - -“That is worth remembering and repeating,” laughed I. “Personally, -I’m deeply grateful for conventionality. You see, I came up from the -bottom, and I find it satisfactory to be able to refer to the rules in -all the things I knew nothing about.” - -“My brother says the most remarkable thing about you--and your wife-- -Do you mind my telling you?” - -“Go on,” said I. - -“He says most people who come up are alternately hopeless barbarians -and hopelessly conventional, but that you took the right course. You -learned to be conventional--learned the rules--before you ventured to -try to make personal variations in them.” - -“I’m slow to risk variations,” said I. “Most of the efforts in that -direction are--eccentric. And I detest eccentricity as much as I like -originality.” - -“If Mr. Beechman were only a little less conventional!” sighed she. -“I’m afraid he’d be rather--” She hesitated. - -“Tiresome?” I ventured to suggest. - -“Tiresome,” she assented. “But--there would be the children. Do you -think he’d try to interfere with me there?” - -“You’ll never know that until you’ve married him,” said I. - -“It’s a pity he has an occupation that would keep him round the house -most of the time,” said she. “That’s a trial to a woman. She’s always -being interrupted when she wishes to be free.” - -“You mustn’t expect too much,” said I. “I think the children will be -_your_ children.” - -She did not reply in words. But a sudden strengthening of her -expression made me feel that I was getting a glimpse of her father. - -We talked no more of Beechman or of any personalities related to this -story. When the bridge party broke up and a supper was served on deck, -she and Beechman sat together. And I gathered from the sounds coming -from their direction that he was making progress. My spirits gradually -oozed away and I sat glumly pretending to listen while Mrs. Raphael -talked to me. Usually she interested me because she talked what she -knew and knew things worth while. But that night I heard scarcely a -word she said. When the party, one by one, began to go below, Mrs. -Kirkwood joined me and found an opportunity to say, aside: - -“Won’t you talk with Mr. Beechman--and tell me your honest opinion? You -know I can’t afford to make another mistake. And I’m in earnest.” - -I stood silent, smoking and staring out toward the dim Connecticut -shore. - -“It wouldn’t be unfair to him,” she urged. “You’re not especially his -friend. I can’t ask anyone else, and I believe in your judgment.” - -“If I advised you, I’d be taking a heavy responsibility,” said I. - -“I’m not that kind--you know I’m not,” replied she. “I don’t ask -advice, to have some one to blame if things go wrong. Of course, if -there’s a reason why you can’t very well help me-- Maybe you already -know something against him?--something you’ve no right to tell?” - -“Nothing,” said I, emphatically. “And I don’t believe there is anything -against him.” Then, on an impulse of fairness and to wipe out the -suspicion of Beechman I had unwittingly created, I said: “Really, -there’s no reason why I shouldn’t size him up and give you my opinion. -I’ll do my best.” - -She thanked me with a fine lighting up of the eyes. And the warm -friendly pressure of her hand lingered after she had long been below -and was no doubt asleep. - - * * * * * - -What was my reason for hesitating? You have guessed it, but you think -I do not intend to admit. You are deceived there. I admit frankly. I -felt unable to advise her because I found that I was in love with her, -myself. Yes, I was in love, and for the first time in my life. The -latest time of falling in love is always the first. As we become older -and more experienced, better acquainted with the world, with ourselves, -with what we want and do not want--in a word, as we _grow_, the meaning -of love grows. And each time we love, we see, as we look back over -the previous times, that what we thought was love was in fact simply -educational. - -So, when I say I had never loved until I loved Mary Kirkwood, I am -speaking a truth which is worth thinking about. I had reached the -age, the stage of physical and mental development, at which a man’s -capacities are at their largest--at which I could give love and could -appreciate love that was given to me. And I, who could not ask or hope -love from her, gave her all the love I had to give. Gave because I -could not help giving. Who, seeing the best, can help wanting it? - -But for my promise to her I should have left the yacht early the -following morning. As it was I stayed on, with my mind made up to keep -my word. Did I stay because of my promise? Did I stay because I loved -her? I do not know. Who can fathom the real motive in such a situation -as that? I can only say that I sought Beechman’s society and did my -best to take his measure. It had been so long my habit to judge men -without regard to my personal feeling about them that, perhaps in spite -of myself, I saw this man as he was, not as I should have liked him -to be. I found that I had underestimated him. I had been prejudiced -by his taking himself too seriously--a form of vanity which I happen -particularly to detest. Also his sense of humor was different from -mine--a fact that had misled me into thinking he had no sense of humor. -I had thought--shall I say hoped?--that I would find him a man she -could respect but could not love. I was forced to abandon this idea. -So far as a man can judge another for a woman, he could succeed with -almost any heart-free woman. I wondered that Mary Kirkwood should be -uncertain about him. I might have drawn comfort from her having done -so, had I not known how she dreaded making a second mistake. - -That day and the next, when I was not with him, she was. I shan’t -attempt to tell my emotions. That sort of thing seems absurd to all -the world but the one who is suffering. Besides, the fact that I was a -married man would alienate the sympathies of all respectable readers. -Not that I am yearning for sympathy. Those who have read thus far may -have possibly gathered that I am not one of those who live on sympathy -and wither and die without it. The only sympathy human beings seem able -to give one another, I have discovered, is a species of self-complacent -pity; and while it may not be exactly a stone, it is certainly a most -inferior quality of bread. - -The third morning I sought her out. She made a picture of strong, slim -young womanhood to cause the heart--at least, my heart--to ache, as she -leaned against the rail in her blue-trimmed white linen dress showing -her lovely throat. Said I, avoiding her eyes: “I’m off for the shore, -and I wish to report before leaving.” - -“Ashore!” she cried. “Why, you were to have gone on to Bar Harbor and -back again.” - -“Business--always business.” - -“I’m disappointed,” said she, and I saw with a furtive glance that her -face had quite lost its brightness. - -“I’m glad of that, at least,” said I with a successful enough attempt -at lightness; for, as I have never been the sort of man in whom -women expect to find sentimentalism, signs of embarrassment or other -agitation would be attributed to any other source before the heart. - -“I’ve lost interest in the trip,” she declared. - -I forced a smile. “Beechman isn’t going.” - -“Oh, that’s different,” said she, with a certain frank impatience. -“You’re the one person I can really talk to.... Can’t you stay?” - -I did not let my face betray me. I waited before speaking until I was -sure of my voice. “Impossible,” I said, perhaps rather curtly--for, -mind you, I wished to deal honestly with her, and was not trying to -hint my love while pretending to hide it. I know there is a notion -that love cannot be controlled. But the kind of love that can’t be -controlled is a selfish, greedy appetite and not love at all. When -the man doesn’t control his love the woman may be sure he is thinking -of himself only, of her merely as a possible means of pleasure--is -thinking of her as the hungry hunter thinks of the fine fat rabbit. -Said I: - -“Now for my report on Beechman.” - -But she would not let me escape. “Why are you short with me?” she -asked. “Have I offended you?” - -“No, indeed,” said I. “You’ve been everything that’s kind and friendly.” - -“The very idea of losing your friendship frightens me,” she went on. -“I’ve a feeling for you--a feeling of--of intimacy”--she flushed -rosily--“that I have for no one else in the world. Oh, I don’t expect -you to return it. No doubt I seem insignificant to you. Almost anyone -would want your friendship. You are sure you aren’t leaving because you -are bored?” - -“Absolutely sure. If I could explain my reason for going you would see -that I must. But I can’t explain. So you’ll be glad to hear that I find -Beechman even more of a man than I thought.” - -She looked at me apologetically. “You’ll think me foolish, but since -I’ve begun to try to like him better I’ve been--almost--not liking him.” - -I am sure I beamed with delight. For, there are limits--very narrow -ones--to unselfishness in the most considerate love. And I am not -able to pose as more than feebly unselfish. “That isn’t fair to him,” -I said, with more enthusiasm in my words than in my tone. “I’ve been -judging him as carefully as I know how, and I must in honesty say he is -a rare man. You’ll not find many like him.” - -“Don’t tell me he’s worthy,” she cried, “or I shall loathe him.” - -“And he cares for you,” I said. - -“Did he tell you so?” - -“I think he would have if I had encouraged him.... I liked the way he -spoke of you, and”--I hesitated, could not hold back the words--“and -I am not easy to please there.” Those words were certainly far from -confession, were the mildest form of indiscretion. Still, so determined -was I to be square, and so guilty did I feel, that they sounded like a -contemptible attempt stealthily to make love to her. - -“Thank you,” she said gently. And her suddenly swimming eyes and tender -voice reminded me how alone she was and how bitter her experience had -been and how she deserved happiness. - -I felt ashamed of myself. “I hope you will be happy,” I said, perhaps -rather huskily. “Anyone who tried to prevent it would deserve to be -killed.” - -She looked at me with such a steady, penetrating gaze that I feared I -had betrayed myself. In fact, I knew I had. I glanced at my watch, put -out my hand. “I hate to go,” I said, in the tone of one man to another. -“But I must.” And as we shook hands, I repeated, “I know you will be -happy.” - -She laughed nervously; she, too, had become ill at ease. “You make me -feel engaged,” she said with an attempt at mockery. - -As the launch touched the shore I looked back. She was leaning on the -rail, Beechman beside her. He was talking, but I felt sure she was not -listening. As I looked she waved her hand. I lifted my hat and hurried -away. And I learned the meaning of that word desolation. - -Do not think, because I have not raved, talked of the moon and stars, -poetized about my soul states, that therefore I did not love her. The -banquet of life spread so richly for me seemed a ghastly mockery. What -shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul? -I had lost my soul. I had discovered how I might have been happy, -and at the same time I had discovered that it could never be--never. -And always before me she stood in her radiant youth--intelligent, so -capable, splendidly sincere--the woman I loved, the woman I felt I -could have made love me. - -There was my temptation--the feeling, the conviction that I could -win her love. She had confessed to a friendship for me different from -any she had for anyone else in the world. If I were willing to take -advantage of her trust, of her liking, of her longing for love and -of my knowledge of it--if I were to let her see how utterly I loved -her--I could surely win her. There were times when I said to myself: -“You--even as you are--can make her happier than anyone else could. She -would prefer what you can give her to what she will get from Beechman. -Your love gives you the right to make her happy. You are letting -foolish conventional notions blind you to what is really right. If you -had acted in business in that fashion, you would not have got far. Yet -in the supreme crisis of your life you let yourself be frightened off -by a bogy of conventional morality.” - -Perhaps I was giving myself sound advice there. I do not know. I -only know that I put the temptation behind me and went to work. The -sentimental readers will not forgive me. So be it. I am a plain man, -rather old-fashioned--prim, I believe it is called--in my ideas, not at -all the ladies’ man. And I did not want to harm her. I loved her. - -I went to work. The sort of people who are ever on the lookout for some -excuse for going to pieces, and the world is well sprinkled with them, -eagerly seize on disappointment in love as precisely what they were -seeking. At the risk of being thought cold and hard, I will say that -it is extremely fortunate for Joan that she escaped the Darby who goes -smash for disappointed love of her. If Joan had yielded to him, Darby -would simply have been put to the trouble of finding another pretext -for throwing up his job and taking to drink. I confess it did not occur -to me to give up and fall to boozing and brooding. I should not have -dared do that; for, you see, I was really in love--not with myself, but -with Mary Kirkwood. I went to work. I filled my days and my evenings -with business engagements that compelled both my time and my thought. -I took on an extra secretary. I started to build a railway. I laid out -an addition to the manufacturing city I had founded. I organized a -farm for teaching city slum boys to be farmers. I engaged in several -entirely new mining and manufacturing enterprises. The result was that -when I went to bed, I slept; and when they awakened me in the morning -my brain was at work before my head was well off the pillow. And -still-- You can distract your mind from the aching tooth, but it aches -on. - -All this time I was receiving weekly letters from Edna and Margot--long -and loving letters. I read them, and you may possibly imagine I was -filled with shame and remorse. Not at all. My wife and my daughter -had rather exaggerated my vanity. Only vanity could gull a husband -and father in my position into fancying himself the object of such -luxuriant affection as those letters professed. If you have lies to -tell, take my advice and don’t _write_ them. I can’t explain the -mystery, but a lie which, spoken and heard, passes out and passes in -as smoothly as a greased shuttle in its greased groove, becomes a -glaring falsehood when set down in black and white. The only effect of -those letters upon me was to make my sick heart the sadder with the -realization of what I had missed in losing Mary Kirkwood. - -And I kept wondering what it was that Edna and Margot were slathering -me for. - - * * * * * - -In September I got the key to the mystery. The necessity of floating -some bonds took me abroad again. I found my family ensconced in -beautiful luxury in an apartment in Paris. You drove out the Champs -Elysées. Not far from the President’s palace you drove in at great -doors--not gates, but doors--in a plain, unpretentious-looking house -wall. You were in a superb garden of whose existence you had no hint -from the street. Magnificent bronze inner doors--powdered and velveted -lackeys--a majestic stairway leading to lofty and gorgeous corridors -and salons. Really my wife, with the aid of those clever European -professors of the aristocratic art, had educated herself amazingly. -On every side there were evidences of her good taste in furniture, in -tapestries, in wall coverings, in pictures. It was not the taste of a -home maker, but it was unquestionably good taste. It was not the sort -of taste I liked, but not to admire it would have been to lack the -sense of harmony in line and color. And let me add in justice to her, -it was her own taste. There is no mistaking the difference between the -luxury that is merely bought and the luxury that is created. - -I submitted with what grace I could muster to the exuberant hypocrisies -of that greeting. But I got to business with all speed. “In the note -I found in London you said you had a surprise for me,” I said to Edna. -“What is it?” - -“How impatient you are,” laughed she. “Just like a child.” - -Whether because the fashions of the day happened to be peculiarly -becoming or because she had actually improved, she now had the -loveliness more exquisite than I had ever seen in woman. No doubt her -piquant face had charm for most people; for me it had none whatever. -I knew too well what lay beneath--or, rather, what was not there, for -like most human beings her defects of character were not so much the -presence of the vices as the lack of the virtues. - -“I’ve been waiting for that surprise several months,” said I. “Your -letters and Margot’s showed that some shock was coming.” - -“Shock? No, indeed!” And she and Margot laughed gayly. “It isn’t -altogether a surprise,” she went on. “Can’t you guess?” - -I looked at Margot. “Ah!” I said. “Margot is engaged.” - -Margot ran across the room and kissed me. “Oh, I’m so happy, papa!” she -cried. - -“Is it the duke?” I asked. - -She made a wry face. “He was horrid!” she said. “I couldn’t _endure_ -him.” - -“So you had to fall back on the marquis?” - -Neither of the women liked this way of putting the matter. It suggested -that I knew the painful truth of the failure of the ducal campaign. But -they were not to be put out of humor. “You liked him yourself, papa,” -said Margot. - -I was abstractedly thinking how I had no sense of her being my -daughter or of Edna being my wife. You would say that after all we -three had been through together, from Passaic up, it would be a sheer -impossibility for there ever to be a sense of strangeness between us. -But there is no limit to the power of the human soul to cut itself off; -intimacy is hard to maintain, isolation--alas--is the natural state. -I looked on them as strangers; I could feel that, in spite of their -clever, resolute forcing, in spite of the hypocrisy of love for me -which each doubtless maintained at all times with the other, still they -could scarcely hide their feeling that I was a strange man come in from -the street. - -“Yes, I liked Crossley,” said I. “I think he’ll make you a good -husband.” - -“He is _mad_ about her!” said Edna. “There was a while this summer when -he thought he had lost her, and he all but went out of his mind.” - -To look at her was to believe it; for, a lovelier girl was never -displayed in all her physical perfection by a more discriminating -mother. - -“When is the wedding to be?” said I. - -There was a brief, surcharged silence--no more than a pause. Then Edna -said indifferently, “As soon as the settlements are arranged.” - -“Oh--is he settling something on her?” said I, with pretended -innocence. “I’m glad of that. There’s been too much of the other sort -of thing.” - -Margot came to the rescue with a charming laugh. “Poor Hugh!” she said. -“He hasn’t anything but mortgages.” - -“Um--I see,” said I glumly--and I observed intense anxiety behind the -smiles in those two pairs of beautiful eyes. “How much have we got to -pay for him?” - -Edna looked reproachfully at me. “Margot,” said she, “you’d better go -tell them to serve lunch in fifteen minutes.” - -“Nonsense,” said I cheerfully. “Let her stay. What’s the use of this -hypocrisy? She knows he cares no more about her than she cares about -him--that it’s simply a matter of buying and selling. If she doesn’t -know it, if she’s letting her vanity bamboozle her----” - -“Godfrey--please!” implored Edna. “Don’t smirch the child’s romance. -She and Hugh love each other. If she were poor, he’d marry her just the -same.” - -“Has he offered to go ahead, regardless of settlements?” I asked. - -“Of course not, papa,” flashed Margot. “Things aren’t done that way -over here.” - -“Oh, yes, they are,” replied I. “Romantic love matches occur every day. -Even royalty throws up its rights, to marry a chorus girl. But when -there’s a fat American goose to pluck and eat, why, they pluck and eat -it. I’m the goose, my dear--not you.” - -“You don’t understand,” murmured Margot. - -“I wish I didn’t,” said I. “And I wish you didn’t have to understand. -If possible I want to arrange matters with him so that he’ll always -treat you decently.” - -“But, Godfrey,” cried Edna in a panic, “you can’t talk money to _him_.” - -“Why not?” said I. “He’s _thinking_ money. Why shouldn’t he talk it?” - -“He knows nothing about those things, papa----” - -I laughed. - -“You’ll ruin everything!” cried my wife. “You’ll make us the -laughingstock of Europe!” - -“We Americans of the rich class are that already,” replied I. - -Edna must have given her daughter some secret signal, for she abruptly -and hastily left the room, closing the door behind her. I shrugged -my shoulders, settled back on the exquisitely upholstered and carved -sofa on which I had seated myself. Looking round I said, “This is a -beautiful room. You’ve certainly arranged a fitting background for -yourself and Margot.” - -But she was not listening. She was watching her fingers slowly twist -and untwist the delicate little lace handkerchief. At last she said: -“Godfrey, I’ve never asked a favor of you. I’ve given my whole life to -advancing your interests--to making our child a perfect lady--and to -placing her in a dazzling position.” - -“Yes,” said I. “You have worked hard--and you’ve made your tricks.” - -“I’ve played my hand well--as you have yours,” said she, accepting my -rather unrefined figure with good grace. “I began to make Margot’s -career before she was born. The first time I saw her little face, I -murmured to myself, ‘Little Duchess.’ Now, you understand why I brought -her up so carefully.” - -“Oh,” said I, looking at her with new interest. “That was it?” I who -knew what a futile, purposeless, easily discouraged breed the human -race is could not but admire this woman. If her intelligence had only -been equal to her will, what might she not have accomplished! - -“I have never lost sight of it for a moment,” said she. “In the early -days--for a time--when we were seemingly so hopelessly obscure, and -I was too ignorant to learn which way to turn--for a while I was -discouraged. But I never gave up--never! And step by step I’ve trained -her for the grand position as a leader of European society she was one -day to occupy--for, I knew that if she led Europe she would be leader -at home, too. Over there they’re merely a feeble, crude echo of Europe.” - -“Socially,” said I. - -“That’s all we’re talking about,” replied she. “That’s all there is -worth talking about. What else have you been piling up money for?... -What else?” - -I could think of no reply. I was silent. What else, indeed? - -“I kept her away from other children,” Edna went on. “After she could -talk I never trusted her to nurses until we could afford fashionable -servants. I got her the right sort of governesses--so that she should -speak French, Italian, and German, and should have a well-bred English -accent for her own language. I even trained her in the children’s -stories she read--had her read only the fairy tales and the other -stories that would fill her mind with ideas of nobility and titles and -the high things of life.” - -“The high things of life,” said I. - -She made an impressive gesture--she looked like a beautiful young -empress. “Let’s not cant,” said she. “Those _are_ the high things -of life. Ask any person you meet in America--young or old, high or -low--ask him which he’d rather be--a prince, duke, marquis, or a saint, -scientist, statesman. What would he answer?” - -I laughed. “That he’d rather be a millionaire,” said I. - -“A millionaire with a title--with established social position at the -very top--that couldn’t be taken away. That’s the truth, Godfrey.” - -“I’ll not contradict you,” said I. - -“And,” she went on, “I’ve brought up our daughter so that she could -realize the highest ambition within our reach. Haven’t I brought her up -well?” - -“Perfectly, for the purpose,” said I. - -“When we came over here, I examined the ground carefully. I was at -first inclined to one of the big Continental titles. They are much -older, much more high sounding than the English titles--and so far as -birth goes they mean something, while the English titles mean really -nothing at all. The English aristocracy isn’t an aristocracy of birth.” - -“That’s, no doubt, the reason why it still has some say in affairs,” -said I. - -“Its talk about birth is almost entirely sham,” proceeded she, not -interested in my irrelevant comment. “But I found that it was the most -substantial aristocracy, the only one that was respected everywhere, -just as the English money circulates everywhere. And it’s the only -one that makes much of an impression at home. We are so ignorant that -we think England is all that it pretends to be--the powerful part of -Europe. Of course, it isn’t, but--no matter. I decided for an English -title.” - -“And Margot?” - -“I have brought her up to respect my judgment,” said Edna. - -“I wonder what will become of her,” said I, reflectively, “when she -hasn’t you at her elbow to tell her what to do.... But why a marquis? -Why not a duke?” - -She smiled, blushed a little. “The only duke we could have got--and he -was a nice young fellow--but he was in love with an English girl of -wealth--and he wanted too much to change to an American. Is that frank -enough to suit you?” - -“If you’d only keep to that key,” said I. - -“He wanted double the American dowry that he was willing to take with -an English girl.” - -“His being in love with another girl might have made it unpleasant for -Margot,” I suggested. - -“That wouldn’t have amounted to anything,” replied she. “Over here the -right sort of people bring up their children as I brought up Margot--to -give their hearts where their hands should go. They are not shallow and -selfish. They think of the family dignity and honor before they think -of their personal feelings.” - -“That’s interesting--and new--at least to me,” said I. - -“You have been judging these things without knowing, Godfrey,” said -she. “You have attacked me for narrowness, when in fact you were the -narrow one.” - -“Yes? What next?” said I. - -“I found that the Massingfords--that’s the family name of the Marquis -of Crossley--I found they ranked higher as a family than any of the -ducal families except one. Of course I don’t include the royal dukes.” - -“Of course not,” said I gravely. - -“I might possibly have got one of the royal dukes--if not in England, -then here on the Continent. But I decided-- You see, Godfrey, I looked -into everything.” - -“You certainly have been thorough,” said I. “I should have said it was -impossible in so short a time.” - -“But it wasn’t difficult. All the Americans over here are well informed -about these things.” - -“I can readily believe it,” said I. “But why did you turn down the poor -royal dukes?” - -“Because the other women would have made it dreadfully uncomfortable -for Margot. They’d have hated her for taking precedence over them by -such a long distance. Then, too--the dowry. I was afraid you couldn’t -afford the dowry--or wouldn’t think the title worth the money. Indeed, -I didn’t think so, myself.” - -“A royal duke comes high?” - -“The least dowry would be seventy-five million francs.” - -“Fifteen million dollars!” I exclaimed. “Whew!” - -“Mrs. Sinkers tried to get one for her daughter for ten millions--all -she could scrape together. They agreed to a morganatic marriage for -that, but not a full marriage. So, she and poor Martha gave it up. -Martha’s heart is broken. The duke made love to her so wonderfully. I -can’t imagine what Mrs. Sinkers was about, to allow such a thing before -the affair was settled. Poor Martha was so excited that she would have -accepted the morganatic marriage--she ranking merely as the duke’s -head mistress. But while he was willing to take other mistresses for -nothing, and even to pay them, he wouldn’t take _her_ for less than -fifty million francs.” - -“Poor Martha!” said I. - -“I was too wise to trifle with royal dukes,” pursued Edna, so -interested in her own narrative and so eager to show how sagacious she -had been that she forgot her pose and her doubts as to my sympathies. -“I weighed the advantages and disadvantages of about a dozen eligible -men. Only three stood the test, and it finally narrowed down to -Crossley. Margot was so happy when I told her. She wanted to love -him--and now she is loving him.” - -A long pause while Edna calmed down to earth from her European -soarings, and while I, too, returned to the normal from an excursion in -the opposite direction. “How much does he want?” said I. “Let’s get to -bed rock.” - -“He loves her so that he is willing, so I hear-- Of course, nothing has -been said-- You will not believe how refined and----” - -“How much?” interrupted I. - -Edna winced at my rudeness, then again presented an unruffled front of -happy loving serenity. “Enough to pay off the mortgages and to provide -them with a suitable income.” - -“How much?” I persisted, laughing. - -She looked tenderly remonstrant. “I don’t know, Godfrey----” - -“You know _about_ how much. What’s the figure--the price of this marked -down marquis?” - -“I should say the whole thing would not cost more than three or four -million dollars.” - -“Three--or four.” I laughed aloud. “Not much difference there. Now -which is it--three or four?” - -“Perhaps nearer four. Margot must have a _good_ income.” - -“To be sure,” said I. - -“The whole object would be defeated if she hadn’t the means----” - -“The money,” I suggested. “Why use these evasive words? We’re talking a -plain subject. Let’s use its language.” - -“The money, then,” acquiesced she, resolutely good-humored. “If she -hadn’t the money to make a proper appearance.” - -“Naturally, to lead in society you must lead in spending money.... -Well--it can’t be done.” - -She paled, half started from her chair, sank back again. There was a -long silence. Then she said, “You have never been cruel, Godfrey. You -won’t be cruel now. You won’t destroy my life work. You won’t shatter -Margot’s happiness.” - -“The whole thing is--is nauseating to me,” said I. - -Her short, pretty upper lip quivered. Her eyes filled. “If you didn’t -approve, dear, why didn’t you stop me long ago? Why did you let me go -on until there was no turning back?” - -I was silent. There seemed to be no answer to that. - -“Did you do it purposely, Godfrey?” said she, with melancholy eyes upon -me. “Did you lure us on, so that you could crush us at one stroke?” - -I was silent. - -“I can’t believe that of you. I won’t believe it until you compel me -to.” - -“As I understand it,” said I, “you propose that I hand over to this -young man four million----” - -“Only about half of it, Godfrey,” cried she, reviving. “The other half -would be Margot’s--for her own income.” - -“Then that I hand over to this amiable, insignificant young foreigner -two million dollars to induce him to consent to the degradation of -marrying my daughter--to have him going about, saying in effect, ‘It is -true, she is only one of those low Americans, but don’t forget that I -got two million dollars for stooping.’ Is that the proposition?” - -“You know it isn’t!” cried she. “He doesn’t feel that he is degrading -himself. He feels proud of winning her--the most beautiful, the best -mannered girl in London. But it’d be simply impossible for them to -marry without the money. _I_ shouldn’t want it. They would be wretched. -You talk like a sentimental schoolboy, Godfrey. How could two refined, -sensitive people such as Hugh and Margot, used to every luxury, used -to being foremost in society--how could they be happy without the -means----” - -“The money,” I corrected blandly. - -“Without the money needed to maintain their position as marquis and -marchioness of Crossley?” - -I nodded assent. - -“He has only about five thousand--twenty-five thousand of our money--a -year. That is ridiculous for a marquis. He has to keep all his houses -closed and run as economically as possible. Even then they cost him -nearly seventy-five thousand dollars a year to maintain.” - -“And he has only twenty-five thousand!” - -“I meant twenty-five thousand over and above. He has that to live on. -And, poor fellow, he is dropping every year deeper and deeper into -debt. So much is expected of a marquis.” - -“But not honesty, apparently,” said I. - -“You mustn’t judge these people by our commercial standards,” she -gently rebuked. - -“I forgot,” said I penitently. - -“And the poor fellow does love Margot so!” - -“Um,” said I. “Have you ever happened to hear of a Miss Townley--Jupey -Townley?” - -A flash of annoyance flitted over Edna’s lovely, delicate countenance. - -“I see you have,” said I. “You were, indeed, thorough. Permit me to -compliment you, my dear.” - -“I am glad Hugh hasn’t been a saint.” - -“Isn’t,” said I. - -“That’s all in the past,” declared she. - -“I saw them in a box at a London music hall night before last,” said I. -“They were-- They had been drinking.” - -But Edna was not daunted. “You are a man of the world, Godfrey. Don’t -pretend to be narrow.” - -“When a man loves a woman----” - -“Love is very different from that sort of thing, and you know it.” - -“Has Margot heard----” - -“Godfrey!” cried Edna, in horror. “Do you think I would permit _my_ -daughter--_our_ daughter--to know such things! Why, her mind is as -pure----” - -I could not restrain a gesture of disgust. “You women!” I cried, -rising. “Pure! Pure--God in Heaven, pure!” - -Her look of dazed astonishment, obviously sincere, helped me to get -back my composure. I sat down again. “I beg your pardon,” I said. “I -didn’t mean to interrupt.” - -“Even if you men have no purity yourselves, you ought to believe in it -in women,” said she, with an injured air. - -“Yes, indeed,” I agreed heartily. “I congratulate you on being able to -make such generous allowances for masculine frailty.” - -“You are sarcastic,” said she coldly. - -“No matter. It certainly does not damage the title--perhaps adds to its -luster.” - -“It’s hereditary in their family to be wild up to marriage, and then to -settle down and serve the state in some distinguished position.” - -“Oh--in that case--” said I ironically. - -“Margot and her husband and her children will have your money some -day,” pursued she. “Why not give it to her now, when it will get her -happiness?” - -That impressed me. “I have not said I would not consent to this -marriage,” I reminded her. “As a matter of fact, I’m in favor of it. I -can see no future for Margot in America----” - -“No, indeed,” cried Edna eagerly. “She simply couldn’t marry over -there. She’d be wretched.” - -“But I feel it is my duty-- Rather late in the day for me to talk about -duty toward my daughter, after neglecting it all these years. Still, I -ought to see to it that she has the best possible chance for a smooth -married life. It’s only common prudence to take all precautions--isn’t -it?” - -“All _sensible_ precautions,” said she. - -“You know how many of these foreign ‘alliances,’ as they’re called, -have turned out badly.” - -“They get a good many divorces in the states,” she suggested smilingly. -“One to every twelve marriages, I read the other day.” - -I admitted that she had made an effective retort. “The truth is,” said -I, “American women aren’t brought up for domestic life. So, whether -they marry at home or abroad they have trouble.” - -“Men resent their independence,” said Edna. - -“It may be so,” said I. Of what use to point out to her that the -trouble lay in the women’s demanding to be supported and refusing to -do anything to earn their support? All I said was: “I suspect a good -many husbands think the marriage contract too one-sided--binding only -them and not their wives. But the trouble with the ‘alliances’ can’t be -that.” - -“It’s because Europeans look on the wife as a kind of head servant. But -Hugh isn’t that sort.” - -“We’ll know more as to that when we hear what Margot says after she’s -been married a few years,” said I. “The point to settle now is how to -bind him to good behavior so far as it can be done in advance. He may -be deeply in love with Margot. He may stay in love with her. But in -the circumstances it’s wise to assume that he wants only her money and -that, if he gets it, he’ll treat her badly.” - -My wife’s silence was encouraging. - -“If he had plenty of money he might even goad her into releasing -him--and might marry again.” - -My wife was obviously impressed. “Yes--that has been done,” said she. -“Of course, if Margot should have an heir right away. But----” - -She looked at me as if trying to decide whether she could trust me with -a confidence. She evidently decided in my favor, for she went on to say: - -“On the other hand--Margot is a peculiar girl. No--many women have the -same peculiarity. They can’t be trusted with power over their husbands. -If she had all the money in her own name and he were dependent on -her-- Godfrey, I’m sure there’d be trouble.” - -Once more she was astonishing me with her clear judgment in matters -as to which I should have thought her hopelessly prejudiced. “But _I_ -can be trusted,” said I. “The plan I had in mind was to take over the -mortgages and guarantee a sufficient income.” - -She shook her head. “He won’t consent,” said she. “His solicitors will -insist on better terms than that.” - -“Now you see why I want to talk to him directly. I don’t purpose to be -hampered by that old trick of the principal hidden behind a go-between.” - -“There’s no other way,” said Edna. “They’re too clever to yield that.” - -“He needs money badly.” - -“But he won’t marry unless he’s actually to get it,” replied she. -“Almost every American who has married a daughter over here has -tried to make a business bargain--at least, a bargain not altogether -one-sided. Not one of them has succeeded. These Europeans have been -handling the dowry and settlement question too many centuries.” - -“I see,” said I affably. “If we want what they’ve got, we have to take -it on their terms.” - -It was most satisfactory, talking with her now that she consented to -speak and listen to good sense. I was at once in a more amiable frame -of mind, although I knew she had descended from her high horse only -because she was shrewd enough to see it was the one way to get me to do -as she wished. - -“I will hide behind a go-between myself,” said I. - -“Any English lawyer would simply play into the hands of the other side. -At least, so Hilda was telling me.” - -“Is she happy?” - -“Very.” - -“When’s her husband coming back?” - -“Not for a year or so, I believe. Lord Blankenship cares more for big -game and for exploring than for anything else.” - -“An ideal marriage,” said I. “She brought him the money he wanted. He -brought her the title she wanted. And they don’t annoy each other. He -devotes himself to sport, she to society. These aristocratic people, -with their simple, vulgar wants that are so easily gratified--how they -are to be envied!” - -Edna was observing me furtively, uneasily. I pretended not to notice. -I went on: “Now, if they wanted the difficult things--things like love -and companionship and congeniality--they might be wretched. When a -child cries for a stick of candy or a tinsel-covered rattle--for money -or social position--why, it’s easily pacified. But if it cries for the -moon and the stars--” I laughed softly, enjoying her wonder as much as -my own fancies. - -After a while she said, with some constraint: “You see a great deal of -Armitage?” - -“We console each other,” said I, with mild raillery. - -“Have you been going out much?” - -“I’m very busy.” - -“In one of your letters-- Those rare little notes of yours! You are -cruelly neglectful, Godfrey-- In one of them you spoke of a week end -or so on Armitage’s yacht. You and he don’t go off alone?” - -“Oh, no. Some literary and artistic people usually are aboard.” - -“I didn’t know you cared for that sort.” - -“They’re interesting enough.” - -“I suppose they’re friends of Mrs. Kirkwood’s,” pursued Edna. “She’s -like her brother--affects to despise fashionable society. Their -pretenses always amused me.” - -“They are sincere people,” said I. “They don’t pretend. That’s why I -like them.” - -“I notice that Armitage belongs to every fashionable club in New -York--and to some over here,” said Edna with a smile that was as shrewd -as her observation. “Also, that he manages to find time to appear at -the most exclusive parties during the season.” - -I had observed this same peculiarity. While I refused to draw from it -the inference she drew--and was undeniably justified in drawing--I had -been tempted to do so. It irritated me to see her finger upon the weak -spot in Armitage’s profession of freedom from snobbishness. - -“And Mary Kirkwood,” pursued Edna, “she’s the same sort of fakir. Only, -being a woman, she does it more deceptively than he.” - -“She goes nowhere,” said I. - -“But she revels in the fact that she _could_ go anywhere. So, she -fooled you--did she?” Edna laughed merrily at my ill-concealed -discomfiture. “But then you know so little about women.” - -“I confess I’ve never seen in her the least sign of snobbishness or -of interest in fashionable foolishness,” said I, with what I flatter -myself was a fair attempt at the impartial air. - -“That in itself ought to have opened your eyes,” said Edna. “Whenever -you see anyone, dear, with no sign of a weakness that everybody in the -world has, you may be sure you are seeing a fraud.” - -“Because _you_ have a weakness, dear,” said I--as pleasant and as acid -as she, “you must not imagine it is universal.” - -“But _you_ have that weakness, too.” - -“Really?” - -“Did you or did you not join the fashionable clubs Armitage put you up -at?” - -I had to laugh at myself. - -“Are you or are you not proud of the fact that your best friend, -Armitage, is a fashionable person? Would you be as proud of him if he -were only welcome in middle-class houses?” - -“I’m ashamed to say there’s something in that,” said I. “Not much, but -something.” - -“Yet you believed Mary Kirkwood!” ended Edna. - -“I thought little about it,” said I. “And I still believe that she is -sincere--that she has no snobbishness in her.” - -“You like her?” - -“So far as I know her--yes.” My answer was an attempt to meet and -parry a suspicion I felt in Edna’s mind. And it was fairly successful; -fairly--for no one ever yet completely dislodged a suspicion. We -cannot see into each other’s minds. We know, from what is going on in -our own minds, that the human mind is capable of any vagary. Once we -have applied this general principle to a specific person, once we have -become definitely aware that there are in that person’s mind things of -which we have no knowledge--from that time forth suspicion of them is -in us, and is ready to grow, to flourish. - -I had no difficulty in shifting to the subject of the marriage. “I’ll -cable for my lawyer,” said I. “If anyone can beat this game, Fred -Norman can.” - -“Yes--send for him,” said Edna. “He is canny--and a man of _our_ world.” - -“I’m going back to London to-night--” I went on. - -“To-night!” she exclaimed. Her eyes filled with tears. “Godfrey--is -this treating us right?” - -I looked at her intently. “Don’t fake with me,” said I quietly. “It -isn’t necessary.” - -“What _do_ you mean?” cried she. - -“I mean, I understand perfectly that you care nothing about me, -except as the source of the money you need in amusing yourself. As -you see in my manner, I am not wildly agitated by that fact. So far -as I’m concerned, there’s no reason why we should make each other -uncomfortable.” - -“What _is_ the matter with you, Godfrey?” she said, with large widening -eyes gazing at me. “You have changed entirely.” - -“As you have,” said I, admiring her shrewdness, and afraid of it. -“You’ve been educating. So have I. Mine has been slower than yours and -along different lines. But it, too, has been thorough.” - -She was not satisfied, though I’m confident my tone and manner betrayed -nothing. Said she: “Some bad woman has been poisoning you against -Margot and me.” - -“As you please,” said I, too wary to be drawn into that discussion. -I realized I had said entirely too much. Relying upon her intense -vanity, her profound belief in her power over me, I had gone too far. -“My business takes me to London to-night. I’ll probably be there until -Norman arrives. Then we’ll come over.” - -“Don’t you want us in London with you?” said Edna. - -“You are comfortably settled here,” replied I. “Why disturb yourselves?” - -She knew how to read me. She saw I was not in a dangerous mood, as -she had begun to fear. She said: “We _did_ intend to stay in Paris a -month or six weeks. We have a charming circle of friends among the -old families here. I wish you’d stop on, Godfrey. The people are -attractive, and the social life is most interesting.” - -“Not to me,” said I. “You forget I’m a Hooligan. Besides, you don’t -need me. There’s your advantage through being young and lovely and -rich. You can get plenty of men to escort you about. It’s only the old -and ugly married women who really need their husbands. Well--I’ll be -ready when you are forced to fall back on me. Nothing like having in -reserve a faithful Dobbin.” - -She looked hurt. “How _can_ you joke about sacred things,” she -reproached. - -I laughed her seriousness aside. “Yes, I’ll be waiting, ready to be -your companion, the confidant of your rheumatism and gout, when all the -others have fled. Meanwhile, my dear, I’ll have my frisk.” - -“Godfrey!” - -It amused me to see how bitter to her was the taste of the medicine she -had been forcing upon me so self-complacently. It amused me to watch -the confusion into which these new and unsuspected aspects of myself -was throwing her. - -Said I: “I’m glad you’re as generous toward me as I’ve been toward you. -That’s why we’ve avoided the Armitage sort of smash-up.” - -When I left Paris that night I’ll engage she was thinking about me as -she had never thought in her whole self-centered, American-female life. - - - - -VIII - - -My cable to Norman was answered the next day but one by a note from -him, stopping in the same hotel. I shall not detail the negotiations -that followed--the long and stormy scenes between him and Dawkins, -solicitor to the Marquis of Crossley. It is sufficient to say that -Norman had the novel sensation of being beaten on every point. Not -outwitted, for he had wit enough and to spare for any contest of -cunning; but beaten by the centuries-old precedents and customs and -requirements in matters of dower and settlement. The mercenary marriage -is an ancient habit of the human race; in fact, the scientists have -proved that it began with marriage itself, that there was no marriage -in the civilized sense until there was property to marry for. Perhaps -the mercenary marriage is not so recent in America as our idyllists -declare. Do we not read that the father of his country married solely -for money an almost feeble-minded woman whom everybody knew he did -not love? And, inasmuch as marriage is first of all a business--the -business of providing for the material needs and wants of two and -their children--may it not barely be possible that the unqualifiedly -sentimental view of marriage can be--perhaps has been--overdone? In -America, where the marriage for sentiment prevails to an extent unknown -anywhere else in the world--is not the institution of marriage there -in its most uneasy state? And may not that be the reason? - -What a world of twaddle it is! If men and women could only learn to -build their ideals on the firm foundation--the only firm foundation--of -the practical instead of upon the quicksand of lies and pretenses, -wouldn’t the tower climb less shakily, if more slowly, toward the stars? - -You may be sure there was nothing of the stars in those talks between -Norman and Dawkins--or in my talks with Norman--or in Crossley’s talks -with Dawkins. Crossley had had me looked up--had discovered as much -about my finances as it is possible to discover about the private -business of an American. He had got the usual exaggerated estimate of -my wealth, and he was resolved that he would not be cheated of a single -dollar he might wring from me. From my standpoint it was obvious that -he and Margot must have plenty of money or they could not be happy. -All I desired was to prevent him from feeling financially free--and -therefore under the aristocratic code, morally free--to show and to -act, after marriage, the contempt I knew he felt for all things and -persons American--except the dollars, which could be exchanged into -sovereigns. I fought hard, but he stood fast. Either Margot must lose -him or I must give him about what he asked--a fortune in his own right -for him. If I choose I could dower her; but as to dowering him he would -not permit the question of alternative to be raised. - -“All right,” said I at last to Norman. “Give them their minimum.” - -He was astounded, was furious--and as he is not the ordinary -lick-spittle lawyer but a man of arrogant independence, he did not -hesitate to let me see that his anger--and scorn--were for myself. “Do -you mean that?” he said. - -“Yes,” replied I carelessly--as if I were now indifferent about the -whole business. “My girl wants his title. And why let a question of -money come between her and happiness?” - -“I can’t refrain from saying, Loring, that I’d not have believed this -of you.” - -“She’s not fit to live in America,” said I. “Her mother hasn’t educated -her for it. American mothers don’t educate their daughters nowadays to -be wives of American men. Honestly, do you know an American man able to -do for himself who would be foolish enough to marry that sort of girl?” - -His silence was assent. - -“You see. I’ve got to buy her a husband--that is, a title--over here. -This offering seems as good as there is in the market--at the price. -So--why not?” - -“That’s one view of it,” said he coldly. - -I laid my hand on his shoulder. “Come now--be sensible,” said I. “What -else can I do?” - -“It would be an impertinence for me to say,” replied he. - -“I can guess,” said I. “You needn’t trouble yourself to say it. You -evidently don’t know the circumstances. And I may add that so long as -I’ve got to buy Margot a title I might as well buy her a good one.” - -He eyed me sharply. But I did not take him into my confidence--nor -shall I confide in you at present, gentle reader. I did not even let -him see that I was holding back anything. I went on with good-humored -raillery: - -“I’m doing better than Hanley or Vanderveld or Pattison or any of the -others who’ve dealt in these markets. For a marquis Crossley is selling -cheap. He’s far from penniless, you know. It’s simply that he wants -more money. Why, really, old man, it’s what’s called a love match. They -always call it a love match when the nobleman isn’t absolutely on his -uppers.” - -“You are certainly a philosopher, Loring,” said Norman, anxious, I saw, -to finish and drop the affair. - -“And I became one in the usual way--necessity,” said I. “I’m as eager -to have this thing dispatched as you are. I want to get out to sea, -where perhaps the stench of aristocracy will blow out of my nostrils, -and stay out of them till I reach the other shore. Then I’ll get it -again. It blows down the bay to meet the incoming ships.” - -“Yes, we’re pretty bad,” admitted Norman. “Not so bad as we used to -be, but pretty bad.” He laughed. “They accuse us of loving money. Why, -we are mere beginners at it. We haven’t learned how to idle or how to -spend money except in crude, tiresome ways. And to love money deeply -you must know how to idle and how to spend. Money’s _the_ passion with -these people. How they do need it!” - -Neither shall I linger over the details of the engagement and the -wedding. For all that was important about either I refer you to -the newspapers of London and New York. They gave everything that -makes a snob’s eyes glisten and a snob’s mouth water. My wife has -somewhere--she knows exactly where--a scrapbook, and my daughter has -another of the same kind. Those scrapbooks are strongly bound and the -pages are of the heaviest time- and wear-resisting paper. In them are -pasted columns on columns of lists of titles, of descriptions of jewels -and dresses, of enumerations of wedding gifts. Margot received things -costing small fortunes from people she barely knew well enough to -invite. They gave in the hope--the good hope--of gaining the valuable -favor of the Marchioness of Crossley, a great lady by reason of her -title, a greater lady by reason of the ancientness of the Massingford -family, and at the top and summit of greatness by reason of her wealth. - -That last item, by the way, was vastly overestimated. Everyone assumed -that Crossley had sold much more dearly. No one but those intimately -concerned dreamed what a bargain I had got. - -You may be picturing a sordid affair, redolent of the stenches of -commercialism. If you are, gentle reader, you are showing yourself -unworthy of your own soulfulness, unworthy of the elegant society -into which I have introduced you. I have been giving simply the plain -facts--a mere skeleton upon which you, versed in society columns -and society novels, and skilled in the art of hiding ugly truths -under pretty lies, may readily drape the flesh and the garments of -sentimentality and snobbishness. You will then have the truth as it -appeared to the world--a handsome, manly groom, every inch of him -the patrician; a wondrous lovely, innocent, pure young bride, looking -the worthy mate of the great noble she had won with her beauty and -her sweetness; a background of magnificent houses and equipages, -of grand society people, of lackeys in livery without number; an -atmosphere of luxury, refinement, perfumed with the fairest flowers -and the most delicate artificial scents. You are seeing also the high -and noble motives of all concerned--the joy of parents in a daughter -sentimentally wooed and won to happiness; the generous and kindly -feelings of all the friends; the lavish and affectionate overflowing of -costly gifts; above all, the ecstatic young couple wrapped up in their -love for each other. Flesh up and beautify the skeleton to your taste, -gentle reader. You will not go amiss. - -I must linger a moment on the happiness of my daughter. It was too -spiritual to be of this earth. As soon as the miserable, unimportant -money matters were settled, and her mother gave her full leave to love, -she threw herself into it with all the ardor of the heroine of a novel. -She had two diamond hearts made--at the most fashionable jewelers in -Paris, you may be sure. Upon the inside of the one she kept she had -engraved, under his picture, “From Hugh to Margot.” In the one she gave -him there surrounded her picture in diamond inlay, “To Hugh from his -dear love Margot.” - -Each was to wear the heart round the neck until death. Again and again -I caught her dreaming over hers, sometimes with tears in her limpid -eyes. Again and again I caught her scribbling, “Margot, Marchioness -of Crossley, Viscountess Brear, Countess of Felday and Noth, Baroness -de Selve,” and so on through a list of titles which gentle reader will -find in “Burke’s” and the “Almanach de Gotha.” - -And she had a reverent way of looking at him and a tender way of -touching him. Her mother, you will believe, spared neither expense nor -pains in getting together the trousseau. But Margot was not satisfied. -“Not nearly fine enough for _his_ bride,” she would say. “I’m _so_ -afraid he’ll be disappointed.” Then the tears would spring. “Oh, mamma! -If he should be disappointed in me!” - -“Not so bad as if you were to be disappointed in him,” I put in with no -other motive than to cheer her up. - -But it only shocked her. “In Hugh!” she exclaimed, meaning in Cecil -Robert Grunleigh Percival Hugh Massingford, Marquis of Crossley, etc. -“_I_ disappointed in _him_! Oh, papa! You don’t _realize_!” - -“No, I suppose not,” said I, getting myself away as speedily as my legs -would carry me. - -Through these joyous scenes of youth and love and luxury I moved -gloomily--restless, bitter, tormented by self-reproaches and by -thoughts of the woman I loved. What Edna had said about her, though -I knew it was by way of precautionary cattishness, put into my mind -the inevitable suspicion--no, not actual suspicion, but germ of -suspicion--the almost harmless germ from which the most poisonous -suspicions may develop. I went round and round my mental image of Mary -Kirkwood. I viewed it from all angles. But I could not find a trace of -the flaw Edna had asserted. I analyzed her with all the analytical -skill I possessed, and that, I flatter myself, is not a little. No one -who has not the faculty of analysis ever gets anywhere; no one who has -that faculty ever escapes the charge of cynicism. Shallow people--the -sort that make such a charge--will regard it as proof of my utter -cynicism, my absolute lack of sentiment, that I was able to analyze the -woman I loved, or pretended I loved. But I assure you, gentle reader, -that not even love and passion suspend the habitual processes of a -good mind. The reason you have read the contrary so often is because -precious few writers about men of the superior sort have the capacity -to comprehend the intellects they try to picture. To the man of large -affairs, the average--and many a one above the average--biography or -novel about a great man reads like the attempt of a straddle bug to -give his fellow straddle bugs an account of an elephant. - -I was the only inharmonious figure in that round of festivals. But no -one observed me. I simply got the reputation of being a man of reserve, -a thinker rather than a talker--as if there ever lived a thinker -who did not overflow with torrents of talk like a spring fed from a -glacier; but, of course, the spring flows only when The conditions -are favorable, not when it is ice-bound. I was not even interested in -observing. There is a monotony about the actions of fashionable people -that soon reduces a spectator of agile mind to stupor. The same thing -over and over again, with variations so slight that only a nit-wit -would be interested in them-- Could there be a worse indictment of -the intelligence of the human race than that so large a part of its -presumably most intelligent classes engage in the social farce, which -is an example of aimless activity about on a level with a dog’s chasing -its own tail? - -But Edna---- - -As I look back on those weeks of days, each one crowded like a ragbag -with rubbish, the figure of Edna stands out radiant. You would never -have thought her the mother of the bride--or, indeed, a mother at all. -A woman who for many years leads a virginal or almost virginal life -gets back the vestal air of the unmarried girl. This air had returned -to Edna. She had it as markedly as had Margot. It was most becoming -to her piquant style of beauty, giving it the allure of the height -that invites ascent and capture, yet has never been desecrated. And -how she did enjoy the grandeur--the great names, the gorgeous presents -of curiously and costlily wrought gold and silver and crystal, and -precious stones, the succession of panoramas of ultra-fashionable life, -with herself and Margot always the center. - -I used to stand aside and watch her and feel as if I were hypnotized -into vivid hallucinations. I recalled the incidents of our early -life--Brooklyn, the Passaic flat, the squat and squalid homes of our -childhood. I recalled our people--hers and mine--tucked away in homely -obscurity among the New Jersey hills. But by no effort of mind could I -associate her with these realities. She had literally been born again. -I looked at the other Americans of humble beginnings--and there were -not a few of them in that society. All had retained some traces of -their origin, had some characteristics that made it not difficult to -connect their present with their past. But not Edna. - -At the wedding--in the most fashionable church in the West End--Margot -looked weary and rather old, gone slightly stale from too long and -hard preliminary training. Edna was at her best--delicate, fragile, -radiant. How the other women hated her for that time-defying beauty of -hers! Many of the women of her still youthful age retained much of the -physical attractiveness of youth. But there was not another one who -was not beginning to show the effects of dissipation--of too much food -and wine and cigarettes, of lives devoid of elevating sensations, of -minds used only for petty, mean thoughts. But Edna seemed in the flower -of that period when the secrets of the soul have as yet made no marks -upon the countenance. You would have said she was a merry and romantic -girl. I could not fathom that mystery. I cannot fathom it now. Its clew -must be in her truly amazing powers of self-deception and also in that -unique capacity of hers for forgetting the thing, no matter what, that -is disagreeable to remember. - -When we were at last alone, with the young couple off for the yacht -Lord Shangway had loaned them for the honeymoon, with the last guest -gone and the last powdered flunkey vanished--when she and I were alone, -she settled herself with a sigh and said: - -“I wish I could make it begin all over again!” - -“You must be built of steel,” said I. - -“I am supremely happy,” said she, “and have been for weeks. Nothing -agrees with me so thoroughly as happiness.” - -I looked at her scrutinizingly. No, she was not the least tired; she -was as fresh as if that moment risen from a long sleep in the air of -seashore or mountains. - -She went on: “I’m going over to Paris to-morrow. I’ve a lot of -engagements there. And I must get some clothes. I’ve worn out all I -brought with me.” - -“Worn out” meant worn once or at most twice; for in a society where -everyone is seeing everyone else all the time a woman with a reputation -for dress cannot afford to reappear in clothes once seen. In some -circles this would sound delightfully prodigal, in others delightfully -impossible, and perhaps in still others delightfully criminal. But then -all that sort of thing is relative--like everything else in the world. - -“Won’t you come along?” said she in a perfunctory tone. - -“No, thanks,” I replied. “I’m off for Russia with a party of bankers to -look at some mining properties.” - -“I thought you were returning to New York?” - -“Not for several months,” said I. - -“How can you stay away so long from your beloved America?” - -“Business--always business.” - -She eyed me somewhat as one eyes a strange, mildly interesting -specimen. “Well--you must enjoy it, or you wouldn’t keep at it year in -and year out.” - -“One has to pass the time,” said I. - -“How does Mary Kirkwood pass the time?” - -This unexpected and--except sub-consciously--accidental question, -staggered me for an instant. “I don’t know much about it,” said I. “She -has a house--and she looks after it, herself. She reads, I believe. -She has gardens--and they use up a lot of time. Then she rides.” - -Edna yawned. “It sounds dull,” she said. “But domestic people are -always dull. And she is certainly domestic. I wonder why she doesn’t -marry again.” - -I was silent. - -“Are any men attentive to her? It seems to me I heard something about a -novelist--some poor man who is after her money.” - -I was choking with rage and jealousy. - -“Did you see any such man about?” - -I contrived to compose myself for a calm reply. “No one answering to -your description,” said I. - -“Do you like her?” - -“You asked me that once before,” said I. - -“Oh--I forgot. It seems to me you and she would have exactly suited -each other. You like domestic women. That is, you think you do. Really, -you’d probably fly from a woman of that sort.” - -“And a woman of the other sort would fly from me,” said I, laughing. - -She looked at me thoughtfully. “You must admit you’re not easy to get -on with--except at a distance,” observed she. “But men of positive -individuality are never easy to get on with. A big tree blights all the -little trees and bushes that try to grow in its neighborhood.... No, -Godfrey dear, you weren’t made for domestic life--you and I. Domestic -life is successful only where there are two very small and very much -alike. People like us have to live alone.” - -I rose abruptly. There was for me a sound in that “alone” like the slam -of a graveyard gate. - -“You never will appreciate me--how satisfactory I’ve been,” she went -on, “until you marry again.” - -“I must make my final arrangements for Russia,” said I. - -“Shall I see you in the morning? I’m leaving rather early.” - -“Probably not,” said I. - -“Then we’ll meet when you come back. We’ll visit Margot at Sothewell -Abbey.” She rose, drew herself to her full height with a graceful -gesture of triumph. “Don’t you honestly rather like it, being the -father of a Marchioness?” - -I could not speak. I looked at her. - -“How solemn you are!” laughed she. “Well, good-by, dear.” And she held -out her hand and turned her face upward for me to kiss her lips. - -“Oh, I’ll probably see you in the morning,” I said, “or to-night.” And -away I went. - - * * * * * - -From Russia I drifted to India, intending to return home by the -Pacific. At Bombay I met Lord Blankenship, and he persuaded me to cross -to East Africa. I found him a companion exactly to my taste. He was a -silent chap having nothing to think about and nothing to think with--a -typical and model product of the aristocratic education that completes -a man as a sculptor completes an image, and prepares him to stand in -his appointed niche until decay tumbles him down as rubbish. I had lost -all my former passion for talking and listening. I wished to confine -myself--my thoughts--to the trivial matters of the senses, to lingering -over and tinkering with the physical details of life. The silent and -vacant Blankenship set me a perfect example, one easy to fall into the -habit of following. - -At Paris, I picked up my private secretary, Markham, and resumed -attention to my affairs. I had arranged for things to go on without me, -when I set out for East Africa. I found that my guess as to how they -would go had been correct. For a month or so there was confusion--the -confusion that is inevitable when a man who has attended to everything -abruptly throws up his leadership. Then the affairs in which he fancied -himself indispensable begin to move as well as if he were at the -throttle--perhaps better. The most substantial result of my neglect -seemed to be that I had become much richer, had more than recovered -what my purchase of a son-in-law had cost me. - -Markham, who had been at Cairo two months, had got himself engaged to -be married. For several years I had been promising him a good position, -that is to say, one more fitting a grown man of real capacity. But he -made himself so useful that I put off redeeming my promise and eased my -conscience and quieted his ambition with a succession of increases of -salary. Now, however, I could no longer delay releasing him. So I must -go back to New York, to find some one to take his place. Blankenship -was wavering between a trip through West Africa and going to America -with me, on the chance of my accompanying him on a shooting trip -through British Columbia. He decided to stick to me, and as I had -grown thoroughly used to having him about I was rather glad. It is -astonishing how much comfort one can get out of the society of a silent -man, when one feels that he is a good fellow and a devoted friend. - -I telegraphed Edna that I would be unable to come to London, where she -then was. But she defeated my plan for not seeing her. When I reached -Paris there she was waiting for me at the Ritz. She had a swarm of -French, Italians, and English about her--I believe there were some -Germans or Austrians, also. I refused to be annoyed with them, and we -dined quietly with Blankenship, Markham, and a pretty little Countess -de Salevac to act us buffers between us. I tried to avoid being left -alone with her, but she would not have it so. She insisted on my coming -to her sitting room after the others had gone. - -“I know you are tired,” said she, “but I shan’t detain you long.” - -“Please don’t,” said I. “The journey has knocked me out. I’ve not slept -for two nights.” - -“It’s a shame to worry you----” - -I made for the door. “Not to-night--no worries. They’ll keep until -to-morrow.” - -“No, Godfrey dear,” she said. “I must tell you at once. There is -serious trouble between Margot and Hugh.” - -“Why, they haven’t been married a year.” - -“He has been treating her shamefully from the outset. In fact, he cut -short the honeymoon to hurry back to that music-hall person.” - -“The one I saw him with?” - -“Yes--the same one--that notorious Jupey What’s-her-name. Isn’t it -dreadful! Margot’s pride is up in arms. Nothing I say will quiet her.” - -“Um,” said I. - -“She refuses to understand that over here husbands are allowed a--a----” - -“Latitude,” I suggested. - -“More latitude than in America. I have talked with Hugh, too. He -is--very difficult. Really, he isn’t at all as he seemed. He is a--he -is horribly coarse.” - -“People who think of nothing but how to get money without work and how -to spend it without usefulness are apt to be coarse, when you probe -through to the reality of them.” - -“He is--defiant,” pursued she, too femininely practical to have -interest in or patience with philosophy. “He-- Godfrey, he says he -hates her. He won’t speak to her. And there’s no prospect of an heir. -He says he wants to get rid of her.” - -These successive admissions of a worse and worse mess were forced from -her by my air of indifference. “What has _she_ done?” I asked. - -“Done? I don’t understand----” - -“What has she done to drive him to extremes?” - -“Godfrey!” she cried in a shocked tone. “_You_--taking sides against -your daughter--your only child! Have you no paternal feeling, either?” - -“Not much,” said I. “You see, I’ve seen little of Margot--not enough -to get acquainted with her. And you educated her so that we are -uncongenial. No--since you set me to thinking, I find I haven’t much -paternal feeling for her. I used to have in Passaic, when I wheeled her -about the streets on Sundays.” - -I paused to enjoy the shame my wife was struggling with. - -“But soon after we moved to Brooklyn----” - -Edna winced and shivered. - -“You sent her away to begin to be a lady. And a lady she is--and ladies -are not daughters--are not women even.” - -“You must help me, Godfrey,” said Edna, after a strained silence. -“Margot is wretched, and a dreadful scandal may break out in time. -Already people are talking. Margot is ashamed to show herself in -public. She thinks everyone is laughing at her.” - -“No doubt she’s right,” said I. “A woman who loses her husband on the -honeymoon is likely to be laughed at.... What did she do?” - -“Why do you persist in saying that?” cried she, so irritated that she -could not altogether restrain herself. “Your dislike of women has -become a mania with you.” - -“But I don’t dislike them,” replied I. “On the contrary, I like -them--like them so well that their worthlessness angers me like the -treachery of a friend. And I believe so much in their power that, when -things go wrong, I blame them. They have dominion over the men and over -the children. And whenever they use their powers it is to make fools of -the men and weaklings of the children. I don’t know which is the worse -influence--the wishy-washy, unpractical, preacher morality of the good -woman or the lazy, idle, irresponsible dissipation of the--the ladies -and near-ladies and lady-climbers and lady-imitators.” - -“But this has nothing to do with poor Margot!” exclaimed she -impatiently. - -“Everything to do with her,” replied I. “Still--it’s a spilt pail of -milk. As for the present--and future-- How can I do anything to help -her?” - -“You can’t, if you condemn her unheard.” - -“I don’t condemn her. I am simply recognizing that there are two sides -to this quarrel. And I assure you, you only make matters worse when you -interfere without recognizing that fact. So I say again, what did _she_ -do?” - -My wife calmed slightly and replied: “He says she made him ridiculous -with the airs she put on.” - -I laughed. “After the education you gave her?” - -“That’s right! Blame me!” - -“And aren’t you to be blamed?” urged I. “Didn’t you have full charge of -her from the time she was born? Couldn’t you have made what you pleased -of her? Didn’t you make what you pleased of her?” - -Edna tossed her head indignantly. “I never taught her to be a vulgar -snob.” - -“Why, I thought that was her whole education.” - -Edna ignored this interruption. “It’s all very well for the women of -noble families to act the snob,” pursued she. “Lots of them do, and no -one criticises. But Margot ought to have had sense enough to realize -that she, a mere American, couldn’t afford to do it. I warned her that -her cue was sweetness and an air of equality. I told her that her -title in itself would keep people at their proper distance. But she -lost her head.” - -“Then the thing for her to do is to behave herself.” - -“It’s too late, I’m afraid. The tide has turned against her. All the -women--especially the titled English women of good family--were against -her--hated her--were ready to stab her in the back. And her haughtiness -and condescension gave them the chance.” - -“Well, what do you propose? To give him more money?” - -Edna showed none of her familiar scorn of sordid things. She reflected, -said uncertainly: “I wonder would that do any good?” - -“To win anyone give them what they most want,” said I. “What do your -friends over here want above everything and anything?” - -“Perhaps you are right,” confessed she. Consider, gentle reader, what -this confession involved, how it exposed the rotten insincerity of -all her and her fine friends’ pretenses. “Yes, I guess you’re right, -Godfrey.” She pressed her hands to her temples. “It simply _must_ be -straightened out. I am quite distracted. I can’t afford to lose sleep -and to be harrowed up. Those things mean ruin to a woman’s looks. -And what _would_ I do if she were flung back on my hands in this -disgraceful fashion!” - -“You want me to go to London?” - -“Godfrey, you _must_ go. You must see her, and him, too.” - -“I was thinking it would be enough to see him. But perhaps you’re -right.” - -“She is clean mad,” cried Edna, with sudden fury against her daughter. -“She doesn’t appreciate the peril of her position. One minute she’s -all for groveling. The next she talks like an idiot about her rank and -power. Oh, she is a fool--a _fool_! I always knew she was--though I -wouldn’t admit it to myself. You never will know what a time I’ve had -training her to hide it enough to make a pleasing appearance. She is a -brainless fool.” - -“A fool, but not brainless,” said I. “Her education made her a fool and -paralyzed her brain. You see, she didn’t have the advantages you had -in your early training. In your early days you had the chance to learn -something--the useful things that have saved you from the consequences -of such folly as you’ve taught her.” - -“What nonsense!” cried Edna in disgust. “But we mustn’t quarrel. I’m -agitated enough already. You will go to London?” - -“Yes,” said I, after reflecting. “I’ll go.” - -“When?” - -“To-morrow.” - -“And I’ll go with you.” - -“No,” said I firmly. “Either I manage this affair alone or I have -nothing to do with it.” - -“But, Godfrey, there are so many things about these people that you -don’t understand. And you----” - -“I understand the essential thing,” said I. “And that is their mania -for money.” - -She was on the verge of hysteria--afraid I would not go, afraid of what -I would do if I did go. “But they have to be handled carefully,” she -urged. “If you put them in a position where their pride won’t let them -take the--the money----” - -“Trust me,” said I. “Go to bed, sleep soundly, and trust me.” - -I stood. She suddenly flung herself against my breast and began to -sob on my shoulder. “You are hard and cold,” she said. “You have no -sympathy with me--no feeling for anything but business. But somehow--in -spite of it all--I have such a sense of your strength and your honesty.” - -I laughed rather awkwardly, patted her shoulder, helped her to a chair. -“There are times when a coarse, common American business man of a -husband has his uses--and advantages,” I said lightly. “I’ll telegraph -you how things are going.” - -She dried her eyes, looked at me in a puzzled way. “You always repulse -me,” she said. - -“I appreciate your kindness in remembering to toss a few crumbs to the -starving man,” laughed I. “They are precious crumbs, no doubt, and more -than he deserves. But--please don’t do it. He hates that sort of thing. -You are free to act as you feel like acting. I’ll do as much for you -and Margot without the crumbs as with them.” - -“How hard you are, Godfrey! How you have always misunderstood me!” - -“That’s right,” said I amiably. “I’m too coarse for such a fine nature. -Well--good night.” - -I took myself hastily away to bed; and at ten the next morning I -departed for London. - -I decided to see Margot first. She was at Sothewell Abbey, about an -hour by express from Paddington. You perhaps know Sothewell Abbey -through the pictures and descriptions. And it is indeed an imposing -pile of old masonry seated in the midst of a park of surpassing beauty. -As soon as I entered the ancient gates for the two-mile drive to the -Abbey, I saw signs that my money was in action. When I first visited -it, the lodge was in sad disrepair, the gates were about to fall to -pieces and the vista of the drive was unkempt. Now, all was changed. -The servile pair who came out to open for me, and made me fear they -would drop down on their bellies and crawl before me, were neatly and -properly dressed, in strong contrast to their former appearance. - -The exterior of the house, which had been most “romantic” but obviously -the front of poverty and decay, looked much better--not younger I -hasten to assure you, quiet reader, but somewhat like a hairless, -toothless old man when he gets a nice white wig on his pate and a set -of good false teeth on his shriveled gums. I saw gardeners at work--and -plenty there was for them to do. Within, I saw evidences of a more -adequate staff of servants; but the great halls were dreary and bare -and dingy. That was a cold summer in England, even colder than the -summer usually is. So, the enormous house was literally uninhabitable, -like all the European palaces, city and country, that I have been in. -I can fancy what such a place must be in winter with no way of heating -it but open fireplaces, and not many of them. I can’t conceive any -sane American, used to comfort in the way of steam heat, spending -a winter in the English country. I know it is done by Americans -reputedly sane; but if those at home knew what Europe in winter -meant--the old-fashioned “romantic” Europe--they would not believe -their expatriated countrymen sane in sacrificing comfort and health to -vanity. Yes, I believe they would; for, do not they, at home, make the -same imbecile sacrifices to vanity in other ways? - -“Take me to some small warm room,” said I to Margot, “before I catch my -death of cold.” This the instant I was within doors and felt in my very -marrow the clammy chill of that picturesque vaulted hall. - -“There isn’t any warm room in the house,” replied she. - -“How about the kitchen?” said I. - -She looked alarmed--being her mother’s own daughter, in lack of the -sense of humor as in many other ways. She said hastily: “The upstairs -rooms are a little better.” - -“They couldn’t be worse. These rooms are cold storage.” - -“I’m getting used to it,” said she. “One doesn’t mind it so much after -a while.” - -Her nose was red and swollen, and her voice husky. She had a frightful -cold at that very moment. “Why don’t you get out of here and go to a -decent modern hotel in town?” said I. - -“Give up possession!” cried she in horror. “He might not let me come -back.” - -It was too ridiculous. “Possession of what?” said I. - -“Oh, _papa_!” cried she, in despair and shame at my coarse stupidity. - -“Possession of what?” I repeated. “Of a dirty, dingy old cold-storage -plant. Why should you want to come back? Put on your wraps and let’s -fly to town by the next train.” - -She burst into tears. “I’d rather die!” she sobbed. “I _won’t_ give up -my position. I am Marchioness of Crossley and I belong here.” - -“All right,” said I. “Let’s try the smaller rooms.” - -She led me up a vast stairway--it would have thrilled your soul, -gentle reader. Think how it sounds, put into the fitting language-- -“The beautiful young Marchioness conducted her father up the ancient -and magnificent stairway that rose from the spacious mediæval hall and -swept in a curve of wonderfully wrought stone work, dating from the -thirteenth century, to the upper chambers of the majestic old abbey.” I -hurried her as fast as I could, for we both were sneezing and a hideous -draught like the breath of death was streaming from somewhere. I don’t -mind looking at pictures of abbeys and the like; but when I read of the -grandeur of living in that sort of place, I laugh. The men who built -them did as well as they could in the age they lived in. But what shall -be said of men who dwell in them now, when infinitely better is to be -had? - -Those upper chambers! Cold, clammy, draughty--the furniture and -hangings old and dowdy. And my daughter’s room! Like a squalid, -decrepit tenement flat. Yes, squalid; for the rugs and draperies were -dirty, were stained and frayed. There was a distinct tenement odor. - -“Isn’t it fascinating?” said she, gazing round with sparkling eyes. - -“Where’s the fire?” said I. - -She led me to a smelly, low-ceilinged little room, like a segment out -of a hovel. It was her boudoir, she informed me. In one wall, in a -dinky fireplace burned a handful of fire. - -“Is that it?” said I. “Is that all?” - -“You must remember, papa,” said she proudly, “that this isn’t a -_modern_ house.” - -“Ring for a servant,” said I. “This overcoat of mine is too light. I -must have wraps if I’m to sit here. And you’d better get out your furs -and put them on.” - -“The servants’d think me mad,” said she. “Must you have a coat?” - -“No--that spread will do,” said I. And I jerked it from the sofa and -flung it round my shoulders. “I don’t want to upset your establishment. -Good God, I had no idea people with any money at all anywhere on earth -lived like this. If you’re going to stay here, you must put in steam -heat.” - -“Oh, we couldn’t do that, papa dear,” said she with a plaintive -mingling of shame for me and apology for the tradition against sense -and health. - -“Let’s get to business, Margot,” said I. “Sit in the fireplace--that’s -right. What’s the trouble? Your mother has explained--has told all she -knew. I’ve come to find what the quarrel is _really_ about.” - -“Has she told you of that woman?” - -“Why did he go back to her?” - -She began to sob. “Oh, the hideous things he said to me! I -didn’t dream a gentleman could talk like that. He called me a low -American--said he was ashamed of me--said he was going to get rid of me -at any cost, said----” - -“But what had you _done_!” interrupted I. - -“Nothing!” she cried, lifting her flushed face. “Absolutely -nothing--except worship him.” - -“What had you done?” I repeated. As she started to rise I restrained -her. “Stay in the fireplace. What was the beginning of the row--the -very beginning?” - -Her eyes wavered, but she said: “Nothing, papa!” though less vigorously. - -“It was about money,” said I. “It always is--in all ranks of society. -The beginnings of the quarrels have money at the bottom of them. -Now--tell me!” - -She was silent. - -“I can’t help you unless you do.” - -“Oh, it was so sordid!” cried she. “And I thought him high above those -things.” - -“No one that’s human is,” said I. “Any person who wears pants or skirts -that have to be paid for is not above money.” - -“He wanted me to turn over to him all I had,” said she. “Think of that!” - -“I might have known,” said I. - -“He said it was beneath his dignity as an English gentleman to have a -wife independent of him. And, do you know, papa, I was so infatuated -that I almost yielded. I could see his point of view. And I’d have been -glad to come to him for every cent. Only--” She stopped short. - -“Only what?” I urged. - -“I heard about that other woman. And his way of treating me-- He said -it was the proper way for a marquis to treat his marchioness. And I -liked the dignity and the beauty of it all, when others were about. But -it seemed to me that when we were alone-- Oh, papa, I can’t tell you -these things.” - -“Never mind,” said I. “I understand.” - -“And I was--a little jealous, away down in my heart--and suspicious. -And I was afraid he wanted the money to spend on _her_.” - -“Um,” said I. “You didn’t tell your mother this?” - -“She hates sordidness of every kind,” said Margot. “And I hadn’t the -courage. Besides, I’m sure mamma would have advised me to let him -have his way. She wouldn’t sympathize with the--the weak side of my -character.” - -I was interested. Could it be that Edna’s daughter had a “weak”--a -human side? Could it be that her education and her mode of life had not -altogether killed the natural and made her soul a garden of artificial -flowers only? - -“So, you want to be free from him?” said I. - -“Free from him!” cried she, aghast. “Give up my position? Oh, -papa--never--_never_!” - -“But you don’t love him. Don’t come away from that fire!” - -She seated herself by the miserable smoky little blaze again. “He is my -husband. I am his wife. I am the Marchioness of Crossley.” And she drew -herself up with as much of an air as her cold and the contracted space -in the chimney-piece permitted. Unluckily, the sudden gesture caused a -current of air, and she sneezed once--twice--three times. - -“Better get those furs,” said I. “You want the man back?” - -“Yes, indeed. I must have him back.” She clasped her hands and wailed, -“If I only had a son! Then--_then_ I’d show Hugh that he couldn’t -trample on me. But he has me in his power now. If he casts me off -I shan’t have any position at all. The women are down on me. They -hate all the American women, except those who toady to them and give -them money or jewelry or pay their bridge and dressmaker’s bills. -And they’re only too glad of the chance to crush me. But they’ll not -succeed!” - -“Why not?” said I dryly. - -She burst into tears. “Oh, I don’t know what to do! Papa, shall I give -him the money?--sign over all my income to him and take only what he’ll -allow me? And would he come back if I did?” - -“He would not,” said I. - -“Then--what _shall_ I do? Oh, what slaves we women are! Think of it, -papa! He wants to make a _slave_ of me--said he didn’t believe in women -gadding about and showing themselves off in costly dresses and causing -scandalous talk--said my place was at home--looking after the house and -that sort of thing!” She laughed wildly. “Like a low, common servant! -And he--he free to carry on with that woman!” - -“You might teach him to stay at home, if you set him a good example,” -suggested I. - -“But I don’t want to stay at home!” cried she. “I didn’t marry for -that. I want to enjoy all the privileges of my rank.” - -“To be sure,” said I. - -“I wasn’t brought up to be like a low, middle-class woman, or a -workingman’s wife.” - -“No, indeed,” said I. “You are a lady. You’re made, not to be of use in -the world, but to enjoy yourself.” - -She seemed to find some cause for dissatisfaction in my enthusiastic -tone. “Of course,” she said, “I shall do my duty as a member of the -high nobility--lead in society and open bazars and visit the poor on -our estate and--and all that.” - -“Yes, indeed,” said I. “And the world being what it is, there’s no -reason why you shouldn’t.” - -“Do you think you can bring him back, papa?” - -“That depends on you,” said I warily. - -“I’ll do anything--anything. I’ll crawl to him, if he wants me to. -After all, he _is_ the Marquis of Crossley, and I’m only an American -nobody.” - -“That’s the proper spirit,” said I. “But you mustn’t show it to -him _too_ plainly. Be moderate. A little pretense of dignity--of -self-respect.” - -“I understand,” said she seriously--she was indeed Edna’s own daughter. -“I’ll be as I was before we were married.” Her eyes flashed. “Oh, I can -bide my time. When I have a son!” - -“Get ready and come up to town to-night,” said I, with a most -unfatherly gruffness and curtness, I fear. “I’m off now to deal with -him.” - -“Be careful not to wound his pride, papa,” she cautioned. - -“I realize the danger of that,” replied I. “Come to the Savoy. Be on -hand, so I can get hold of you whenever I need you.” - -“Oh, papa _dear_!” she cried, and cast herself into my arms. - -I brushed my lips upon her crown of hair--it was false hair, that -being the fashion of the day. “Try to make yourself as pretty as you -can,” said I, releasing her and myself. “You’ll hear from me to-night -or to-morrow, unless I’ve caught my death in this damp cave. You must -leave it to the frogs, and snakes, and bats, and build yourself a -decent house somewhere. You’ll die here.” - -“I’m afraid Hugh wouldn’t consent to _live_ anywhere but here. It’s -the ancestral seat, you know. The Massingfords have lived here since -forever and ever.” - -“Have died here, you mean. Have killed wives they wanted to get rid of, -here.” - -She startled--looked excitedly at me. “Papa!” she exclaimed -breathlessly. “Yes--I wouldn’t put it past him!” - -I laughed. - -She drew a long breath of relief. “Oh, you weren’t in earnest,” she -said. - -“No,” replied I. “But--don’t live here.” - -“I shan’t,” said she firmly. “It’s dreadful for the looks. You’ve seen -what so many of these English women look like.” - -“Like shriveled, frost-bitten apples,” said I. “They don’t die -because they’re used to it. But it’s death for people accustomed to -civilization. Not even the steady glow of pride in your title and -position can keep you heated up enough to save you.” - -“Will you give Hugh a house, if he’ll consent?” - -“Yes.... Until to-night or to-morrow.” - -And I fled from the romantic old Abbey, but not soon enough to avoid -what was threatening to be the cold of my life. - - - - -IX - - -The moment I was in London, and before that Sothewell Abbey cold had -a chance to grip me, I went at it. Starve, stay in bed, and keep the -air out for a day--that’s the way to put a cold out of business. -Unless it be some occasional prodigy endowed with superhuman common -sense and self-restraint, no one learns how to take care of his health -except by experience. The doctors know precious little about disease; -about health they know nothing--naturally, they have no interest in -health. The average human being not only does not know how to take care -of his health, but also does not wish to learn how; health involves -self-denial, cutting down on food, drink, tobacco and the other joys -of life. So he who wishes to avoid enormous payments in discomfort -and pain for slight neglects and transgressions of physical laws has -to work it out for himself. I’ve made several valuable discoveries in -the science and art of living; about the most valuable of them is that -every illness starts under cover of a cold. So I instantly take myself -in hand whenever I begin to sneeze and to have chilly sensations or -a catch in the throat. The result has been that since I was thirty I -have not spent a cent on doctors or lost a day through illness, and -I’ve eaten and drunk about as I pleased. I can see gentle reader’s -expression of disdain at these confessions as to my care for health. -You are welcome to your disdain, gentle reader. It is characteristic of -your shallowness. You see, the chief difference between you and me is -that I have imagination while you have not. And as I have imagination, -illness makes to my mind a picture of revolting internal conditions -which I can no more endure than I could endure having my outside -unclean and frowzy. - -Margot, coming by a later train, sent me word that she was ill. She had -called in a doctor. He poured some medicine--some poison--into her, of -course, and so got her into the way of giving him an excuse for robbing -her. In England doctors rank socially with butchers and bakers, rank -scientifically with voodoo quacks and astrologers. They still look on -a cold as a trifle, and treat it by feeding! The food and drugs she -swallowed soon reduced Margot to the state where it was taking all -the reserve force of her youth to save her from severe illness. I was -entirely well the following day, and went to see her. The doctor--five -guineas or twenty-five dollars a visit--was coming twice a day; his -assistant--two guineas or ten dollars a visit--was coming four times a -day. The Marchioness of Crossley, a rich American, was ill. Her social -position and Dr. Sir Spratt Wallet’s rank as a practitioner together -made it imperative that the illness be no ordinary affair. The second -day he issued bulletins to the papers. I attempted to interfere in the -treatment, but Margot would not have it. - -“She’s growing worse instead of better,” said I to Wallet. - -“Certainly, sir,” replied he. “That is the regular course with a -cold.” And he stroked his whiskers and looked at me with dull, -self-complacent, supercilious eyes. “The regular course, sir.” - -“In England, but not in America,” said I. - -“I dare say,” said he, with heavy politeness. Then, after a heavy -pause, “her ladyship will be quite fit again in a week--quite fit.” - -As she was eating three strapping meals a day and taking rhinitis and -another equally poisonous drug I had my doubts. But once you let a -doctor in you are powerless. If you order him out without giving him an -opportunity in his own good time to cure the mischief he has done the -consequences may be serious. Not to linger over this incident in high -life, Wallet made out of that cold a hundred guineas, not counting his -commissions on the fees of his assistant, on the wages of a trained -nurse, and on the stuff from the chemist. If Margot had been English -born the bill would have been about one fourth that sum--for the same -rank in society. Slay the Midianite! But that’s the rule the world -over. When I am “trimmed” abroad I console myself with reflecting on -the fate of the luckless foreigner visiting America. Europe trims us to -the quick; but we trim to the bone; and when no foreigners are handy we -keep in practice by trimming one another. - -Margot’s illness did not interfere with my efforts to right her -matrimonial ship and set it in its course again. I had greatly modified -my original plan. It involved my seeking the Marquis. My new plan was -to compel him to seek me. I proceeded so successfully that on the -morning of the third day of Margot’s “indisposition,” while I was at -breakfast in my sitting room, Markham came in with a grin of triumph on -his face. “You win,” he cried. “But you always do.” - -“Dawkins?” - -“Here’s his card.” - -“Let him up. No--wait.... Tell him I’ll see him in half an hour.” - -Gentle reader, you are about to learn why in that controversy over -settlements _I_ abruptly abandoned the struggle and yielded everything. -I worked with Markham at my mail and telegrams for three quarters of an -hour before I let Dawkins in. I saw at a glance that my treatment of -him had produced the effect I had hoped. He was a typical middle-class -Englishman--but all middle-class Englishmen are typical. He was fattish -and baldish and smug. He had a beef-and-beer face, ruddy and smooth -except tufts of red-gray, curling whiskers before either ear. He had -cold, shrewd, pious eyes--the eyes of the hypocrite who serves the -Lord with every breath he draws, and gets a blessing upon every crime -he commits before committing it. In my first interviews with him I, -being new to England, had made the mistake of treating him as an -equal, that is, as a human being. My respect for myself forbids me to -meet any of my fellow-members of the human race in any other fashion. -But experience has taught me that in doing business with a man, it -is being absolutely necessary that you dominate him unless you are -willing to have him dominate you, the most skillful care must be taken -to impress him with your superiority. A certain amount of “side” is -useful in America. A lot of it is imperative in England; and if you -are dealing with an Englishman who feels that he is low, you dare not -treat him as an equal or he at once imagines you are lower than he, and -despicable--and you can do nothing with him. - -I had suffered, and so had my lawyer, Norman, for our American way of -treating Dawkins. I appreciated my mistake afterwards, and resolved -not to repeat it. I studied the manner of Crossley and Blankenship and -the other upper-class men toward the middle and lower classes, and I -learned to copy it, an accomplishment of which I am not proud, though -common sense forbids me to be ashamed of it. Dawkins, entering with -heels thoroughly cooled, made ready to put out his hand, but did so -hesitatingly. He saw that his worst fears were realized, altered the -handshaking gesture into a tug at his right whiskers. Nor did I offer -him a seat, but simply looked at him pleasantly over the top of my -newspaper and said: - -“Ah, Dawkins, is that you?” - -“Good morning, Mr. Loring. Hope you are well, sir,” said Dawkins, now -squeezing awkwardly into his proper place. - -I half turned my back on him and dictated a note and a telegram to -Markham. Then I glanced at Dawkins again. “Ah, Dawkins, yes--what were -you saying?” - -“I would esteem it a favor, sir, if you would give me a few minutes of -your time--alone.” - -“We are alone,” said I. “What is it?” - -The solicitor shifted his portly frame uneasily, smoothed his top hat -with his gloved left hand, glanced dubiously at Markham. “The matter is -confidential, sir--relating to--to the family.” - -“Mr. Markham knows more about my affairs than I do,” said I. “Don’t -beat about the bush, Dawkins. I have no time to waste.” - -“Very well, sir. I beg your pardon. It concerns those bonds--the bonds -you turned over to me in arranging the settlements.” - -“Yes. I remember. Great Lakes and Gulf bonds, were they not?” - -“Precisely, sir. You bound us to a stipulation that they were not to be -converted for at least five years.” - -“That’s right,” said I. “In fact, I made it impossible for you to -convert them.” - -A pained expression came into the face of Dawkins. - -“I believe I conceded everything else your client demanded,” pursued I. - -“But it now develops, sir,” said Dawkins, “that that was the only -important thing.” - -“Really?” said I. - -“You have doubtless seen the papers these last few days--the stock -market.” - -“Yes.... Yes--so the bonds _are_ dropping. That’s unfortunate.” - -“Dropping rapidly,” said Dawkins. “And there are rumors that Great -Lakes and Gulf will soon be practically worthless.” - -“So I’ve read.” - -“I’ve come to ask you to release us. We wish to sell. We must sell. If -we don’t the settlement on your son-in-law will be worthless.” - -I smiled agreeably. “As worthless as his promises to my daughter. As -worthless as he is.” - -Dawkins was breathing heavily. His pious eyes were snapping with rage. -He had prided himself on his astuteness. He had gloated over his -shrewdness in outwitting Norman and me. And now he discovered that the -boot was on the other leg. I had trapped him and put him and his client -in my power. - -I leaned back comfortably and smiled. “Of course I know nothing about -it, Dawkins, but I am willing to make a Yankee guess that the bonds -will continue to drop until----” - -When my pause became unendurable, he said: “Yes, sir. Until when?” - -“Until I discover some signs of value in my son-in-law. Then he may -discover some signs of value in the bonds. Our America is a peculiar -country, Dawkins.” - -“Peculiar will do, sir,” said he with respectful insolence. “But I -should have chosen another word.” - -I shook my head laughingly. “What bad losers you English are!” said I. -“But--I’ll not detain you. Good morning, Dawkins.” - -“Then I am to understand, sir----” - -But I had my back squarely to him and was busy with Markham, who took -his cue for the little comedy we were playing like the well-trained -American business man that he was. Presently Markham said, “He’s gone, -and I never saw a madder man get out of a room more awkwardly.” - -You, gentle reader, who know about as much of the science of -managing men in practical life as you know of any other phase of the -world-that-is--you, gentle reader, are shocked by my rudeness to a -polite, well-educated, well-dressed Englishman. And you hope--and -feel--that I overreached myself. But let me inform you--not for your -instruction but for my own satisfaction--courtesy has to be used most -sparingly. Human vanity is so monstrous that men eagerly read into -politeness to them--the most ordinary politeness--evidence that their -superiority is inspiring fear, awe and desire to conciliate them. -You often hear men in high place severely criticised for being rude, -short, arrogant, insulting. Do not condemn them too hastily. It may be -that they were driven into this attitude toward their fellows by the -disastrous consequences of courtesy. Be polite to a man and he will -misunderstand. Be cool to him and he, thickly enveloped in his own good -opinion of himself, will not feel it. Rudeness, overt and unmistakable, -is often the one way to reach him and save not only yourself but also -him from the consequences of his vanity. It is the instinct of big men -to be big and simple and natural in their dealings with their fellows. -The mass of little men with big vanities compels them to suppress this -instinct; and by suppression it inevitably becomes in time crushed out -of existence. How can one who is busy continue to show consideration -for others if they, instead of showing a return consideration for him, -take it as tribute to their importance and begin to rear and impose and -trample? - -To cite my own relatively unimportant case, I have long had a -reputation for coldness and meager civility in my business relations. -I recall distinctly the desperate pressure of sheer imposition that -led me to abandon my early openness to all comers at all times. And I -admit that I did change; rather abruptly, too, for it suddenly came to -me why I was slipping backwards. But looking only at my career _since_ -the change, when I think of the boredom I have endured, the folly I -have permitted to waste my valuable time--when I recall the forbearance -I have shown in sparing impudent and lazy incompetence where I might, -yes, ought to have used the ax--when I think of my good-natured -tolerance in face of extremest daily provocation, year after year, -I marvel at myself and feel how unjust, how characteristically the -verdict of little shallow men, is the attack on me as cold and -unsympathetic. When I consider how the leaders of the human race have -been tempted to tyranny, I cannot understand why history is able to -record comparatively few real tyrants, most of them being homicidal -lunatics like Nero, or success-crazed megalomaniacs like Napoleon, -and almost none men of sanity. If the great of earth were as vain, as -selfishly, as egotistically inconsiderate of the small as the small are -of the great and of each other, would not the story of history have -come to an end long ago for lack of surviving characters? - -Two days after Dawkins came Crossley. I knew that in America there is -no one so easily frightened as a rich man who has inherited his wealth -and does not know whether, if he lost it, he could make a living or -not. All rich men are cowards, but that species is craven. I suspected -that the same thing was true of the European type--the nobleman -with the grotesque pose of disdain for money that convinces and -captivates you, gentle reader, and your favorite authors. Crossley’s -face instantly showed me that my suspicion was correct. He had been -dissipating wildly for several weeks, but it did not account for the -look in his eyes. If, gentle reader, you wish to learn the truth about -the aristocracy you worship--which you do not--get an aristocrat -where you can cut off or turn on his supply of cash at will. You will -then discover that he who has a stiff neck also has supple knees--the -stiffer the neck the suppler the knees. - -Crossley was a clever chap in his way; that is, he knew his business -of idle spender of unearned money thoroughly. Another mode of putting -it would be the commonplace and less exact if more alluring phrase -“aristocrat to his finger tips.” There are many modes of cringing. He -showed judgment and taste--judgment of me, taste in sparing himself--in -his choice of the mode. With fright and wariness in his eyes--the look -of readiness to go to any depths of self-abasement in gaining his -end--he put a tone of manly, bluff, shamefaced contrition into his -voice as he said: - -“Pardon my breaking in on you this way. I’ve just heard. Is _she_ very -ill?” - -He meant he had just heard about the bonds. I knew he meant that, and -he knew I knew it. But we were men of the world. “Not desperately -ill,” said I. “Only about twenty guineas a day.” - -He smiled a faint but flattering appreciation of my humor, then resumed -his gloomy anxiety and self-reproach. “But she _is_ ill. I read it in -one of those screaming ha’penny rags and came as fast as ever I could. -The truth is--well, we’ve had a bit of a row. Has she told you?” - -“Not much,” said I. “A little.” - -“I’ve acted the skunk, the howling skunk--and I want to-- Do you think -she’ll see me?” - -“If you wish, I’ll find out.” - -“I’d be no end grateful,” said he with enthusiasm. - -She saw him as soon as she could make herself presentable--and her -delay gave him a chance to tone up his nerves and to smooth out his -face. That afternoon I was able to telegraph Edna that all was well -The Crossleys were reconciled; Love had scored another of his famous -triumphs. She came over the following day, but I had sailed for America -a few hours before. - - * * * * * - -The day after my arrival in New York I saw Mary Kirkwood and Hartley -Beechman lunching together at Delmonico’s. In those days that meant -an engagement actual or impending--or, at least, a flirtation far -advanced into the stage of loverlike intimacy. I was in the passageway -looking through the glass and the screen of palms. I stood there long, -noting every detail of her. She was well, perfectly well--of that much -her eyes and her color assured me. Is there anything lovelier than -a clear dark skin, tastefully set off by black-brown hair? Was she -happy? I could not tell. Still in her face was that restless, expectant -look--not unlike the expression of a child being shown a picture -book and too impatient for the next page rightly to examine the one -that is open. An intense interest in life, an intense vitality--that -fascinating capacity to love, if she found the right man. And her -beauty---- - -Beauty she undoubtedly had. But charm does not lie in beauty--physical -charm, I mean. There is a certain light in the eyes, a certain curve of -cheek and throat, of bosom and arm--and the blood flames and rushes. -She had charm for me. Her beauty impressed others; it was her charm -that made her the one woman to me. - -Blankenship came to take me into the café where we were to lunch. I -went with the meager consolation that while I had stood there she had -given Beechman not a single glance with any suggestion of a feeling it -would have wounded me to the quick to see. Should I speak to her? Did -I dare risk the attempt? Would not speaking to her be merely a useless -torment? After a long struggle that could have but one end, I said: -“Excuse me,” rose and went to the palm room. They were gone; the waiter -was clearing the table at which they had been sitting. I stared round -dazedly, returned to Blankenship. - -“You’re not up to the mark--what?” said he. - -“New York doesn’t agree with me.” - -“I hate towns. They give you such dirty second-hand stuff to breathe. -Let’s move on--what?” - -“To-morrow,” I said. - -But it seemed there was no place on earth for me. Don’t judge me so -poorly as to think, or to imagine I thought, this was due wholly to -Mary Kirkwood. I wish to be carefully, exactly accurate in this frank -recital of a man’s point of view. She was responsible for my forlorn -state to the extent that loving her had revealed to me the futility -and failure of my own life and had made me see another sort of life -that would have been possible with her, that was impossible without -her--without love and comradeship. But loving her did not make my life -empty; it was already empty, though I had not realized it. I understood -now why the big business men, as soon as they reached security, -cast about for some real interest. Most of them--nearly all--were -as unfortunate in their family relations as I. They had trivial -wives and trivial children--mere silly strutters and spenders. They -sought interest in art, in science, in religion, in exploration, in -philanthropy, in politics, in stamps and butterflies, in old books and -antiques, in racing stables and prize fighting, in gambling, in drink, -in women. Their craving was now mine. How to find an interest that -would make life attractive to me, with Mary Kirkwood left out--there -was my problem. - -While waiting for the solution, I followed Blankenship to the -Northwest. The second day from New York, as he and I were walking -up and down the platform during a halt--at St. Paul, I think it -was--Hartley Beechman joined us. - -“Didn’t I see you in the café at Delmonico’s a few days ago?” said he. -“I was getting my hat and stick in a rush. It certainly looked like -your back.” - -“It was,” said I. And I was seized with a wild longing to escape from -him and a wilder longing to hold on to him and to pour out question -after question. - -“Mrs. Kirkwood and I were lunching together,” he went on. “We talked of -you. I told her I thought I had seen you, and she said she heard you -were in town and was much hurt because you hadn’t looked her up.” - -“I was merely passing through,” said I. - -“She has an enormous admiration for you,” continued he. “She says you -have imagination--which means that she thinks you in the small class. -You know the world divides into sheep and goats on imagination, with -the mass in the have-not class. I believe it’s the true distinction -between House of Have and House of Have-not.” - -“She is well?” said I. - -“Always. She knows how to take care of herself. I never knew a woman so -sensible--and sensible means the reverse of what it’s usually supposed -to mean when applied to a woman.” - -This hardly sounded like an engaged man talking of his fiancée. On the -other hand, Beechman was a peculiar chap. - -“Does she still live in the country?” - -“Just now--yes. Last winter she kept house for Bob in New York.” - -But you will not be interested in how I drew from him bit by bit a -hundred details of her life, stories of what she had said and done. -I saw Beechman several hours every day until he left us at Seattle. -Alternately I thought him merely her closest man friend and her -accepted lover. At times I thought he was not quite sure, himself, in -which position he stood. When we were having our last talk together I -nerved myself and said: - -“I heard in London that she was to be married.” - -I felt him drawing in and shutting all doors and windows. - -“Have _you_ heard anything of it?” pursued I. - -“Oh, in the case of a woman like her,” replied he, “there’s always -gossip about this man and that.” - -“She ought to marry.” - -“She _will_ marry.” - -I forced a smile, and, as we knew each other so well, I ventured: “You -speak as one having authority.” - -“Don’t _you_ know she will?” parried he. - -“That sounds like evasion,” laughed I. - -“Not at all. She cannot escape. Some man will convince her--surely.” - -“But so far as you know, no man has?” - -His eyes were frankly mocking. “I did not say that,” said he. - -And I could get no further. - - * * * * * - -Before I returned to New York in the autumn I had added a lot of far -western enterprises to my already long list of occupations. Everything -I touched seemed to succeed. Even my new secretary, Rossiter, proved -better than Markham. Markham had an indifferent memory and a fondness -for women that was trying. Rossiter forgot nothing and was as shy of -the women, including the ladies, as was Lord Blankenship, who yawned -and retreated at the very sight of a skirt. The news from England was -altogether satisfactory. An heir was hoped for, and Crossley had become -a devoted husband and was about to enter politics. This struck me as a -huge joke, the more so because I knew that in England Crossley would -be welcomed as a source of real strength to his party. It seemed to me -amazing how England could stagger along when she was being managed by -such men and was grateful for it. But when I spoke to Blankenship about -it, he set me to thinking from a different standpoint. - -“My son-in-law is going into politics,” said I. “In America he couldn’t -be elected dog-catcher.” - -“Oh, I fancy money will do most anything most anywhere,” said he. - -The news from Paris was equally good. Edna had settled there after a -joyous summer going from country house to country house in Britain, -and from château to château in France. She had seen one château which -she wished me to buy, and she begged me to come over and inspect it. -She did not explicitly say so, but I read between the lines that she -was greatly strengthening her social position by giving out that she -purposed buying a big place. You may imagine how much enthusiasm for -her such an announcement would create among noble down-at-the-heel -families eager to exchange unsalable old rook-roosts for American -dollars. I could hear her talking--how subtly she would put forth the -suggestion, how diplomatically she would discuss each worthless stone -heap in turn--and how she would rake in the invitations so difficult to -get unless one happens to know how, and so easy when one does know. - -But with my arrival in New York I had a reverse. A cable came from Edna -saying that she was sailing at once and wished to see me. - -I could not imagine what she wanted, and I did not waste much time in -making guesses. One evening, when Armitage and I were dining together -in the Federal Club--Blankenship had sailed for home--the idea flashed -into my mind that perhaps Edna wanted a divorce. Immediately I felt -that I had hit upon the precise reason for her coming. You will have no -difficulty in imagining what was the next idea in my train of thought. -If she divorced me I should be free to marry whom I pleased! - -It was stupid of me, but in all my revolvings of my hopeless love for -Mary Kirkwood never once had I thought of divorcing my wife. I cannot -account for this lapse, except as an instance of the universal human -failing for overlooking the obvious. There was no religious scruple -in my early training to make me shy of divorce. On the contrary, -my parents, like most old-fashioned Americans of faiths other than -Episcopal and Catholic--and Episcopalians and Catholics were few in -the old American stock, except in New York and Baltimore and South -Carolina--most old-fashioned Americans believed that living together in -wedlock without love was sin, that divorce was no mere necessary evil, -but a religious rite as sacred as marriage itself. A house, they held, -is either a House of Hate or a House of Love, and no one should remain -in a House of Hate, and no child should be brought up there. - -No doubt, if Edna and I had been living under the same roof the -idea of divorce would have taken form, actively definite form, long -before. But we had no home to be a House of Hate. We did not hate -each other; we bored each other. And as we were not poor, we lived -far enough apart not to annoy each other in the least. I cheerfully -paid any ransom she exacted for leaving me free--and you may be sure -she was not inexpensive. She had her own fortune--and it gave her -quite an income--but she husbanded that. She insisted upon state and -equipage, not to mention such small matters as stockings at fifty -dollars a pair and chemises at three hundred dollars apiece--for, -she knew how lovely she was and demanded for her beautiful body the -most beautiful garments that could be devised by French ingenuity at -combining cost and simplicity. I was--by instinct rather than by avowed -principles--thoroughly old-fashioned in my family ideas. Indeed, I -still am; and I say this with no apology. It may be that woman will -some day develop another and higher sphere for herself. But first she -would do well--in my humbly heretical opinion--to learn to fill the -sphere she now rattles round in like one dry pea in a ten-gallon can. I -want to see a few more women up to the modern requirements for wife and -mother. I want to see a few more women making a living without using -their sex charms--a few less ’tending the typewriter with one eye -while the other and busier is on the lookout for a husband. I believe -in emancipation of women--in votes for women--in all that sort of -thing. The one and only way to learn to swim is in the water. I am sick -and tired of woman the irresponsible, woman the cozener and milker of -man, woman the dead weight upon man, and drawing the pay of a housewife -and shirking all a housewife’s duties. So, you see, I am the friend of -woman--not of woman’s vanity and laziness and passion for parasiteism, -but of woman’s education and self-respect and independence. - -I was thoroughly old-fashioned. My notion of wife was the independent, -self-respecting equal of her husband. That is, I had the typical -American husband’s ideal--the ideal that dates from the pioneer days -of no property and of labor for all, the ideal the American man still -lives up to, the one that enables woman to betray him. And, having this -ideal, I never permitted myself--no, not even when I spoke to her the -contrary in words--I never permitted myself to _feel_ that my wife was -not in the main what she should be. - -If you have borne me company thus far, gentle reader, turn away -now. For, dreadful things are coming. I said to Armitage: “Your -sister--she’s still in the country?” - -“No, she’s abroad,” replied he. “She’s visiting friends in Budapest. -Later on she’s to yacht in the East Mediterranean--she and the Horace -Armstrongs and Beechman--and--” He gave several names I do not now -recall. - -“Is she engaged to Beechman?” I asked carelessly, but the question was -not one that could sound other than raw. - -He smiled--an expression I did not like. At first I thought it a rebuke -to my impertinence. Afterwards I saw no such notion was in his mind. -“Beechman? Good Lord, no.” - -“You are _sure_?” - -“Absolute. He’d not dare go in that direction with _her_.” - -“Why not?” said I. - -“Oh--well--you see-- She doesn’t care for him,” replied Armitage -lamely. I was not liking him so well, now that I knew the world--his -world--better and could judge its beliefs and its hypocrisies more -accurately. - -“He’s an unusual man,” said I. “She might easily care for him.” - -“Well, she doesn’t,” retorted he irritably. “I happen to know she -doesn’t.” - -I was convinced. Armitage’s tone said in effect that he had heard the -rumor, had questioned her, had been assured that there was no basis for -it. - -So, she was abroad--five or six days away. I could not go to her and -make a beginning. Would I have gone if she had been within reach? I do -not know. I rather think not. As I have said, I was old-fashioned; and -the sort of love I felt for her, and my sense of what she had suffered -at the hands of the first man she had trusted would have made me wait, -I hope, until I was free. Still, love is insidiously compelling. Who -can say what love would or would not beguile or goad him into doing? -The old-fashioned man, always reminding himself that women haven’t an -equal chance with men, was inclined to be considerate in his dealings -with a woman. The new-fashioned man lets her look out for herself. I -am not sure that he is wrong. Perhaps some who have read thus far will -guess the reason for my doubt. - -You may imagine how impatiently I waited for Edna to arrive. I am -afraid Rossiter found me difficult in those intervening days. Only -the weak sort of men and women are easy for an intelligent person to -live with. Men and women of positive character have their impossible -moods. I made this remark to Mary Kirkwood on that yachting trip in -the Sound. And her quick answer was: “Yes, that’s true. But everything -worth while is difficult. Weathering the stormy days would have its -compensations--and more.” What a woman! No wonder I loved her. - -When Edna finally arrived---- - -What an arrival it was! She was attended by two maids, one French, the -other Italian. She had trained them--she and their former fashionable -mistresses--to treat her as if she was a royal person, requiring the -most minute assistance, incapable even of ascertaining for herself -whether it was daylight or dark, rain or shine. She was clad in the -latest Paris fashions, adapted and improved for her own especial -charms. She wore much jewelry, but nothing noisy. There never was -anything noisy about her--any more than there is about a burst of -sunshine that fills and floods the whole place, permeating everywhere -and dominating everything. She talked by turns in English--with a -superb British accent--in French that sounded Parisian and in Italian -that seemed as liquid and swift as the Italian maid’s. It was a vast -ship, and there were about a thousand passengers, and much luggage. To -me, to all on the pier that day, there seemed to be but one landing and -but one lot of luggage. - -How many trunks had she? Heaven only knows. The customs people were -glad to expedite her after a glance at the exhibit imposing both in -extent and in costliness. She affected a delightful, most aristocratic -unconsciousness of the stir she was making, of the excited admiration -of men, of the gaping or jeering envy of women. Yes, it was a great -day, and as I accompanied her in the auto to the Plaza, I felt dowdy -and insignificant--felt like a humble male menial, a courier or valet. - -“I did not fully appreciate your magnificence,” said I, “until I saw -you on these humble shores.” - -“It is shocking here--isn’t it?” said she. “So incomplete, so crude. No -wonder the ideals are low. The surroundings give no inspiration.” - -“None--except for work,” said I. “It’s a land for working people only. -No doubt you’ll be going back soon?” - -“As soon as I can,” replied she. With a friendly but not tender smile: -“As soon as you’ll let me.” - -The absence of her customary effusiveness confirmed my theory of her -coming. I had thought all out with the utmost care. I felt it would be -in every way unwise to let her see that I was eager for the divorce. -She must open the subject. It had ever been my rule, when I wanted -anything, so to maneuver that the other person should propose the -exchange. It is the rule of successful operation in every department of -life. Therefore, adhering strictly to my prearranged programme, I could -only sit tight and wait. - -How she tried my patience! I was mad to have the preliminaries over, -to have the divorce under way--mad, not with the hysterical impatience -of those short-sighted people who mess their purposes through lack of -self-restraint, but with the white-hot repressed patience of those who -have their way in this world. Day followed day, and she did not speak. -I gave up the evenings and a large part of the afternoons to her. I -stayed on after dinner until there was no further excuse for lingering. -I listened to her interminable recital of fashionable names, dates, -gossip, adventure. A week of this, and just as my fortitude was wearing -itself out and I had begun to debate opening the subject myself, she -said: - -“I’ve been down looking at our house. Really it’s not half bad. Why -shouldn’t we open it?” - -I did not know what to say. Was I mistaken in her purpose in coming? -Or was this proposal to open the house the clever move of a clever -gamester to force me to speak first? - -“This lovely weather!” she went on. “It’s a shame such a climate should -be wasted upon such a vulgar city. When I think of the dreadful rains -that infest Paris and the rains and fogs of London-- How they would -glory in this sun and sparkling air.” - -To my notion New York was vastly more attractive than dreary London or -rainy, sloppy Paris. But I made no defense of New York. I wished her -to think it crude and tiresome. - -“And the fashionable society here,” she went on. “What a silly copy of -the real thing over there!” - -“It must remind you of Passaic,” said I. - -She visibly shivered. - -I was suddenly seized of a base inspiration. In my despair I did not -hesitate. Said I: “That reminds me. We must go over to see the old -people.” - -“Oh, yes,” she murmured. “I’m so neglectful.” - -I felt--I saw--that I was on the right track at last. “When will you -go?” I persisted. “Next Sunday?” - -“Perhaps,” said she faintly. - -“Yes, we’ll go Sunday. They fret because you never write.” - -“They are well?” - -“In splendid health. There’s no reason why all four of them shouldn’t -outlive us.” - -“You--you go often?” she faltered. - -“I haven’t been for some time,” said I. “You see, I’ve been away.... If -we opened the house, we could have them visit us. That would make up to -them for the way we’ve acted.” - -She gazed at me in large-eyed horror. Suddenly she smiled with patient -scorn and shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, I had forgotten your passion for -jesting.” - -“I am in earnest,” said I--and I was indeed in the full flood of -a virtuous penitence whose hypocrisy I did not detect until I was -thinking about the matter afterwards. You, gentle reader, would in -the same circumstances never have permitted yourself to discover the -hypocrisy. I went on: “I’m ashamed of the way I’ve acted.” - -“They’ve got everything they need or want,” said Edna. - -“Material comfort,” replied I. “But haven’t parents a right to expect -something more? And now that our social position is secure, we’ve no -excuse for acting snobbishly.” - -I enjoyed this virtuous talk for itself; still more, I enjoyed teasing -her. Her delicate, refined, ladylike nerves were aristocratically -sensitive. Have you observed that peculiarity of lady nerves? A lady -will live with the most shocking husband for luxury. She will endure -the most degrading humiliations to get dresses, jewels, motor cars. -She will crawl in the dirt to gain or to improve social position. -She will, without a quiver, kiss her worst enemy, cut her dearest -friends, in the furtherance of any ladylike purpose. But talk to her of -self-respecting independence, of earning her own living, or of any of -the homely decencies of life--of her ignorant old parents or unsightly -poor relatives--and what a fairy princess of high-strung nerves she -straightway becomes. Yes, Edna was a lady--a perfect lady, as perfect -as if she had been born to it. - -To my surprise I had daunted her only for the day; the following -afternoon she began again. “This heavenly weather!” she exclaimed. “It -tempts me to stay on and on.” - -“I hope it will last over Sunday,” said I. - -She ignored the shaft, and went on with undiminished enthusiasm: “And -really New York has improved. In some respects it can be compared to -Paris--though, of course, it has no background. A city can be built in -a generation or so. But to build up the country--that takes centuries.” - -“It’s building up rapidly,” said I. “You’ll be astonished Sunday by the -change down where the old folks are. The Fosdicks have bought up twenty -farms or so, and are making a park. I saw Amy Siersdorf not long ago -and she spoke of having stopped at father’s place and got milk and corn -bread.” - -“The fluffy little cat,” said Edna, not especially ruffled. “I shall -snub her the first time we meet. But I was about to speak of our house. -I am arranging to open it. Of course, Margot can’t come over _this_ -winter, but I don’t really need her. We owe it to our friends here to -do something socially. I want to stop the gossip.” - -“The gossip?” said I. - -“The talk because we are not living together. It isn’t dangerous, but -it’s uncomfortable. I believe people like us ought to maintain the best -social traditions--ought to set a good example to the lower classes.” - -“Oh, bother!” said I as good-humoredly as I could. “We’ll do as we -please. Otherwise, where’s the use in having money?” - -A pause which I felt was hopeful. Edna said with affected carelessness: -“_You_ don’t think people have a right to--to divorce?” - -At last! My intuition had been correct! “Why not?” replied I, my tone -as casual as hers. “Certainly, if they wish.” - -A long silence. Then she: “Sometimes I feel that way myself. When -two people find that they’re uncongenial, that they’d be better -off--happier--if free to go their separate ways and to realize to the -full their own ideals of life-- Why not?” - -“Precisely my view,” said I. - -Again a long silence. She finally said: “Has it ever occurred to you, -Godfrey, that you and I might be better off--apart?” - -I laughed. “It’s a good many years now since we were together,” replied -I. “We might as well be divorced as living the way we do.” - -“It’s because I’ve been feeling those very things, that I’ve come -back,” said she. “It seemed to me that, now I’ve fulfilled my duty to -Margot, I ought to do my duty to you.” - -“That’s like you,” said I. “For you life is one long sacrifice.” - -If she scented irony she dissembled well. “Sacrifice is the woman’s -part,” replied she sweetly. - -“No doubt,” I went on, “you’re willing to stay here where you’re -unhappy, and for my sake to jam the house night after night with -people you care nothing about, and disport yourself in splendor to -make the world envy me. I appreciate your nobility of character, but I -positively can’t allow it.” - -“We must do our duty,” said she. “Society expects certain things of us, -and we must do them.” - -“Not I, my dear. Open the house if you like. But I stick to my bachelor -apartment.” - -“Do you want me to go back to Europe?” said she with a fine show of -quiet melancholy. - -“I want you to do as you please,” was my answer. - -“But unless I stay here, and you and I take our place in society -together, I--” She hesitated. “Now that Margot is settled,” she went on -desperately, “I am adrift. And--Godfrey, we _can’t_ go on as we are.” - -“I see that,” said I. “What do you propose?” - -“To stay in New York,” replied she, with the promptness of the skilled -fencer. “To stay here and be the mistress of your establishment.” - -“My establishment is an apartment at Sherry’s.” - -“But that’s impossible!” remonstrated she. - -“Be calm, my dear. I don’t ask you to lead my kind of life.” - -“Then--what do you propose?” ventured she. - -I shrugged my shoulders and settled myself more comfortably in her -luxurious motor. I gazed with absorbed interest at the bunch of orchids -in the flower-holder. - -“I don’t see how we can continue neither free nor bound,” pursued she. - -“Whatever you like,” said I. “Only--no fashionable capering for me.” - -“Do you want me to get a divorce, Godfrey?” said she. - -“I want you to be happy,” said I. “Divorce has no terrors for me. -Aren’t we practically divorced already?” - -“That’s true,” said she. “We never did have much in common.” Then she -reddened--for, she could not quite forget those first days of our -married life, before I got the money to feed her ambition. “You make -me feel as if you were a--no, not a stranger, but only a friend.” - -“And we _are_ friends,” said I heartily. “And always shall be.” For I -was beginning to like her, to take the amiably indifferent outsider’s -view of her, now that she was freeing me. - -“Godfrey, do you want to marry again?” she asked with a sudden shrewd -look straight into my eyes. - -I laughed easily. “That question might better come from me,” said I. -“You will never be happy, I suppose, until you are the Duchess or -Princess Something-or-other.” - -A flush stole over her small sweet face, making it lovelier than ever. -“I never thought of such a thing,” she protested--but too energetically. - -“Nonsense,” said I. “You’ve dreamed it for years. Be honest with me, -Edna.” - -“How could I dream it?” replied she. “It would take an awful lot of -money.” - -“You have quite a bunch,” said I. “And if we parted, naturally I’d give -you more.” - -Once again--but this time slowly--the searching gaze turned upon me. - -I bore it well. “You can’t live as I live,” I went on. “I won’t live -as you live. You say that means divorce. I don’t think so. Many rich -American couples live apart without divorce. I believe usually the -reason is the wife has found she couldn’t get a large enough slice of -the husband’s fortune, if she divorced him. Still, for whatever reason, -they stay married. You don’t like the idea. So I say, if you want to -go I’ll give you as much as I gave Margot--in addition to what you -already have--and my blessing. I’ve some sentiment about the past, but -it is as a past.” - -“I am--stunned,” said she. And I think her vanity was. - -“It’s what you want?” rejoined I. - -“You put me in a hard position, Godfrey. You give me no alternative but -to accept.” - -“I am a hard man,” said I suavely. - -“You are really willing to let me go?” - -“You expected to have a difficult time persuading me?” laughed I. - -She looked at me reproachfully. “Do be serious, Godfrey, about these -serious things.” - -“All right. What do you say, Edna? Yes or no?” - -“I must have time to think,” replied she. “This is a very solemn -moment.” - -“Why fake?” said I pleasantly. “You have it all thought out.” - -“It is solemn to _me_, Godfrey.” - -“There’s nothing solemn about our married life. It’s a farce.” - -But she was searching for confirmation of her fear of some kind of -trap. “You really mean that you wish to free me?” she said. - -“I mean precisely what I say,” replied I. “Freedom and the cash are -yours for the asking. But you must ask, my dear. I’ll not have any more -of your favorite comedy of making yourself out a martyr.” - -“You don’t know how you hurt me,” cried she. “But you always have hurt -me--always. I know--” very gently--“that you didn’t mean to, but you -haven’t understood.” - -“I did my best,” said I, with the pleasant smile of which she was so -intolerant. “But what can be expected of a plain, coarse materialist of -a business man?” - -“Yet you are generous in many ways,” mused she. “It’s simply that you -can’t understand me.” - -“Perhaps it’s _you_ that don’t understand _me_,” said I. - -“What do you mean?” inquired she. - -“Oh, nothing,” I replied carelessly. How hope to make a vain woman, -obsessed of the notion that she has a profound and mysterious soul when -she simply has a fog-bank--how hope to make her see the truth about -herself? “It isn’t worth explaining. Only--when you are free and you -find some one who appreciates and sympathizes with that soul of yours, -be careful to pay him well, and to keep on paying. You can always be -flattered and fooled, if you pay for it. But if you don’t pay-- Look -out. You may hear the truth.” - -“What a cynic you are!” she cried. “Thank God, I haven’t your low views -of life.” - -“Keep your views, by all means,” said I. “But don’t forget my advice. -You are lovely. You are charming. You dress beautifully and have good -taste. But it’s the money, my dear, that causes the excitement about -those charms and graces. Hold on to your principal, and spend your -income freely but judiciously.” - -“If I could only convince you that there is something beside money in -the world.” - -“Not for those to whom money is the breath of life,” replied I. - -When we returned to her hotel she urged me to come in for tea. We went -into the greenroom, to listen to the music and to observe the crowds. -There was a sprinkling of men, but two thirds were women--women of -all classes and conditions, above the working class. Women obviously -fashionable as well as rich. Women obviously only rich. Women living -off men respectably. Women “trimming” here and there. An army of pretty -women--well-cared-for bodies, attractive faces, inviting the various -kinds of sensual attack from the subtlest to the frankest. This woman -at the next table is rather cheaply dressed, except a gorgeous hat. -That woman yonder has contrived to “trim” only a handsome set of -furs; it looks grotesque with the rest of the costume. A third has a -huge gilt bag as her sole claim to sisterhood with the throng of fair -pampered parasites upon husbands, fathers, lovers. A charming and a -useless throng. No, not charming, unless a man happens to be in the -mood in which he succumbs to the trimming process with pleasure--and -then, he would not think them altogether useless. - -“New York grows more and more like Europe,” said my wife, gazing around -with shining eyes, and inhaling the heavily scented atmosphere with -dilating nostrils. “More and more like Europe.” - -“More and more,” replied I. “Especially the women.” - -“Oh, they’re ahead of the European women,” said she. - -“So they are,” said I. “Yes--they beat the European women at it. But -I’m not sure whether that’s because they are really cleverer, or merely -because our men trim more readily.” - -She regarded me with an expression of mildly interested perplexity, as -if she couldn’t imagine what was the “it” I was talking about. “You -must admit they are lovely,” said she. - -“Admit it?” said I. “I proclaim it. If a man’s notion of dinner is only -the dessert, he couldn’t do better.” - -She looked still more vague--one of her tricks when she wished to avoid -or to ignore. “I never touch desserts,” said she. - -As I was leaving--for we were not dining together that evening--she -said: - -“I shall think about your proposal.” - -I looked straight at her. “Tell me whether you will or will not confirm -your own proposal,” said I. “And don’t delay too long. Unfinished -business makes me nervous.” - -She returned my look with quiet composure. “I shall let you know -to-morrow,” said she. - - - - -X - - -Among my acquaintances, both in and out of fashionable society, there -were not a few jealous husbands. I knew one man who, in the evening, -made his wife account for every moment of the day, and tell him in -detail how she was going to spend the following day, and during -business hours he called up irregularly on the telephone. He was not -content with the effective system of espionage which a retinue of -servants automatically establishes. Another man--to give a typical -instance of each of the two types--hired detectives from time to time -to watch his wife living abroad “for her health and to educate her -children.” In a decently ordered society this sort of jealousy is -rare. Only where the women are luxuriously supported parasites and the -men are attaching but the one value to the women--the only value they -possess for them--only there do you find this defiling jealousy the -rule instead of the exception. Naturally, if the woman is mere property -the man guards her as he guards the rest of his material possessions; -and the woman who consents to be mere property probably needs guarding -if she has qualities of desirability discoverable by other eyes than -those of her overprizing owner. - -This jealousy was in the air of the offices and clubs I frequented. -But it had somehow or other never infected me. Was I occupied too -deeply with other matters? Was I indifferent? Did my own disinclination -to dalliance make me slow to appreciate the large part dalliance now -plays in American life? I do not know why I was free from jealousy. -I only know that never once had my mind been shadowed by a sinister -thought as to what my wife might be about, far away and free. Possibly -my knowledge of her absorption in social ambition kept me quiet. -Certainly a woman whose whole mind and heart are set upon social -climbing is about the last person a seeker for dalliance would invest. - -I had never heard a word or a hint of a scandal about her--for the -best of reasons; she did nothing to cause that kind of talk. But, how -curious is coincidence! On the very evening of the day of our divorce -discussion Edna had her first experience of scandal, and I immediately -knew of it. After leaving her I went to the Federal Club, where I -often took a hand in a rather stiff game of bridge before dinner. I -drifted into the reading room, glanced idly at the long row of current -magazines. In full view lay the weekly purveyor of social news, a -paper I had not looked at half a dozen times in my life, and then only -because some one had asked me to read a particular paragraph. The -week’s issue of this scandal monger had just come in. I threw back -the cover, let my glance drop upon the page. I was hardly aware that -I was reading--for my thoughts were elsewhere--when I became vaguely -conscious that the print had some relation to me. I reread it; it was a -veiled attack upon Edna. All unsuspected by her husband--so the story -ran--she had come to America to divorce him that she might marry a -German nobleman of almost royal rank. A voice close beside me said: - -“What is it amuses you so in that dirty sheet?” - -It was Armitage. I started guiltily. Then my common sense asserted -itself, and I pointed to the paragraph. When he had read it I said: - -“Who’s the German? I’m not well enough up on the nobility to be able to -guess, though it’s probably plainly told.” - -“The Count von Biestrich,” said he. - -“Thanks,” said I, no wiser than before, and we went up to play bridge. - -A year or so before I might possibly have talked freely with Armitage; -but the day of our closest intimacy had passed. He was still my -intimate friend; I was his--with several large reservations. Why? -Chiefly because when he passed the critical age his mind took the -turn for the worse. At forty to forty-five a man begins to reap his -harvest. Armitage had many and varied interests, but the one that -affected his nature most profoundly was women. He mocked at them; he -was always inventing or relating stories about them of the more or less -gamey sort. But, somewhat like his pretensions of disdain for birth -and fashion, his wordy scorn of women concealed a slavish weakness for -them. After forty this began to disclose itself in his features. Their -handsome intellectuality began to be marred by a sensual heaviness; and -presently his wit degenerated toward a repellent coarseness. It takes -delicate juggling to make filth attractive. After forty a man does well -to be careful how he attempts it; for, after forty, the hand loses its -lightness. I rather avoided Armitage; not that I was squeamish, but -my sense of humor somehow rarely has responded to rude rootings and -pawings in the garbage barrel. - -About an hour after dinner Edna called me to the telephone and asked me -to come to her. I found her in high excitement, her color vivid, her -manner nervous beyond its natural vivacity even as now expanded upon -the best Continental models. “I got rid of my guests,” said she, “and -sent for you as soon as I could. Have you heard?” - -“About von Biestrich?” said I. - -“It is hideous!--hideous!” she cried. “I who have kept my name -unsullied--I who have----” - -“I’m sure of that,” I interrupted. “I’m dead tired and, if you’ll -excuse me, I’ll go home.” - -She caught me by the arm. “Godfrey, you think this was what I had in -mind. I swear to you----” - -“I’m sure you’ve been all that a wife is expected to be,” said I, in -my usual manner of good-natured raillery. “And I’m also sure you would -wait until you were free, and would deliberate very carefully before -deciding----” - -“Godfrey, how can you!” cried she, in her most exaggerated tone for -outraged spirituality. “Have you _no_ heart? Have you no respect for -me--your wife, the mother of your daughter?” - -“Have I not said I did not suspect you?” remonstrated I. “Why so -agitated, my dear? Do you wish to make me begin to suspect?” - -She shrank and began to cool down. “I’ve never had such an experience -before,” she apologized. “I don’t know how to take it.” - -“It’s nothing--nothing,” I declared. - -“I give you my word of honor that if I were free I should not consider -marrying that German.” - -“I believe you.” I put out a friendly hand. “Good night.” - -“This ends all talk of divorce,” said she. - -I dropped my hand. “I don’t see that the situation is changed in the -least.” - -“That’s because you are not a woman,” replied she. “You can’t -appreciate how I feel.” - -“You wished to be free before this paragraph appeared. You still wish -to be free.” - -“Oh, _how_ can you be so insensible!” cried she, all unstrung again -and, I could not but see, genuinely so. “I _never_ could face the -scandal of a divorce. I didn’t realize. It would kill me. How _did_ -Hilda face it?--and all these other nice women? I should hide and never -show my face again.” - -She was agitating me so wildly that I felt I could not much longer -conceal it. “I must go,” said I, pretending to yawn. “Sleep on it. -Perhaps to-morrow you’ll feel differently.” - -She tried to detain me, but I broke away and fled. To be almost free -and then to have freedom snatched away! Not out of reach, but where it -can be reached easily if one will simply stretch out his hand somewhat -ruthlessly. By no means so ruthless as my wife had been a score of -times in gaining her ends without regard to me. Why not be ruthless? -Had she not been ruthless? Had she not given me the right to compel -her to free me? More, did she not herself wish to be free? And was she -not now restrained, not by consideration for me, not by any decent -instinct whatsoever, but solely by a snobbish groveling fear of public -opinion?--a senseless fear, too? - -We are constantly criticising people--by way of patting ourselves on -the back--because they take what they want regardless of the feelings -of others. A form of self-righteousness as shameless as common; for -we happen not to fancy the things they show themselves inconsiderate -and swinish about. But--when we really do want a thing--what then? How -industrious we become in appeal to conscience--that most perfect of -courtiers--to show us how just and right it is that we should have this -thing _we_ want! Having set myself drastically to cure self-fooling -years before--when first I realized how dangerous it is and how common -a cause of failure and ruin--I was unable to conceal from myself the -cruelty of forcing Edna to divorce me. My conscience--as sly a sophist -and flatterer as yours, gentle reader--my conscience could not convince -me. Cruel things I had never done--that is, not directly. Of course I, -like all men of action, had again and again been compelled to do them -indirectly. But not by my own direct act had I ever made any human -being suffer. I would not begin now. I would not commit the stupidity -of trying to found my happiness upon the wretchedness of another. I -could feel the withering scorn that would blaze in Mary Kirkwood’s -honest eyes if I should go to her after having freed myself by force, -and she should find it out. I see your sarcastic smile, gentle reader, -as I thus ingenuously confess the selfish fear that was the hidden -spring of my virtue. Your smile betrays your shallowness. If you knew -human nature you would know that all _real_ motives are selfish. -The differences of character in human beings are not differences -between selfish and unselfish. They are differences between petty, -short-sighted selfishness and broad, far-sighted selfishness. - -When I saw Edna again she was still wavering. She had come to -America with her mind made up for divorce, if I could by hook or by -crook be induced to consent. She had been frightened by this attack -upon her--frightened as only those who live a life of complete -self-deception can be frightened by a sudden and public holding up of -the mirror to reflect their naked selves. She was, of course, easily -able to convince herself that her own motives in seeking a divorce -were fine and high and self-martyring. But she could now see no way to -convince others. In the public estimation she saw she would be classed -with Lady Blankenship, with Mrs. Ramsdell, with all the other women who -had got divorces to better themselves socially or financially. - -Instead of dying out the scandal grew. The daily papers took up the -hints in the society journal’s veiled paragraph, had long cabled -accounts of Count von Biestrich, of his attentions to Edna, told when -and where they had been guests at the same châteaus and country houses, -made it appear that they had been no better than they should be for -nearly a year. Edna was prostrated. - -“There’s only one answer to these attacks,” she said to me. “You must -give up your apartment and move to this hotel. We must open the house -and live in it together and entertain together.” - -I was not unprepared. I had threshed out the whole matter with myself, -had made my choice between the two courses open to me--or, rather, had -forced myself to see the truth that there was in decency but the one -course. “Very well,” said I to her--and that was all. - -I moved to the Plaza the same day; I was seen constantly with her; I -did my best to show the world that all was serene between us. In fact, -if you saw us during those scandal-clouded days you may have thought -us a couple on a honeymoon. Behind the scenes we quarreled--about -anything, about everything, about nothing--as people do when forced to -play in public the farce of billing and cooing lovers. Especially if -one of them has not the faintest glimmer of a sense of humor. But in -public---- - -The newspapers soon had to drop their campaign of slander by -insinuation. - -So it came to pass that by the opening of the season Edna and I were -installed in the big house, decidedly improved now thanks to the -collecting both of ideas and of things she had done abroad. And we -were giving all kinds of parties, with me taking part to an extent I -should have laughed at beforehand as impossible. She had become so -irritating to me that the mere sight of her put me in a rage. Have you -ever been forced into intimate daily contact with a nature that is -thoroughly artificial--after you have discovered its artificiality, -its lack of sincerity, its vanity and pretense and sex trickery? There -is, as we all know, in everyone of us a streak of artificiality, of -self-consciousness, a fondness for posing to seem better than we are. -But somewhere beneath the pose there is usually a core of sincerity, a -genuine individuality, perhaps a poor thing but still a real thing. It -may be there was this reality somewhere in Edna. I can only say that I -was never granted a sight of it. And I rather suspect that she, like -most of the fashion-rotted women and men, had lost by a process of -atrophy through suppression and disuse the last fragment of reality. -Had Gabriel’s trumpet sounded and the great light from the Throne -revealed the secrets of all hearts, it would have penetrated in her to -nothing but posing within posing. - -I shall get no sympathy from man or woman--or fellow-beast--after -talking thus of a woman and a lady. It is the convention to speak -gallant lies to and about women--and to treat them as if they were -beneath contempt. So my habit of treating them well and speaking the -truth about them will be condemned and denounced with the triple curse. -Well--I shall try to live through it. - -Except in occasional outbursts when her rude candor toward me would -anger me into retort in kind, I concealed my feeling about her. I knew -it was just, yet I was ashamed of it. Our quarrels were all surface -affairs--outbursts of irritation--the blowing off of surplus steam, -not the bursting of the boiler and the wrecking of the machinery. -If you happen to take into your employ any of the servants we had in -those days--Edna’s maids or my valet or any other of the menials so -placed that they could spy upon our innermost privacy--I am confident -that in return for your adroit, searching questionings you will hear -we were no more inharmonious than the usual married couple past the -best-foot-foremost stage. I did not swear at her; she did not throw -bric-à-brac at me. And once, I remember, when I had a bad headache she -stayed home from the opera--on a Monday night, too--to read to me. It -is true the new dress in which she had expected to show herself was not -ready. But that is a detail for a cynic to linger upon. - -Three months of New York, and she was bored to extinction. I had -confidently been expecting this. I watched the signs of it with -gnawing anxiety, for I was very near to the end of my good behavior. -If possible I wished to stay on and help her toward a rational frame -of mind--one in which she would see that divorce was the only possible -solution of our impossible situation. But I began to fear I should -have to give up and fly--to hunt or to inspect western mines and -railways. She was bored by the women; they seemed shallow dabblers in -culture after the European women. She was offended by their nervousness -about their position; it made them seem common in contrast with the -Europeans, born swells and impregnably ensconced. She was bored by the -men--by their fewness, by the insufferable dullness of those few--all -of them feeble imitations of the European type of elegant loafer. - -“These men have no subtlety,” she cried. “They have no conversation. -When they’re alone with a woman--you should hear them try to flatter. -They are as different from the European men as--as----” - -“As a fence-painter from an artist,” I suggested. - -“Quite that,” said she, and I saw her making a mental note of the -comparison for future use--one of her best tricks. “Really, I prefer -the business men to them. But one cannot get the business men. What a -country, where everyone who has any brains is at work!” - -“If you are unhappy here, why not go abroad?” said I amiably. “Margot -is always waiting for you.” - -“But how _can_ I go abroad?” railed she. “There’ll be another outbreak -of scandal. Was ever a woman so wretchedly placed! What _shall_ I do! -If I had some one to advise me!” - -It was interesting to hear her, determined, self-reliant character -though she was, thus confess to the universal weakness of the female -sex. Women, not trained to act for themselves, can hardly overcome this -fundamental defect. That is why you so often see an apparently, and -probably, superior woman weaken and yield where a distinctly ordinary -man would be strong and would march ahead. The trouble with Edna was -that she had no definite man behind her, spurring her on to action. In -all she had done from the beginning of our married life she had felt -that she had me to fall back on, should emergency arise--an unconscious -dependence, one she would have scornfully denied, but none the less -real. In this affair there was no man to fall back on. - -I saw this. Yet I refrained from giving her the support she needed and -all but asked. Her cry, “If I had some one to advise me,” meant, “If I -had some one to give me the courage to act.” I knew what it meant. But -eager though I was to be quit of her, I would not give her the thrust -toward divorce that would have put into her the courage of anger and -of the feeling that she was a martyr to my brutality. Why did I hold -myself in check? Candidly, I do not know. I distrust the suggestion -that it may have been due to essential goodness of heart. At any rate, -I did restrain myself. She--naturally enough--misunderstood; and she -proceeded to explain it to the gratifying of her vanity. I saw in her -eyes, in her way of treating me, that she thought me her secret adorer, -convinced of my unworthiness, of her god-to-mortal superiority; not -daring openly to resist her desire to be free from me, but opposing -it humbly, silently. I saw that she pitied me. Did this add to my -anger? Not in the least. I have a perhaps queer sense of humor. I -rather welcomed the chance to get a little amusement out of a situation -otherwise dreary and infuriating. - -Curiously enough, it was Armitage who came to her rescue--and to mine. - -Bob had been in retirement several weeks, having himself rejuvenated -by a beauty doctor. You are astonished, gentle reader, perhaps -incredulous, that a man of his position--high both socially and -financially--should stoop to such triviality--not a woman but a man. -And the serious, masculine sort of man he was, I assure you. But you, -being a confirmed accepter of the trash written and talked about human -nature, do not appreciate what a power physical vanity is in the -world. Of course, if you are a man, you know about your own carefully -hid physical vanity. But you think it in yourself a virtue, quite -natural, not a vanity at all. Bob Armitage was not vain enough to fail -to see the beginning of the ravages of time and dissipation. Another -man would have looked in the glass and would have seen a reflection -ever handsomer as the years went by, would have discovered in the -creases and crow’s-feet and lengthening wattles a superb beauty of -manly strength of character showing at last in the face. Bob was not -that sort of fool. He wished to fascinate the ladies; so, he strove -to retain the fair insignia of youth as long as he possibly could. He -knew as well as the next man that his wealth had value with the women -far beyond any degree of beauty or charm. But like most men he wished -to feel that he was at least not a “winner” in spite of his personal -self; and his young good looks even helped toward the pleasantest of -delusions--that he was loved for himself chiefly. - -The beauty doctor did well by him, I must say. He looked ten years -younger, would have passed in artificial light for a youth of thirty -or thereabouts. He reappeared in his haunts, freshened up mentally, -too; for physical content reacts powerfully upon the mind, and while it -is true that feeling young helps one to look young, it is truer that -looking young compels one to feel young. - -With him came a Prince Frascatoni, head of one of the great families -of Italy, one of the few that have retained German titles and estates -from the days of the Holy Roman Empire. Frascatoni was sufficiently -rich for all ordinary purposes, and could therefore pose as a traveler -for pleasure with no matrimonial designs. He was, in fact, poor for -a _grand seigneur_ and was on the same business in America that has -attracted here every other visiting foreigner of rank--except those who -come for political purposes, and those who come to shoot in the West. -And those classes give our fashionable society as wide a berth as they -would its middle-class prototype in their home countries. - -The first time I saw Frascatoni--when he and Armitage strolled into -the reading room of the Federal Club together--I thought him about the -handsomest and, in a certain way, the most distinguished-looking man -I had ever seen. He was a black Italian--dark olive skin, coal-black -hair, dark-gray eyes that seemed black or brown at a glance. They were -weary-looking eyes; they gazed at you with the ineffable dreamy satiric -repose of a sphinx who has seen the futile human procession march into -the grave for countless centuries. He had a slow sweet smile, a manner -made superior by the effacement of every trace of superiority. He had -the quiet, leisurely voice of one used to being listened to attentively. - -“Loring--the Prince Frascatoni. Prince, I particularly wish you to know -my friend Godfrey Loring. Don’t be deceived by his look of the honest -simple youth into thinking him either young or unsophisticated.” - -The prince gave me his hand. As it had also been my habit ever since -I learned the valuable trick merely to give my hand, the gesture -was a draw. Neither had trapped the other into making an advance. -We talked commonplaces of New York sky line, American energy and -business enthusiasm for perhaps half an hour. Then we three and some -one else, a professional cultivator of millionaires named Chassory, -I believe, played bridge and afterwards dined together. It came out -sometime during the evening that Frascatoni had met my wife in Rome -and in Paris, and that he knew my son-in-law--not surprising, as the -fashionable set is international, and is small enough to be acquainted -all round. - -Armitage must have told him that my wife and I were not altogether -inconsolable if we did not see too much of each other. For, the prince, -taking Edna in to dinner a few nights later, laid siege at once. I -recall noting how he would talk to her in his quiet, leisurely way -until she looked at him; then, how his weary eyes would suddenly light -up with interest--not with ardor--nothing so banal as that--but a -fleeting gleam of interest that was more flattering than the ardor of -another man would have been. As Frascatoni, an unusual type, attracted -me, I saved myself from boredom by observing him all evening. And it -was highly instructive in the art of winning--whether women or men--to -see how he led her on to try to make that fascinating fugitive gleam -reappear in his eyes. I afterwards discovered that he accompanied the -gleam with a peculiar veiled caress of inflection in his calm, even -voice--a trick that doubly reënforced the flattery of the gleam. - -“What a charming man Prince Frascatoni is,” said my wife, when our -guests were gone. - -“Very,” said I. “If I were writing a novel I’d make him the hero--or -the villain.” - -“He is one of the greatest nobles in Europe.” - -“He looks it and acts it,” said I. - -“Why, I thought him very simple and natural,” protested she. - -“Exactly,” said I. “So many of the nobles I’ve met looked and acted -like frauds. They seemed afraid it wouldn’t be known that they were of -the aristocracy.” - -“You are prejudiced,” said Edna. - -“Then why do I size up Frascatoni so well?” - -“You happen to like him.” - -“But I don’t,” replied I. - -“Of course not,” said Edna with sarcasm. “He isn’t in business.” - -“Precisely,” I answered. “He couldn’t do anything--build a railroad, -run a factory, write a book, paint a picture. He and his kind are -simply amateurs at life, and their pretense that they could be -professionals if they chose ought to deceive nobody. He probably could -ride a horse a little worse than a professional jockey, or handle a -foil almost as well as a fencing master, or play on the piano or the -violin passably. I don’t admire that sort of people, and I can’t like -where I don’t admire.” - -Edna yawned and prepared to go up to her own rooms. “I hope he’ll stay -a while,” said she. “And I hope he’ll let me see something of him. He’s -the first ray of interest I’ve had this winter.” - -“You will see something of him,” said I. “He liked you.” - -“You think so?” said she, seating herself on the arm of a chair. - -“I know it. Unless he finds what he’s looking for, he’ll attach himself -to you.” - -“What is he looking for?” - -“A very rich wife,” said I. “But she must be attractive as well as -rich, Armitage tells me. Frascatoni doesn’t need money badly enough to -annex a frump. And Armitage says that while Englishmen and Germans and -the heiress-hunting sort of French don’t care a rap what the lady looks -like, the Italians--of the old families--are rather particular--not -exacting, but particular. Unless, of course, the fortune is huge.” - -Edna yawned again. That sort of talk either irritated or bored her. - -Frascatoni was constantly with her thenceforth--not pointedly or -scandalously so; there are discreet ways of doing those things, and -of discretion in all its forms the Italian was a supreme master. The -game of man and woman had been his especial game from precocious and -maddeningly handsome boyhood. He had learned both by being conquered -and by conquering. They say--and I believe it--that of all the -foreigners a clean Italian nobleman is the most fascinating. - -The Hungarian or Russian is a wild, barbaric love-maker, the German -a wordy sentimentalist, the Englishman dominates and absorbs, the -Frenchman knows how to flatter the most subtly, how to make the woman -feel that life with him would be full of interest and charm. But the -right sort of Italian combines the best of all these qualities, and -adds to them the allure of the unfathomably mysterious. He constantly -satisfies yet always baffles. He reveals himself, only to disclose in -the inner wall of what seemed to be his innermost self a strangely -carved door ajar. - -My first intimation of what Frascatoni was about came from my wife. -Not words, of course, but actions. She abruptly ceased quarreling, -rebuking, reproaching, scoffing. She soothed, sympathized, agreed. She -became as sweet as she had formerly been. I was puzzled, and waited -for light. It came with her next move. She began to talk of going back -to Europe, to deplore that scandalmongers would not let her. She began -to chaff me on my love of a bachelor’s life, on my dislike of married -life. She said with reproachful, yet smiling gentleness, that I made -her feel ashamed to stay on. - -“Admit,” said she, “that you’d be better pleased if I were in Guinea.” - -“You oughtn’t have given me so many years of freedom,” said I. - -“You’d have been glad if I had gone on and gotten a divorce,” pursued -she. - -My drowsing soul startled and listened. “I was willing that you should -do as you liked,” said I. “Divorce is a matter of more importance to -the woman than to the man--just as marriage is.” - -“And it’s a sensible thing, too--isn’t it?” - -“Very,” said I. - -“Godfrey, would you honestly be willing?” - -“I’d not lay a straw in your way.” - -“What nonsense we’re talking!” cried she, with a nervous laugh. “And -yet there’s no denying that we don’t get on together. I see how trying -it is to you to have me about.” - -“And you want to be free and living abroad.” - -“I wonder how much I’d really mind the scandal,” pursued she. “I don’t -care especially about these New York people. And at the worst what harm -could they do _me_?” - -“None,” said I. - -“They could only talk. How they’d blame me!” - -“Behind your back, perhaps,” said I. “Unless they thought I was to -blame--which is more likely.” - -“You talk of divorce as if it were nothing.” - -“It’s merely a means to an end,” said I. “You’ve got only the one life, -you know.” - -“And I’m no longer so _dreadfully_ young. Though, I heard that Armitage -said the other day he would never dream I was over twenty-eight if he -didn’t know.” - -She laughed with the pleasure we all take in a compliment that is -genuine; for she knew as well as did Armitage that she could pass for -twenty-eight--and a radiant twenty-eight--even in her least lovely hour. - -“No one has youth to waste,” observed I. “In your heart you wish to be -free--don’t you?” - -“We are not suited to each other, Godfrey,” said she with gentle -friendliness. - -“There’s not a doubt of that,” said I. - -“Why should we spoil each other’s lives? I conceal it from you, but I -am so unhappy here.” - -“You can’t blame _me_,” said I. “I’m not detaining you.” - -A long silence, then she said: “Suppose I were to consent--” I laughed, -she reddened, corrected herself: “Suppose we were to decide to do -it--what then?” - -“Why--a divorce,” said I. - -“Can’t those things be done quietly?” - -“Certainly. No publicity until the decree is entered and the papers -sealed.” - -“Does that mean no scandal beyond just the fact?” - -“No scandal at all. Just the fact, and some newspaper comment.” - -“And we needn’t be here.” - -“Not then.” - -“Would it take long?” - -I reflected. “Let me see--if you begin action say within a month, the -divorce would take-- I could have it pushed through in another month or -so, and then--by next fall you’d be free.” - -“But doesn’t one have to have grounds for divorce, beside not wanting -to be married?” - -“All that easily arranges itself,” said I. - -She lapsed into a deep study, I furtively watching her. I saw an -expression of fright, at the daring of her thoughts, gather--fright, -yet fascination, too. Said she in a low voice: “Godfrey, are you -_serious_?” - -“Entirely so,” was my careless reply. “Aren’t you?” - -“I don’t know whether I am or not.... I am _wretched_ here!” - -“All you have to do is to say the word. We don’t in the least need each -other, and mutual need is the only respectable excuse for marriage. And -I must tell you, I’ll not stand for any more of this social nonsense -that compels me to participate. I’m done.” - -She looked at me pityingly. Our season had been a brilliant success, -yet I remained unconverted, coarsely unsympathetic. “If I should decide -to--to do it--what then?” - -“Nothing. I’d go away. The rest would be for the lawyers.” - -She looked at me dazedly. “I’ll see--I’ll see,” she said, and went to -her own part of the house. - -A week passed. Frascatoni sailed for home, sending by her his polite -regrets at not having seen me before his departure. I waited, -confident. I knew she had a definite goal at last, and, therefore, -a definite purpose. Aside from the danger of frightening her back -by showing my own eagerness there was the matter of property. I was -willing to pay a good round price for freedom. I have always hated -money wrangles; I had never had one with her, and I did not purpose to -have. On the other hand, that is, on her side, she would have given me -short shrift had it not been that she wished a slice of my fortune--and -a generous slice--to add to her own. I’ve not a doubt that the fierce -social campaign she put me through that winter was not so much for her -own pleasure, though she delighted in it, as for goading me to demand -a divorce, and, so, enable her to ease her conscience and to drive a -better bargain. - -My seeming indifference, combined with her now trembling eagerness to -be free and away, soon forced her hand. The break came on a Sunday -afternoon. Life is so inartistic--that is, from the standpoint of the -cheap novelists and playwrights with their dramatic claptrap. Here is -how the grand crash was precipitated: - -Said I: “Well, I’m off for a few weeks’ fishing.” - -“You’re not starting now?” said she. - -“Day after to-morrow,” said I. - -“But I’ve made several engagements for you.” - -“Get a substitute,” said I. “No one will miss me.” - -“How inconsiderate you are!” - -“That’s pretty good--after all I’ve borne this winter.” - -“You are insufferable!” cried she. - -“Then--why suffer me?” said I coolly. - -“If you torture me much further, I won’t,” retorted she. - -“I think I’ll clear out to-night,” said I. - -“With people coming to dinner to-morrow! A big dinner!” - -“Yes--to-night,” said I. “I had forgotten to-morrow’s horrors.” - -“If I were free!” - -“That’s easy.” - -“Yes--I _will_ be free!” - -“I’ll send you a lawyer at eleven to-morrow morning.” - -She was pale and trembling. The quarrel was a mere pretense--a pretext -so flimsy that each knew the other was not deceived by it. Her tones of -anger, my tones of abrupt and contemptuous indifference were obviously -false and forced. As I left the room I cast a furtive glance at her, -saw that her daring was so terrifying her that she could hardly keep a -plausible front of haughty anger. - -It was several hours before I could get away from the house, though I -made all haste. Every moment I expected some word from her. But none -came. I sent the lawyer the following morning. I was surprised when -later in the day, by the necessary roundabout way, I learned that she -had actually consented. - -She showed that she had made an exhaustive study of the subject, like -the wise campaigner she was. She thoroughly understood how to proceed; -for, she told her lawyer--the one of my lawyers whom I assigned to -her--that my coldness to her had filled her with suspicion and that she -wished detectives employed. She needed no coaching whatever; he found -her prepared on every point. - -How far had matters gone between her and Frascatoni? Not so far as you -imagine; but perhaps farther than I think. Both the husband and the -world are poor judges in those affairs. - - * * * * * - -I shall pass over the suit. It was commonplace throughout. There has -been much speculation as to the person named by my wife in the sealed -papers. I can truthfully say that I know as little about that person -as does the public. It is usually so, I believe, in these arranged -suits. I did not appear at any of the hearings, all of them held -secretly. Nor did Edna appear, though I believe that, to comply with -the forms of law, she made some sort of deposition in the presence -of the lawyers for both sides. It so happened that the first and -only public step--the judge’s ordering of the decree of divorce--was -published on the same day with the news of a big prize fight, a -sensational murder, and a terrific earthquake. So, we got off with -little public attention. At the time the law provided that a decree -should not become valid for six months. We were nominally free; but -actually neither could marry again for six months and meanwhile either -of us could reopen the case--and she could by merely requesting put an -end to it and restore her status as my wife. So, I was free--unless -Edna should change her mind sometime within the six months. - -Edna was in London and I in Paris when the news came. Curiously enough, -as I stood in the doorway of the Ritz restaurant, that evening, looking -about for a table where I could dine alone, in came Prince Frascatoni -with another Italian whose name I cannot recall. I bowed to Frascatoni. -He said: - -“You are alone, sir?” - -“Unluckily, yes,” replied I. - -He introduced his companion and suggested that we three dine at the -same table. “Why not share our dinner?” said he. “I can easily change -my order. Perhaps you will go with us afterwards to some amusing little -plays in a Montmartre theater?” - -I accepted the courteous invitation. The situation appealed to my -sense of humor. Also I knew that Edna--toward whom I now felt most -kindly--would be delighted to read in the papers: “Prince Frascatoni -had as his guest at dinner last night Mr. Godfrey Loring.” It would -put an immediate stop to any tendency to gossip. As the prince did not -speak of my former wife I assumed that he had heard the news. - -When we were separating I said: “You will dine with me to-morrow night?” - -“Unfortunately I’m leaving town in the morning,” said he. - -I thought I could guess which way he was journeying. With perhaps a -twinkle in my eyes, I said: “So soon? Well--thank you, and good-by--and -good luck.” - -I thought I saw a sardonic smile flit over his face. He probably -imagined I was in the dark as to his maneuverings and designs and -smiled to himself as he thought, “How differently this American would -be treating me if he knew!” Do not fancy, because Edna had no charm -for me, I thought it strange she should have charm for other men. -Nothing could be further from the truth. I appreciated her attractive -points perhaps more than any other man possibly could. Also, I -appreciated--and still appreciate--that another man would not be so -peculiarly annoyed by her lack of any sense of humor as I was. Indeed, -had not circumstances forced me into the acutely critical mood toward -her, I doubt not I could have continued to bear with that lack, though -it made conversation with her all but impossible and precipitated -quarrels without number. - -Beyond question the strongest and most enduring hold a man can get -upon a woman or a woman upon a man is the physical. We--even the least -intellectual of us--are something more than physical; but the physical -must be contented first, and must remain contented, because we are -first of all physical. The physical is the fundamental; but it takes -more than foundations to make a house. And a marriage such as ours was -could not endure. Each of us had but the one charm for the other. It -wore itself out like a fire that is not supplied with fuel. - -If I had not fallen in love with another woman, there might have -remained a feeling for Edna that would have made me jealous, perhaps -domineering toward her. As it was, I viewed her calmly; when I said -“good luck” to Frascatoni, I meant it. I hoped he would make Edna -happy, for, I wished her well. - -Through Armitage I had provided myself with Mary Kirkwood’s address--an -apartment overlooking the Parc Monceau which she and Neva Armstrong had -taken for the spring months. That very afternoon I went to leave cards. -As I feared she was not at home. “But,” said Mrs. Armstrong, “you may -find her walking in the park with Hartley Beechman.” - -“Oh, is he here?” said I. - -“Naturally,” replied she. - -You may picture me as suddenly dashed down by this word whose meaning -there was no mistaking. If so, you have discovered little about me in -these pages. Life had made me a competent judge of the situation that -is really hopeless, the situation where to struggle is folly, and that -situation which seems hopeless to the small of earth, accustomed to -defeat in their desires, but seems only difficult to the other sort of -human beings. - -“He has taken a studio over in the Latin quarter,” continued Mrs. -Armstrong. “We are all going back together in July.” - -Mrs. Armstrong is an attractive woman--singularly so for one who -is obviously wholly absorbed in her husband. She has the sort of -personality her paintings prepare you to expect. But I had difficulty -in concealing my impatience to get away. I strolled several times -through the park, which is not large, before I finally came upon Mary -and Beechman seated in one of the less-frequented paths. As I was -moving directly toward them, both saw me at the same instant. Her -welcoming smile was radiant. I did not notice his, but I assume it was -more reserved. - -Never had I seen her looking so well. You may say what you please, -but an American woman who knows how to dress, in touch with a French -dressmaker who is rather artist than dressmaker, is the supreme -combination for æsthetic beauty. Mrs. Kirkwood, of the ivory skin and -the coal-black hair, was a thrilling sight to see in her white dress -and big black hat, with that background of fresh spring foliage and -late afternoon light. Her eyes and her smile, I noted for the first -time, had somewhat the same quality as Frascatoni’s--the weary eyes, -the slow sweet smile. - -“Mr. Loring!” she cried, rising and extending her hand impulsively. “I -thought I was never to see you again.” - -I hid my emotion and greeted her, then Beechman, in my habitual manner -which, they tell me, is the reverse of effusive. I suppose, when I am -deeply moved, its lack of cordiality becomes even more pronounced. -After a few minutes of the talk necessary among acquaintances who have -not met in a long time Beechman rose. - -“You and Beechman will dine with me, I hope?” I said. “Mrs. Armstrong -says she will go if you can.” - -It was arranged and, as the day was warm, d’Armenonville was fixed -upon as the place. “Until half-past eight,” said Beechman as he left. -Mary and I sat silent watching him walk away. A superb figure of -young manhood, supremely fortunate in that his body was an adequate -expression of a strong and simple nature. - -As he passed from view at the turn of the walk I transferred my gaze to -her. Her eyes slowly lowered, and a faint flush came into her cheeks. -Said I: - -“You saw the news--about me?” - -“Hartley and I were talking of it as you appeared.” - -“You were not surprised?” - -“Yes--and no,” replied she, with constraint and some confusion. “A year -or so ago I--people thought--you and she had--had drifted apart. Then -it looked as though you had come together again. It seemed the natural -thing. She is beautiful and has so much charm.” - -“She was unhappy in America. She wished to be free.” - -Mary looked at me reflectively. “You are not--inconsolable, I see,” -said she with a smile of faint raillery. “My brother has often told me -about you--how indifferent you are to women. Perhaps that is why you -are attractive to them.” - -“Am I?” said I. “I did not know it.” - -“You are terribly impersonal,” she went on laughingly. “Last summer -I--well, I was not--that is, not exactly--trying to flirt with -you. But your absolute unconsciousness of me as a woman was often -very--baffling.” - -I laughed. “You thought that?” - -“How could I help seeing it? Why, you treated me precisely as if I were -another man. Not that I didn’t like it, on the whole. A woman gets -tired of being always on guard.” She smiled at herself. “That sounds -horribly conceited. But you know what I mean. The men never lose a -chance to practice. Then, too--well, if a woman has the reputation of -being rich she need not flatter herself that it is her charms that do -all the drawing.” - -“That’s the supreme curse of money--it all but cuts one off from love -and friendship. Fortunately it, to a great extent, takes the place of -them.” - -“I don’t like to hear you say that,” said she. - -“How many poor people get love and friendship?” replied I. “Isn’t -it the truth that there is little--very, very little--real love -or friendship in the world? All I meant was that money, and the -independence and comfort and the counterfeit of affection it brings, -are better than nothing at all.” - -“Oh, I see,” said she. “You are so sensible--and you don’t cant. That -was why I liked to talk with you. At first I thought you cynical and -hard. That’s the first impression plain good sense makes. We are used -to hearing only shallow sentimentality.” - -“The unending flapdoodle,” said I. - -“Flapdoodle,” agreed she. “Then--I began to discover that you were -anything but hard--that you looked at people as they are, and liked -them for themselves, not for what they pretended to be. I was beginning -to trust you--to venture timidly in the direction of being my natural -self--when you left.” - -“Well--here I am again,” said I. “And we start in afresh.” - -She smiled with embarrassment. “Yes,” she said hesitatingly. “But the -circumstances have changed somewhat.” - -I know full well now what I should have said. I should have replied, -“Yes--we are both almost free--but soon will be altogether free--I -in six months, you as soon as you break your engagement.” That would -have been bold and intelligent--for it is always intelligent to make -the issue clear at the earliest possible moment. But I did not speak. -I remained silent. Why? Because as I was talking with her I was -realizing that I had been deceiving myself in a curious fashion. I had -been so concentratedly in love with her-- Gentle reader, I see the -mocking smile on your shallowly sentimental face. You are ridiculing -a love that could have such restraint as mine--that could bear with -Edna, could wait, could refrain from any of the familiar much-admired -impetuosities and follies. You cannot understand. In this day when men -no longer regard or feel their responsibilities in taking a more or -less helpless woman to wife, your sense of the decencies is utterly -corrupted. But let me say that no matter how ardently and romantically -a man may conduct himself, a woman would do well to take care how she -trusts him if he has a bad or even a doubtful record as to his way of -meeting his responsibilities of whatever sort. That kind of love may -“listen good,” but it does not “live good.” However--as I was about -to say when your smile interrupted me, my all-absorbing love for Mary -Kirkwood had misled me into assuming, with no reason whatsoever, that -she understood all, that she knew I was eager to come to her, and would -come as soon as I could. You will say this was absurd. Granted. But -is not a man in love always absurd? You will say it was egotistical. -Granted. But is not a man in love always egotistical? It is not the -realities but the delusions that keep us going; and in those long -months of waiting, of hoping often against hope, I had to have a -delusion to keep me going. But now, her friendly, simply friendly, way -of talking to me made me see that I had her yet to win, that I could -not speak out directly as I had planned. You, who probably know women -well, may say that this was a mistake. Perhaps. Nevertheless _I_ could -not have done otherwise. - -You will say that women do not know their own minds, but have to be -told. I admit it. You will say my silence was timidity. I admit it. -I could not talk of love to a woman until I was sure she wished to -hear. I had the timidity of the man to whom woman and love are serious -matters; the timidity unknown to the man who makes love to every -passable female at whom he has a chance; the timidity which all women -profess to approve, but which, I more than suspect, appeals only to -the jaded palate of the woman who has long made love and passion her -profession. - -As Beechman was busy with a novel I had everything my own way without -strategy during those following days. There are a thousand attractive -places to go in and near Paris, and I was resourceful in contriving -excursions for the days when there was no chance of seeing only her. -Almost every day the London papers or the Paris _Herald_ printed -something about Edna and the brilliant season she was having in London; -often not far away from her name in a list of guests was the name of -Prince Frascatoni. My own activities, more Bohemian as was my taste -and the taste of my friends--and I may say the taste of civilized and -intelligent Paris--my activities were not recorded in the papers. I -fancied they were unobserved. I was soon to be undeceived. - -I wonder who the people are that write anonymous letters--and give -anonymous “tips” to society journals? Every once in a while by -mischance--often by my having made a remark that was misinterpreted -into something malicious or low, utterly foreign to my real meaning--I -have had some fellow-being suddenly unveil a noisome corner in his or -her soul for confidently awaited sympathy; and I have almost literally -shrunk back in my horror at the cesspool of coarseness, or at the -vicious envy. Have you had that experience? No doubt scattered among -us ordinary folk, neither particularly good nor particularly bad, -well rather than ill-disposed and amiable, if not too severely tried -or tempted--no doubt, scattered among us there are not a few of these -swine souls or snake souls, hid beneath a pleasant smile and fine -raiment. And these are they who give off the foulness of the anonymous -letters and the anonymous tip. - -In one of the minor London society papers appeared this paragraph which -I am sure I quote word for word: - - “American Paris is much amused these beautifully fine spring days - with the ardent love-making of a recently divorced railway ‘baron.’ - The lady is herself a divorcee of several years standing and is - supposed to be engaged to a famous young literary man who is all - unaware of what is going on.” - -I know of five copies of this journal that were mailed with the -paragraph marked. The five were received by Edna, Margot, myself, Mary -Kirkwood, and Hartley Beechman. I have often mentally gone through the -list of my acquaintances in search of the person who was responsible -for this thing. I have some extremely unpleasant characters in that -list. But I have never been able to suspect who did it. Not improbably -the guilty person is some one in other respects not a bad sort--for -almost any given cut from that vast universal, human nature, contains -something of everything. - -I had an engagement with Mary Kirkwood to walk in the Bois and have tea -the afternoon of the day this paragraph reached me. When I arrived at -her apartment she came down ready to go. Her costume was so lovely and -I so delighted in her that I did not immediately note the heavy circles -round her eyes nor the drawn expression of her mouth. I did not dream -that she knew of the paragraph. I had read it and had dismissed it -from my mind. The anonymous letter and the anonymous newspaper attack -were old familiar stories to me, as they are to every man who attains -distinction in active life. But as we drove toward the Bois I happened -to catch a glimpse of her by way of the mirror in the frame of the -taxi. I saw the evidence of suffering--and the wistful, weary look in -her beautiful eyes. - -“What is it?” said I. “You have had bad news?” - -“Yes,” replied she. - -“Can I help?” - -“Don’t let’s talk of it now,” said she. “Wait until we are in the -woods.” - -Soon after we passed the entrance gates we descended and rambled away -over the not too even ground, along the indistinct paths under the -fascinating little trees. It was a gorgeous, perfumed May day. You -know the Bois--how lovely it is, how artfully it mingles the wild and -the civilized, suggesting nature as a laughing nymph with tresses half -bound, half free, with graceful young form half clad, half nude. We -rambled on and on, and after half an hour seated ourselves where there -were leaves and the slim graceful trunks on every side and the sound of -falling water like the musical voice of the sunbeams. - -Mary drew a long sigh. “I feel better,” she said. - -I looked at her. “You _are_ better. You have shaken it off.” - -She met my gaze. “This is the last time,” she said. She looked away, -repeated softly, thoughtfully, “the last time.” - -“The last time?” - -“We are not going to see each other any more. It is being -misunderstood.” - -I glanced quickly at her, and I knew she had read the paragraph. “That -miserable scandal sheet!” said I. “No one sees it--and if they did why -should we notice anything so ridiculous?” - -She did not answer immediately. After a while she said: “Perhaps I -ought not to say it, but--Hartley is sensitive. A copy of the paper got -to him.” - -“One to me. One to you. One to him.” - -“No matter,” said she. “The mischief is done.” - -“You do not give up a friend lightly,” rejoined I. The time to speak -was at hand; I welcomed it. - -“_He_ has asked me to give you up,” said she simply. “And I shall do -it.” - -“But he has no right to ask such a thing,” protested I. - -“Yes--he has. He and I are engaged--you knew that?” - -“I imagined there was some sort of an engagement,” said I, still -waiting for the right opening. - -“There is only one sort of engagement possible with me,” replied she, -with a certain gentle reproach. - -“I know that,” said I. “But I remember the talk we had on the yacht.” - -A flush overspread her paleness for a moment. Then she rose from the -little rustic iron chair. “We must go,” said she. - -“Wait,” said I. And I made a tactless, a stupid beginning: “You can’t -deny that you do not love him.” - -She turned coldly away and walked on, I following. “I think I’ll not -stop for tea,” she said. “Will you hail the first taxi we meet?” - -“You are offended--Mary?” I said. What a blundering fool love does make -of a man!--unless he makes a fool of it. - -She shook her head. “No--not offended. But when a subject comes up -about which we may not talk there is nothing to do but drop it.” - -In my desperation I reached for the right chord and struck it. “Do you -know,” said I, “why I left the yacht abruptly?” - -She halted, gave me a swift, frightened glance. The color flooded her -face, then fled. - -“Yes--that was why,” said I. “And--I’ve come as soon as I could.” - -“Oh, why, why didn’t you _tell_ me?” cried she. Then, before I could -answer, “I don’t mean that. I understand.” Then, with a wild look -around, “_What_ am I saying?” - -“I’ve come for you, Mary,” I went on. “And you are not going to rush -into folly a second time--a greater folly. For--you do not love -him--and you will care for me. You are right, we can’t discuss him--you -and him. But we can, and must, discuss you and me.” - -“I shall not see you again,” said she, looking at me with tranquil eyes -that would have daunted me had I not known her so well, understood her -so well--which is only another way of saying, had I not loved her so -well. - -“Why have you been seeing me day after day, when you knew that I loved -you----” - -“I did not know it,” replied she. “I did not think I could move you in -the least--beyond a friendly liking.” - -An inflection in her voice made me suddenly realize. “You came because -it made you happy to come!” I cried triumphantly. I caught her hand. -“You do care, Mary!” - -She drew her hand away resolutely. “I shall keep my promise,” she said -coldly. “I wish to hear no more.” - -“You will not keep your promise. If necessary I’ll go to him and tell -him--and he’ll release you.” - -She gave me a look that withered. “You--do a cowardly thing like that!” - -“No,” said I. “But _you_ will ask him to release you. You have no right -to marry him. And I--I love you--and must live my life with you, or--I -can think of nothing more futile and empty than life without you. And -your life--would it not be futile and empty, Mary, if you tried to live -it without me, when we might have been together? Together!--you and I! -Mary, my love!” - -“Why do you say those things, Godfrey?” she cried passionately. “To -make me wretched? To make it harder for me to do what I must?” - -“To make it impossible for you to do what you must not. Marry a man -you don’t love--marry him when you love another! You’d be doing him -the worst possible injury. No matter how much he loves you, he can -recover from the blow of losing you. But the day to day horror of such -a loveless marriage would destroy you both. He is a sensitive man. He -would feel it, in spite of all your efforts to pretend. You--pretend! -You could not do it.” - -“After what has passed between him and me--the promises we’ve -exchanged--the plans we’ve made--there is no going back! I don’t wish -to go back. I----” - -“Mary--I love you!” I cried. “I love you--and you love me. That’s the -wall between you and any other man, between me and any other woman.” - -She had waved to a passing taxi. It swept into the edge of the drive. -She opened the door. “You are not coming with me,” she said. “And I -shall not see you again.” - -I laid my hand on her arm and forced her to meet my gaze. “You are -hysterical now,” I said. “But you will be calm, and----” - -She gave me a cold smile--it would have deceived those who do not -understand the temperaments that can conceal themselves. “I am -perfectly calm, I assure you,” said she. - -“As you were the first time we ever met,” said I. “You’ve no -right to marry any man but me, Mary. If you did you’d be wronging -yourself--me--him most of all. That is the truth, and you will see it.” - -She dragged her arm away, burst into violent sobs, sank upon the seat -of the cab. I hesitated--obeyed a right instinct, closed the door, -gave her address to the ignoring chauffeur, stood watching the cab -whisk away. I was shaking from head to foot. But I had no fear for the -outcome. I knew that I had won--that _we_ had won. - - - - -XI - - -Rossiter--I believe I have mentioned the name of my new secretary--was -lying in wait for me at the hotel entrance. He read me a telegram from -Margot: Edna was ill, was not expected to live, begged me to come at -once. - -I wrote to Mary Kirkwood--a brief repetition of what I had said to -her--“of what I know both your intelligence and your heart are saying -to you, dear.” I told her that Edna was desperately ill and had sent -for me, and that I should be back as soon as I could get away. I went -on to say many things such as a man deeply in love always says. No -doubt it was a commonplace letter, as sincere love letters are apt -to be; but because it was from my heart I felt that, for all the -shortcomings, it would go to her heart. I admit I am not a facile -love-maker. I have had little practice. And I suspect, those who are -facile at love-making have got their facility by making love speeches -so often when they were not in earnest that they cannot but have lost -all capacity to be in earnest. - -Toward noon the next day Rossiter and I and my valet were set down at -the little station of Kesson Wells, half an hour out from London in -Surrey. We were in the midst of about as beautiful a country us I have -seen. I am a narrow enough patriot not to take the most favorable -view of things foreign. But I must admit that no other countryside can -give one the sense of sheer loveliness that one gets in certain parts -of England. I am glad we have nothing like it at home; for to have it -means rainy weather most of the time, and serf labor, and landlord -selfishly indifferent to the misery of the poor human creatures he -works and robs. Still, I try to forget the way it came in the joy of -the thing itself--as you, gentle reader, forget the suffering and death -of the animals that make the artistic and delicious course dinners you -eat. - -We were received with much ceremony at the station. My money was -being exercised by those who knew how to do it. After a drive between -perfumed and blossoming hedgerows and over a road as smooth and clean -as a floor we came to Garton Hall, the place my son-in-law had leased -until his new house should be ready. It was a modern house, as I -noted with relief when we were still afar off, and while not large, -was a most satisfactory embodiment of that often misused and often -misunderstood word comfort. To live in the luxurious yet comfortable -comfort obtainable in England only--indoors, in its steam-heated or -Americanized portions--one must have English servants. I am glad we do -not breed English servants in America; I am glad that when they are -imported they soon cease to be the models of menial perfection they -are at home. But when I am in England I revel in the English servant. -To find him at his best you must see him serving in the establishment -of a great noble. And my son-in-law was that; and the establishment -over which Margot presided, but with which she was not permitted to -interfere in the smallest detail because of her utter ignorance of all -the “vulgarities” of life, as became a true lady of our quaint American -brand--the establishment was a combination of the best of the city with -the best of the country, a skillful mingling of the most attractive -features of home, club, and hotel. - -My first question at the station had, of course, been as to Mrs. -Loring. I was assured that her ladyship’s mother was somewhat better, -but still awaiting the dangerous crisis of the fever. Margot, not a -whit less girlish for her maternity, met me in the doorway, and had the -nurse there with the boy--the Earl of Gorse. They said he looked like -me--and he did, though I do not believe they thought so. Why should -they say it? I was still a young man and might marry again. I fancy -the same prudent instinct prompted them to give him Godfrey as one of -his four or five names. Why do I think they did not believe he looked -like me? Because all of them were ashamed of everything American. In -the frequent quarrels between Margot and Hugh, he never failed to use -the shaft that would surely pierce the heart of her vanity and rankle -there--her low American birth, in such ghastly and grotesque contrast -to the illustrious descent of her husband. She had an acid tongue -when it came to quarreling; she could hurl taunts about his shifts -to keep up appearances before he met her that made ugly and painful -marks on his hide. She had discovered, probably by gossiping with some -traitor servant, that he had been flouted by a rich English girl for -a chauffeur--and you may be sure she put it to good use. But nothing -she could say made him quiver as she quivered when he opened out on the -subject of those “filthy bounders in the States.” - -Do not imagine, gentle reader, that my daughter was unhappily married. -She would not have exchanged places with anyone but the wife of a duke; -and Hugh--well, he needed the money. Nor should you think that they -lived unhappily together. They saw little of each other alone; and in -public they were as smiling and amiable with each other as--perhaps as -you and your husband. - -A fine baby was the Earl of Gorse--one who in a decent environment -would have grown up a sensible, useful person. But hardly, I feared, -when he was already living in his own separate apartment, with his -name--“The Earl of Gorse”--on a card beside the door, and with all the -servants, including his mother, treating him as if he were of superior -clay. This when he barely had his sight. They say a baby learns the -utility of bawling at about three days old; I should say the germ of -snobbishness would get to work very soon thereafter. - -You are waiting to hear what was the matter with Edna. No, it was not -a fake illness to draw me within reach for some further trimming. -She had indeed fallen dangerously ill--did not expect to live when -Margot telegraphed me. It was an intestinal fever brought on by the -excesses of the London season. I wonder when the biographers, poets, -playwrights, novelists, and other gentry who give us the annals of the -race will catch up with the progress of science? How long will it be -before they stop telling us of germ and filth diseases as if they were -the romantic physical expressions of soul states? There was a time when -such blunders were excusable. Now, science has shown us that they are -so much twaddle. So, gentle reader, I cannot gratify your taste for -humbug and moonshine by telling you that Edna was stricken of remorse -or of overjoy or of secret grief or of any other soul state whatever. -The doctor bosh was, of course, nervous exhaustion. It always is if -the patient is above the working class. The truth was that she fell -ill, even as you and I. She ate and drank too much, both at and between -meals, and did not take proper care of herself in any way. She wore -dresses that were nearly nothing in cold carriages and draughty rooms, -when she was laden with undigested food. Vulgar--isn’t it? Revolting -for me to speak thus of a lady? But I am trying to tell the truth, -gentle reader, not to increase your stock of slop and lies which you -call “culture.” And if a lady will put herself in such a condition, -why should it not be spoken of? Why go on lying about these things, -and encouraging people to attribute to sensitive nerves and souls the -consequences of gluttony, ignorance, and neglect? - -I am not criticising Edna for getting into such an internal physical -state that a pestilence began to rage within her. The most intelligent -of us is only too foolish and ignorant in these matters, thanks to -stupid education from childhood up. And she has the added excuse of -having been exposed to the temptations of a London season. She fell; it -is hardly in human nature not to fall. - -You have been through a London season? It is a mad chase from food to -food. You rise and hastily swallow a heavy English breakfast. You ride -in the Row a while, ride toward a lunch table--and an English lunch, -especially in the season, means a bigger dinner than any Frenchman or -other highly civilized person ever willingly sat down to. Hardly is -this long lunch over before it is time for tea--which means not merely -tea, but toast, and sandwiches, and hot muffins, and many kinds of -heavy cake, and often fruit or jam. Tea is to give you an appetite for -the dinner that follows--and what a dinner! One rich, heavy course upon -another, with drenchings of wine and a poisonous liqueur afterward. -You sit about until this has settled a bit, then--on to supper! Not so -formidable a meal as the dinner, but still what any reasonable person -would call a square meal. Then to bed? By no means. On to a ball, where -you eat and drink in desultory fashion until late supper is served. -You roll heavily home to sleep. But hardly have your eyes closed when -you are roused to eat again. It is breakfast time, and another day of -stuffing has begun. - -Starvation, they tell me, is one of the regular causes of death in -London. But that is in the East End. In the West End--and you, gentle -reader, are interested only in that section--death, I’ll wager, -reaps twenty from overfeeding to one he gets in the East End through -underfeeding. Famine is a dreadful thing. But how characteristic of the -shallowness of human beings it is that you can make a poetic horror -out of famine, when no one would listen while you told the far more -horrible truth of the frightful ravages of overfeeding, chief cause -of all the diseases that torture and twist the human body, aging and -killing it prematurely. - -Edna had been for many years most cautiously careful of her health. She -loved her youth, her beautiful body. She fought against her natural -fondness for food and wine. I fancy that, for this first season after -freedom she relaxed her rules, and turned herself loose to “celebrate.” -I know she must have had something of this sort in mind, because her -French maid--I could not talk with the Italian--told me that madame had -arranged an elaborate programme of “cures” on the Continent after the -season. “And they were to be serious cures,” said she. - -Her illness took such a course of ups and downs, with death always -hovering, that it was impossible for me to leave. I wrote Mary; I got -no reply. I sent Rossiter to Paris; he reported that Mrs. Armstrong -and Mrs. Kirkwood had left for the country, but that he could get no -address. - -You probably picture me as scarcely able to restrain myself from acting -like a madman. How little you know of me! Do you think I could have -achieved my solid success before I reached forty-five years if I had -been one of the little people who fret and fume against the inevitable? -All men who amount to anything are violent men. Jesus, the model of -serenity and patience, scourged the money changers from the temple. -Washington, one more great exemplar of the majesty of repose, swore -like a lunatic at the battle of Monmouth. These great ones simply -had in the highest form the virtues that make for success in every -department of leadership. Certainly, I am a violent man; but I have -rarely been foolish enough to go crazy to no purpose. - -What could I do but wait? And over that beautiful, quiet country place -floated the black cormorant, with wings outspread and hollow, burning -eyes bent eagerly downward. I waited, not in fury, but oppressed by a -deep melancholy. For the first time in my life I was thinking seriously -of death. To any man no decisive event of life is so absolutely -unimportant as his own death. I never have wasted, and never shall -waste, a moment in thinking of my death. It may concern others, but how -does it concern me? When it comes I shall not be there. The death of -another, however--that is cause for reflection, for sadness. I knew, -as did no one else, how intensely Edna loved life, how in her own way -of strain and struggle she enjoyed it. And to me it was pitiful, this -spectacle of her sudden arrest, her sudden mortal peril, as she was -about to achieve the summit of her ambition. - -I wondered as to Frascatoni. I pictured him waiting, with those -tranquil, weary eyes already looking about for another means to his aim -of large fortune should this means fail. There I misjudged him; for, -one day as I stood in a balcony overlooking the drive he came rushing -up in a motor, and my first glance at his haggard face told me that -he loved her. In a way it is small compliment to a woman to be loved -by the fortune-hunting sort of man; for, he does not release himself -until he has the permit of basest self-interest. But Frascatoni, -having released himself, had fallen in love with all the frenzy of his -super-refined, passionately imaginative nature. - -After a few minutes he drove away. I do not know what -occurred--naturally, they would not speak of his call and I did not ask -questions. I can imagine, however. She seemed better that day, and he -must have gone away reassured. He was sending, every morning, enormous -quantities of flowers; such skill and taste showed in the arranging -that I am sure it was not the usual meaningless performance of rich -people, who are always trying to make money-spending serve instead of -thoughtful and delicate attention. - -Nearly a month dragged along before she was able to see me. As I have -explained, her beauty was not dependent upon evanescent charms of -contour and coloring, but was securely founded in the structure of her -head and face and body. So, I saw lying weakly in the bed an emaciated -but lovely Edna. Instantly, on sight of her, there came flooding back -to me the memory of the birth of Margot, our first child--how Edna -had looked when they let me go into the humble, almost squalid little -bedroom in the flat of which we were so vain. She was looking exactly -so in this bed of state, in this magnificent room with the evidences of -wealth and rank and fashion on every side. She smiled faintly; one of -the slim weak hands lying upon the cream-white silk coverlet moved. I -bent and kissed it. - -“Thank you for being here,” she murmured, tears in her eyes. Her lips -could scarcely utter the words. - -“You must not speak, your ladyship,” warned the nurse. To flatter -Americans and to give themselves the comfortable feeling of gratified -snobbishness English servants address us--or rather our women--as if we -had titles. - -“You are to get well rapidly now,” I said. - -“You’ll stay until I can talk to you?” - -“Yes,” I said--what else could I say? - -They motioned me away. I had committed myself to several weeks more of -that futile monotony--and I no longer had the restraint of the sense -that she might die at any moment. - -Even had I been willing to break my promise I could not have done so; -for she would have me in every morning and every afternoon to look at -me, and they told me that if I were not there to reassure her, it would -undoubtedly cause a change for the worse. I stayed on and wrote to Mary -Kirkwood--all the time with the fear that my letters were not reaching -her, but also with the unshakable conviction that she was mine. You -smile at this as proof of my colossal vanity. Well, your smile convicts -you of never having loved. The essence of love is congeniality. -Appetite is the essence of passion--which, therefore, has no sense of -or especial desire for mutuality. Passion is as common as any other -physical appetite. Love is as rare as are souls generous enough to -experience or to inspire it. The essence of love is congeniality--and -I _knew_ there was a sympathy and understanding between me and Mary -Kirkwood that made us lovers for all time. - -There came a day--how it burned into my memory!--when Edna was well -enough to talk with me. Several days before and I saw that it was not -far away, and I awaited it with fierce impatience; she would tell me -why she had sent for me and I should be free to go. It was one of those -soft gray days of alternating rain and sun that are the specialty of -the British climate. Edna, with flowers everywhere in her sitting room, -was half reclining in an invalid chair, all manner of rich, delicate -silk and lace assistants to comfort, luxury and beauty adorning her -or forming background for her lovely face and head. I do not think -there is a detail of the room or of her appearance that I could not -reproduce, though at the time I was unaware of anything but her -voice--her words. - -I entered, seated myself in the broad low window opposite her. She -looked at me a long time, a strange soft expression in her weary -eyes--an expression that disquieted me. At last she said: - -“It is so good to be getting well.” - -“And you are getting well rapidly,” I said. “You have a wonderful -constitution.” - -“You are glad I am better, Godfrey?” - -I laughed. “What a foolish question.” - -“I didn’t know,” said she. “I feared-- I have acted _so_ badly toward -you.” - -“No indeed,” replied I. “Don’t worry about those things. I hope you -feel as friendly toward me as I do toward you.” - -“But you have always been good to me--even when I haven’t deserved it.” - -This was most puzzling. Said I vaguely, “I guess we’ve both done the -best we could. Do you want to tell me to-day why you sent for me? Or -don’t you feel strong enough?” - -“Yes--I wish to tell you to-day. But--it isn’t easy to say. I’m very -proud, Godfrey--and when I’ve been in the wrong it’s hard for me to -admit.” - -“Oh, come now, Edna,” said I soothingly. “Let’s not rake up the past. -It’s finished--and it has left no hard feeling--at least not in me. -Don’t think of anything but of getting well.” - -She lay gazing out into the gentle rain with the sunshine glistening -upon it. A few large tears rolled down her cheeks. - -“There’s nothing to be unhappy about,” said I. “You are far on the way -to health. You are as lovely as ever. And you will get everything you -want.” - -“Oh, it’s so hard to tell you!” she sighed. - -“Then don’t,” I urged. “If there’s anything I can do for you, let me -know. I’ll be glad to do it.” - -She covered her eyes with her thin, beautiful hand. “Love me--love me, -Godfrey--as you used to,” she sobbed. - -I was dumbfounded. It seemed to me I could not have heard aright. I -stared at her until she lowered her hand and looked at me. Then I -hastily glanced away. - -“I’m sorry for the way I’ve acted,” she went on. “I want you to take me -back. That was why I sent for you.” - -I puzzled over this. Was she still out of her mind? Or was there some -other and sane--and extremely practical--reason behind this strange -turn?--for I could not for an instant imagine she was in sane and -sober earnest. - -“You don’t believe me!” she cried. “No wonder. But it’s so, Godfrey. I -want your love--I want _you_. Won’t you--won’t you--take me--back?” - -Her voice sounded pitifully sick and weak; and when I looked at her I -could not but see that to refuse to humor her would be to endanger her -life. I said: - -“Edna, this is an utter surprise for me--about the last thing I -expected. I can’t grasp it--so suddenly. I--I-- Do you really mean it?” - -“I really mean it, dear,” she said earnestly. - -It was evident she, in her secret heart, was taking it for granted -that her news would be welcome to me; that all she had to do in order -to win me back as her devoted, enslaved husband was to announce her -willingness to come. I have often marveled at this peculiar vanity of -women--their deep, abiding belief in the power of their own charms--the -all but impossibility of a man’s ever convincing a woman that he does -not love her. They say hope is the hardiest of human emotions. I doubt -it. I think vanity, especially the sex vanity both of men and of women, -is far and away hardier than even hope. I saw she was assuming I would -be delighted, deeply grateful, ardently responsive as soon as I should -grasp the dazzling glad tidings. And she so ill and weak that I dared -not speak at all frankly to her. - -She stretched out her hand for mine. I slowly took it, held it -listlessly. I did not know what to do--what to say. - -“It is so good to have you again, dear,” she murmured. “Aren’t you -going to kiss me?” - -“I don’t understand,” I muttered, dropping her hand and standing up to -gaze out over the gardens. “I am stunned.” - -“I’ve been cruel to you,” she said with gracious humility. “Can you -ever forgive me?” - -“There’s nothing to forgive. But--” There I halted. - -“I’ll make up for it, dear,” she went on, sweetly gracious. “I’m not -surprised that you are stunned. You didn’t realize how I loved you. I -didn’t myself. I couldn’t believe at first when I found out.” - -“You are not strong enough to talk about these things to-day,” said I. -“We’ll wait until----” - -She interrupted my hesitating speech with a laugh full of gentle -gayety. “You’re quite wrong,” said she. “I’m not out of my mind. I mean -it, dear--and more. Oh, we shall be _so_ happy! You’ve been far too -modest about yourself. You don’t appreciate what a fascinating man you -are.” - -I’m sure I reddened violently. I sat, rose, sat again. “You’ve given me -the shock of my life,” said I, with an embarrassed laugh. “I’ll have to -think this over.” I rose. - -“No--don’t go yet,” said she, with the graciousness of a princess -granting a longer interview. “Let me tell you all about it.” - -“Not to-day,” I pleaded. “You must be careful. You mustn’t overtax -yourself.” - -“Oh, but _this_ does me good. Sit near me, Godfrey, and hold my hand -while I tell you.” - -I felt like one closeted with an insane person and compelled to humor -his caprices. I obediently shifted to a seat near her and took her hand. - -“You could never guess how it came about,” she went on. - -As she was looking inquiringly at me, I said, “No.” - -“It was very strange. For the first few weeks after the divorce--no, -not the divorce--but the decree--for it isn’t a divorce yet, thank -God!--for the first weeks I was happy--or thought I was. I went early -and late. I had never been so gay. I acted like a girl just launched in -society. I was in ecstasies over my freedom. Do you mind, dear? Does it -hurt you for me to say these things?” - -“No--no,” said I. “Go on.” - -“How queer you are! But I suppose you are dazed, poor dear. Never mind! -When I am better--stronger, I’ll soon convince you.” And she nodded and -smiled at me. “Poor dear! How cruel I have been!” - -“Yes--we’ll wait till you are stronger,” stammered I, making a move to -rise. - -“But I must tell you how it came about,” she said, detaining me. “All -of a sudden--when I was at my gayest--I began to feel strange and -sad--to dislike everyone and everything about me.” - -“It was the illness working in you,” said I. - -She gave the smile of gentle tolerance with which she received my -attempts at humor when she was in an amiable mood. “How like you that -is! But it wasn’t the illness at all. It was my inmost heart striving -to force open its door and reveal its secret. Do be a little romantic, -this once, dear.” - -“Well--and then?” - -“Then--a paragraph in one of the society papers. Some one sent it to me -anonymously. Was it you, dear?--and did you do it to make me jealous?” - -She spoke as one who suddenly sees straight into a secret. “I didn’t,” -said I hastily. “It never entered my head to think you cared a rap -about me.” - -“Now, don’t tease me, Godfrey, dear. You must have been making all -sorts of plans to win me back.” - -“You read the item in the paper?” suggested I. - -“Oh, yes--I must finish. I read it. And at first I shrugged my -shoulders and said to myself I didn’t in the least care. But I couldn’t -get the thing out of mind. Godfrey, I had always been too sure of you. -You never seemed to be a single tiny bit interested in other women. So -the thought of you and another woman had not once come to me. That item -put it there. You--_my_ husband--_my_ Godfrey and another woman! It was -like touching a match to powder. I went mad. I----” - -She was sitting up, her eyes wild, her voice trembling. “You must not -excite yourself, Edna,” I said. - -“I went mad,” she repeated, so interested in her emotions that she -probably did not hear me. “I rushed down to Margot. I fell ill. I made -her telegraph for you. Oh, how I suffered until I knew you were here. -If you hadn’t come right away I’d have cabled to my lawyer in New York -to have the divorce set aside--or whatever they do. I can have it set -aside any time up to the end of the six months, can’t I?” - -“Yes,” admitted I, though her tone of positive knowledge made my reply -superfluous. - -She seemed instinctively to feel a suspicion--an explanation of her -amazing about-face--that was slowly gathering in my bewildered mind. -She drew from the folds of her negligee a note and handed it to me. She -said: - -“I haven’t confessed the worst I had done. Read that.” - -“Never mind,” said I. “I don’t wish to know.” - -“But I wish you to know,” insisted she. “There mustn’t be anything dark -between us.” - -I reluctantly opened the note and read. It was from Prince -Frascatoni--not the cold bid for a break that my suspicion expected -but a passionate appeal to her not to break their engagement and throw -him over. I could by no reach of the imagination picture that calm, -weary-eyed man of the world writing those lines--which shows how ill -men understand each other where women are concerned. - -“He sent me that note the day I came here,” said she. “I did not answer -it.” Her tone was supreme indifference--the peculiar cruelty of woman -toward man when she does not care. - -“You were engaged to him?” said I--because I could think of nothing -else to say. - -“Yes,” said she. Then with the chaste pride of the “good” woman, “But -not until after the decree was granted. He would have declared himself -in New York, but I wouldn’t permit _that_. At least, Godfrey, I never -forgot with other men that I was your wife--or let them forget it. You -believe me?” - -“I’m sure of it,” said I. - -She gazed dreamily into vacancy. “To think,” she mused, “that I -imagined I could marry him--_any_ man! How little a woman knows her own -heart. I always loved you. Godfrey, I don’t believe there is any such -thing as divorce--not for a good woman. When she gives herself”--in a -dreamy, musical voice, with a tender pressure of my hand--“it is for -time and for eternity.” - -Never in all my life had I so welcomed anyone as I welcomed the -interrupting nurse. I felt during the whole interview that I was under -a strain; until I was in the open air and alone I did not realize how -terrific the strain. I walked--on and on, like a madman--vaulting gates -and fences, scrambling over hedges, plowing through gardens, leaping -brooks--on and on, hour after hour. What should I do? What _could_ I -do? Nothing but wait until she was out of danger, wait and study away -at this incredible, impossible freak of hers--try to fathom it, if it -was not the vagary of a diseased mind. I wished to believe it that, -but I could not. There was nothing of insanity in her manner, and from -beginning to end her story was coherent and plausible. Plausible, but -not believable; for I had no more vanity about her loving me than has -the next man when he does not want the love offered him and finds it -inconvenient to credit, and so is in the frame of mind to see calmly -and clearly. - -I wandered so far that I had to hire a conveyance at some village -at which I halted toward nightfall. As soon as I was at the house I -ordered my valet to pack, and wrote Edna a note saying that neglected -business compelled me to bolt for London. “But I’ll be back,” I wrote, -at the command of human decency. “I feel that I can go, as you are -almost well.” Half an hour later I was in the train for London. - -A letter, feebly scrawled, came from her the next day but one--a brief -loving note, saying that she understood and that I knew how eagerly she -was looking forward to my return--“but don’t worry, dearest, about me. -I shall soon be well, now that my conscience is clear and all is peace -and love between us. I know how you hate to write letters, but you will -telegraph me every day.” - - * * * * * - -How I got through those next few weeks I cannot tell. I had no sense of -the reality of the world about me or of my own thoughts and actions. -Every once in a while--sometimes when I was talking with the men -whose company I sought, again when I was alone in bed and would start -abruptly from sleep--I pinched myself or struck myself violently to -see if I was awake. Edna’s letters were daily and long. I read them, -stared at them, felt less certain than ever of my sanity or of my being -awake. I sent her an occasional telegram, dictated to Rossiter--a vague -sentence of congratulation on her better health or something of that -kind. Soon this formality degenerated to a request to Rossiter: “And -telegraph Mrs. Loring.” Or he would say, “Shall I send Mrs. Loring a -telegram?” and I would reply, “Yes--do please.” - -It was obviously necessary that I should not see her before she was -well enough to be talked to frankly. I invented excuses for staying -away until my ability in that direction gave out. Then Rossiter, best -of secretaries, divining my plight, came to the rescue. I gave him -a free hand. He went too far, created in her predisposed mind the -illusion that I was champing with impatience at the business that -persisted in keeping me away from her. I do not blame him; he took the -only possible course. - -At last she was completely restored. The doctors and nurses could find -no pretext for lingering, and that in itself was proof positive of her -health and strength. She was having her meals with the family, was -attending to her correspondence, was alarmed because she was taking on -flesh so rapidly. She began offering to join me in London. When she -wrote that she was starting the next day I telegraphed her not to come; -and, after four more days of delay on various excuses, I went down. I -should have liked to postpone this interview a week or ten days. Again -I see you smiling at me, posing as madly in love with Mary Kirkwood yet -able to put off the joy of being free to go to her. But, gentle reader, -you must not forget that I had first to deal with Edna. And, from what -you have learned of her, do you think I was wise or foolish to wish to -meet her only when she could not possibly prevent candor by pleading a -remnant of invalidism? - -She was charmingly dressed to receive me, rushed forward before them -all and flung her arms around my neck in a graceful, effusive fashion -she had learned on the Continent. I received the shock as calmly -as I could, noting the awkwardly concealed surprise of Margot and -Hugh. We had lunch; she did most of the talking--a gay, happy-hearted -rattling--the natural expression of a woman with not a care in the -world. And I-- In spite of myself I felt like an executioner come to -assassinate an unsuspicious and innocent victim. For the best side of -her was to the fore, and all the unpleasant traits were so thoroughly -concealed that they seemed to have been burned up in that terrible -fever. I _knew_ they were still there, but I could not _feel_ it. - -When we were alone in her sitting room, she said: - -“Where’s your valet and your luggage?” - -“In London,” said I. - -“Oh, they’re coming on a later train.” - -“No,” said I, seizing this excellent opportunity. “I’m going back this -afternoon.” - -She gave a cry of dismay. “Godfrey!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t it a shame!” -Then, rushing to the bell, “I’ll have my things got ready. I’ll go back -with you. You shan’t be left alone, dearest.” - -I seated myself. “Don’t ring,” I said. “Wait till we’ve talked the -matter over.” - -“I see you can’t really believe--even yet,” cried she laughingly. “I -must convince you.” And she rang the bell. - -“When your maid comes, send her away,” said I. “Don’t order her to -pack. You can’t go with me.” - -She looked at me anxiously. “How solemn you are!” she cried. “Has -something gone wrong in that business?” - -“Nothing,” said I. The maid came, was sent away. Edna moved toward me, -would have sat in my lap or on the arm of my chair had I not prevented -her by rising on the pretext of lighting a cigarette. - -“You are very--very--strange,” said she. Then advancing toward me and -gazing into my face, “Godfrey, there wasn’t any truth in that item--was -there?” She looked like a sweet, lovely slip of a girl, all tenderness -and sincerity. - -“I’ve come to discuss our affairs--not malicious newspaper gossip,” -said I, fighting for my usual manner of good-humored raillery. “First, -tell me what is the meaning of this outburst of affection for me? -Aren’t you satisfied with the settlements?” - -“Oh, Godfrey, what a cynic you are!” laughed she. Then with an air of -earnestness that certainly was convincing, she said: “Can’t you _feel_ -that I love you?” - -“I cannot,” replied I blandly. “On the contrary, I _know_ that you care -nothing about me. So let’s talk business as we always have.” - -She did not rave and vow and swear. She did not show the least -excitement. She seated herself and, fixing upon me a look which I can -only describe as tenacious, she said: - -“Whether you believe me or not, I love you. And I shall not give you -up.” - -My internal agitation instantly cleared away. I am always nervous about -crossing a bridge until my foot touches it; thenceforth I am too busy -crossing to bother about myself. “Well--what do you propose?” said I. - -“To be your wife,” replied she. “To show you how sorry I am for the -way I have acted, to show you by thinking only of making you happy.” - -“Yes? And what will you _do_ to make me happy?” - -“Look after your comfort--your home, Godfrey.” - -“But you don’t know about that sort of thing,” said I. “You know only -how to make a house attractive to other people. You are far too fine -for a private housekeeper.” - -“I shall learn,” said she sweetly. “Those things are not difficult.” - -I smiled at this unconscious confession of incapacity to learn the most -difficult of all the arts. “You will practice on me, eh? Thank you--but -no. You wouldn’t make me comfortable. You’d only harass yourself and -deprive me of comfort--and for years. ‘Those things’ are less easy than -you imagine. You are set in your ways, I in mine.” - -“You don’t realize,” protested she confidently. “You must be lonely, -Godfrey. You need companionship--sympathy. I can give it to you -now--for, I am awake at last. I know my own mind and heart.” - -I shook my head. “That sounds well, but what does it _mean_? Next -door to nothing, my friend. You and I are not interested in the same -things. We’ve nothing to talk about. I don’t know the things you -know--the social, the fashionable side of life. You don’t know my side -of life--and you couldn’t and wouldn’t learn enough to interest me. -Any forced interest you might give would bore me. Pardon my frankness, -but this is no time for polite falsehoods. The fact is we’ve outgrown -each other. When we look out of our eyes, each of us sees an entirely -different world; and neither of us cares about or even believes in the -other’s world. We talk, only to irritate. We are absolutely and finally -apart. It would be impossible for us to live together.” - -She waited until I finished. I doubt if she listened. It was her habit -not to listen to what she did not wish to hear. “Godfrey--Godfrey!” she -cried, battling with the sobs that rose, perhaps in spite of her. “Do I -mean nothing to you--I who have been everything to you? Does the word -wife mean nothing to you?” - -“You mean nothing to me,” replied I. “And I mean nothing to you. Let us -not pretend to deceive ourselves.” - -“But you did care about me once,” she pleaded. “I am not old and faded. -I still have all the charms I used to have--yes, and more. Isn’t that -so, dear?” - -“You are more beautiful than you ever were,” said I. “But--you’ve -gotten me out of the habit of you. And I couldn’t go back to it if I -would.” - -She buried her face in her hands and wept. - -“At your old tricks,” said I impatiently. “It has always been your way -to try to make me seem in the wrong. As a matter of fact, you lost -years ago--lost before I did--all interest and taste for our life -together. It was you who ended our married life, not I.” - -“Yes, it was all my fault,” she sobbed. “Forgive me, dear. Take me -back. Don’t cast me off. I’ll be whatever you say--do whatever you -wish. Only take me back!” - -I could not make an inch of progress toward the real motive behind this -obviously sincere plea. As I sat silent, looking at her and puzzling, -she began to hope that she had moved me. No--rather, she began to feel -stronger in her deep rooted conviction that at bottom I loved her and -had never wavered. She came across the room, dropped to her knees -beside my chair and hid her face in my lap. Why is it that passion once -extinguished can never light again? As she knelt there I appreciated -all her physical charms; but I was appreciative with that critical -calmness which is the absence of all feeling. I laid my hand on hers. - -“Edna,” I said, “what _is_ the meaning of this?” - -“I am telling you the truth, Godfrey,” replied she, lifting her -gold-brown eyes to gaze at me. “As God is my judge, I am telling you -the truth.” - -“No doubt you think you are,” said I diplomatically. “But your good -sense must tell you that there’s something wrong.” - -“Yes--with you,” was her answer in a sad tone. “I hoped we could begin -to be happy at once. I see now that I’ve got to win you back.” - -I concealed my panic behind an amused laugh. “I suppose I’ve misled -you into forming this poor estimate of my intelligence where you are -concerned,” said I. “You have thought all these years that, because I -said nothing, I did not understand. The truth is, for many years I have -understood you thoroughly, Edna. You doubt it. You say to yourself, -‘If he had understood, he would have been furious and would not have -allowed me to use him as a mere pocketbook.’” - -Up she started, wounded to the quick. “Godfrey!” she cried. “How you -hurt! Oh, my dear--spare me. If you had such a low opinion of me, don’t -tell me about it. Perhaps I deserve your contempt. God knows, I thought -I was doing right. Don’t be harsh with me, dearest. I am only a woman, -after all.” - -I shook my head smilingly. “Drop it,” said I. “You are entirely too -strong a person to be able to hide behind a plea of weakness. I have -let you use me for your own selfish pleasure all these years because -I did not especially care. Also, it kept you away from me--which was -highly agreeable to us both.” - -The anguish in her eyes, whether it was genuine or not, looked so -sincere that I avoided her gaze. - -“But,” I went on, “I’m no longer in the mood to be used. You got -through with me, as you thought, and divorced me and prepared to marry -a man more to your liking----” - -“Godfrey--you needn’t be jealous of him--of anyone!” - -I made a gesture of resigned despair. Jealous! Her vanity rampant. -It had seized upon an insignificant phrase and had found what it was -eagerly looking for. “I am not jealous of him,” said I, “though it -would be useless for me to try to convince you. Still, I repeat--I -am not jealous. I was merely saying that you have cast me off, that -I choose to regard your action as final, that I shall not let you -fasten on me again simply because your selfishness and vanity happen to -discover a new value in me. Do I make my position clear?” - -“I see I can’t convince you of what’s in my heart,” said she with sweet -resignation. “I had no right to expect it--to hope for it. But my life -will convince you, Godfrey. I shall win you back!” - -I retained my appearance of calmness. But I was the reverse of calm. -I appreciated that she had me in her power. So far as I could judge, -she was not after more money, but was under the spell of some form of -hysteria that gave her the delusion of an actual desire to love me and -to be loved by me. As she had a fortune in her own right, and a large -one, I was without means of controlling her. I could not compel her to -stick to her bargain and make the divorce legally final; and, even if I -had been so disposed I had no ground for a divorce from her unless she -should be consenting and assisting. - -“If you cared for another woman, I might despair,” she went on. “But -you don’t. My heart tells me that you don’t.” - -Should I tell her? I strangled the impulse as it was born; my common -sense lost no time in reminding me of the folly of that course. - -“I’ll be so utterly yours, Godfrey,” she went on, “that you’ll simply -_have_ to love me.” - -I rose. “Let’s have no more of this nonsense,” said I. “Understand, -once for all, Edna, the day when you can use me is past--gone forever. -You are free--and so am I. We will annoy each other no more.” - -She faced me, her bosom heaving, her widening eyes scrutinizing me. -And what I saw in them made me quail. For there shone the arch-fiend -jealousy. “Godfrey!” she exclaimed at last. “It must be another woman!” - -I laughed--not pleasantly, I imagine. “Is there no end to your vanity?” -said I. - -“Another woman,” she repeated dazedly. “If that weren’t true you -couldn’t treat me harshly--you would want me back--would love me----” - -“If there were not another woman on earth, I would not go back to you,” -said I. - -But what woman would believe that of a man--especially of one upon whom -she had put her private brand? She said in the same slow ferocious way: -“Some woman has hold of you--is getting ready to make a fool of you.” - -I laughed--nervously watching her mind dart from woman to woman of -those we knew. - -“Ah--you can’t deceive me!” she cried. “Mary Kirkwood! She has been -stealing you away from me. And you, a fool like all men where women are -concerned, can’t see through her.” Edna laughed wildly. “But she has -_me_ to reckon with now. I’ll show her!” - -“Mrs. Kirkwood is engaged to Hartley Beechman,” said I. - -“A nobody of a novelist,” said Edna. “That’s a mere blind. She’s after -_you_. After _my_ husband--the man _I_ love! We’ll see!” - -Again I laughed--and I am sure my counterfeit of indifference was -successful. “Have it your way,” said I. “But the fact remains that you -and I are done with each other.” - -“I shall set aside the divorce,” said she. - -“As you please,” replied I, lighting a cigarette and preparing to leave -the room. “If you are not content with the terms of settlement you can -have more money. If that----” - -“Why _do_ I love you?” cried she, all softness and piteous appeal -again. “You who are so base that you think only of money! What weakness -for me to love you! Yet, God help me, I do--I do! Godfrey----” - -“I am going back to London,” said I. - -She stretched out her arms, and her face was a grief-stricken appeal -for mercy. “You can’t be so cruel to me--your Edna.” - -I smiled mockingly at her and left the room. - - - - -XII - - -I have not been unaware of your anger and disgust with me, gentle -reader, during the progress of the preceding scene. In real life--in -your own life--you would have understood such a scene. But you are -not in the habit of reading realities in books--real men, real women, -real action. Everything is there toned down, put in what is called an -artistic perspective. Well, I am not an artist, and perhaps I have no -right to express an opinion upon matters of art. But I’ll venture. To -me art means a point of view upon life; so, I see nothing artistic, -nothing but more or less grotesque nonsense, in an art that is not a -point of view but a false view. But to keep to Edna and myself. - -You think I should have been moist and mushy, should have taken her -back, should have burdened myself for the rest of my days with her -insincere and unsympathetic personality. You are saying: “But after -all she loved him.” Even so--what does the word love mean when used -by a person of her character? It means nothing but the narrowest, -blighting selfishness. She had for years used me without any thought -for or of my feelings, wishes, needs. When we moved into our grand New -York house she gave me as a bedroom the noisiest room in the house, -one overlooking the street where the rattling of carriages, cabs, and -carts and the talk and laughter of pedestrians kept me awake until far -into the night and roused me about four in the morning--this, when I -was working with might and main all day long and needed every moment -of rest I could get. Why did she give me that room? Because she wanted -the only available quiet room--beside her own bedroom--for a dressing -room! She said the light in the room she gave me was unfit to dress -by! I thought nothing of all this at the time. It is characteristic of -American wives to do these things; it is characteristic of American -men to regard them as the matter of course. I cite the small but not -insignificant incident to show the minuteness of her indifference -to me. I have already given many of the larger though perhaps less -important instances, and I could give scores, hundreds, in the same -tenor. She professed to love me at that time--and she either had -or simulated a very ardent passion. But that was not love, was it? -Love is generous, is considerate, finds its highest pleasure of -self-gratification in making the loved one happy. Such a conception of -love never entered her head--and how many American women’s heads does -it enter? How it amuses me to watch them as they absorb everything, -give nothing, sit enthroned upon their vanities--and then wonder and -grow sulky or sour when their husbands or lovers tire of the thankless -task of loving them and turn away--or turn them away. - -If Edna had awakened to genuine love, gentle outraged reader, would -she not have been overwhelmed with shame as she looked back upon her -married life? Would she have come to me with the offer of her love -as a queen with the offer of her crown? She would not have indulged -in empty words; she would have tried to _do_ something by way of -reparation. She would not have demanded that she be taken back; but, -feeling that she had forfeited her rights, she would have tried to find -out whether I would consent to take her back; and if she had found that -I would not, she would have accepted her fate as her desert. - -In those circumstances do you think I could have laughed at her and -remained firm? No one not a monster could have done that. - -But the thing she called love was not love at all, was merely as I -described it to her--a newly discovered way of using me after she had -thought all possible use for me exhausted. Such, gentle reader, is -the simple truth. Yet because I had intelligence enough to see the -truth and firmness enough not to be swayed by shallow and meaningless -sentimentalities, you call me hard, harsh, cruel. One of your impulsive -kindly souls would have taken her weeping to his arms, would have -begun to live with her. And there the novel would have ended, with -you, gentle reader, all tears and thrills. For, having no imagination, -you would have been unable to picture the few weeks of cat-and-dog -life after the “happy ending,” then the breaking apart in hatred and -vindictiveness. But this is not an “artistic” novel. It is a story of -life, a plain setting forth of actualities, in the hope that it may -enable some men and women to understand life more clearly and to live -their own lives more wisely and perhaps less mischievously. - -I went to my daughter. “Margot,” said I, “your mother threatens to try -to stop the divorce. It is best for both her and me that we be free. I -am determined not to live with her again, for I abominate the sort of -life she and you lead. If you will do what you can to bring her to her -senses, I will see that you don’t regret it.” - -Margot rather liked me, I believe. Not as a father; as a father I made -her ashamed, like everything else American about her. But it was a -resigned kind of shame, and she appreciated my money, my good nature -about it and my services in bringing back her marquis and making -possible her son the earl. I knew I could count on her active sympathy; -for she would vastly prefer that her mother be the Princess Frascatoni. - -My mother, Mrs. Loring; my mother, the Princess Frascatoni. Pronounce -those two phrases, gentle reader, and you will grasp my meaning. - -I was by no means sure she would have any influence with her mother, -even though she was now the wife of one marquis and the mother of a -marquis to be, with about half the high British peerage as relatives. -But I was desperate, and a desperate man clutches at anything. - -“I think you are right, papa,” said she in her mother’s own grave sweet -way. “You and mamma never have been suited to each other. Besides, I -don’t want her away off in America where I never expect to be again. -Some of the girls who have married here like to go back there and -receive the flattery and the homage. But it seems cheap to me. I’m sure -I don’t care what the Americans think of me. I’m not snobbish, as I -used to be. I am English now--loyal English to the core.” - -“This is the place for your mother, too.” An idea occurred to me. “If -I took your mother back with me, I would have my parents and hers live -with us in a big place I’m going to buy in the country. You don’t know -your grandparents well?” - -She was coloring deeply. She must have heard more than her mother -dreamed she knew. “No, papa,” said she. - -“Your mother and I were disgracefully neglectful of them,” pursued I. -“But I shall make up for it, as far as I can. I wish you would come -over and visit us.” - -“I should like it, papa,” murmured she, ready to sink down with shame. - -“They are plain people,” I went on, “but they are good and honest--much -ahead of these wretched parasites you’ve been brought up among.... Talk -to your mother about them. Tell her what I have said.” - -She understood thoroughly; that is the sort of thing fashionable people -always understand. “I shall, papa,” said she. And I could see her -putting on a fetching air of sweet innocence and telling her mother. - -“And if she does not like it,” continued I--“can’t bear the scandal and -ridicule among her fashionable friends--why, she can desert me. And -that would give me ground for divorce.” - -“She would be dreadfully unhappy over there,” said Margot. - -“I am sure of it,” said I, and my accent was a guarantee. - -Should I see Edna again and picture our life together in the house of -love she was bent upon? I decided against it. Margot’s pictures might -lack the energy and detail of mine. They would more than make up in -bringing home to her the awful reality, as she would believe Margot -where she might suspect me of merely threatening what I would never -carry out. So, off I went to London--to wait. - -About the hardest task in this world is inaction when every fiber of -your being is clamorous for action. Yet I contrived to sit tight--for -a week--for two weeks. I have always regarded myself as too impatient, -too impetuous. And, beyond question, my natural tendency is to the -precipitate. But looking back over my life I am astonished--and not a -little pleased with myself--as I note how I have held myself in check, -have confined my follies of rash haste to occasions when miscarriage -was not a serious matter. - -Armitage came--on the way from St. Moritz to America. As soon as I -could command the right tone, I said: - -“You’ve seen your sister and Mrs. Armstrong? How are they?” - -“All right,” replied he indifferently. “Motoring in Spain at present, I -believe.” - -“Beechman--he’s with them?” - -“No. He’s somewhere hereabouts, I believe. I saw him in Hyde Park the -other day--looking as seedy as if he were pulling out of an illness. I -spoke and he stared and scowled and nodded--like the bounder that he -is.” - -“You don’t care for him?” said I, rejoiced by this news of my rival’s -seediness. - -“Oh, one doesn’t bother to like or dislike that sort of chap.” He said -this in a supercilious manner--a manner he had never had in the earlier -period of our acquaintance. How the inner man does poke through the -surface when the veneer of youth wears thin! - -“For one who despises birth and wealth and rank,” said I, not without a -certain malice, “you have a queer way of talking at times.” - -Armitage winced, changed the subject by saying: “And what the devil’s -the matter with _you_? You’re looking anything but fit yourself.” - -“Oh--I’m up against it, as usual,” said I gloomily. - -He laughed. My pessimism was one of the jokes of my friends. But, -having seen so much of the ravages of optimism--of the cheer-boys-cheer -and always-look-at-the-bright-side sort of thing, I had given myself -the habit of reckoning in the possibilities of disaster at full value -when I made plans. Little people ought always to be optimistic. Then, -their enthusiasm--_if_ directed by some big person--produces good -results, where they would avail nothing could they see the dangers in -advance. But big people must not be--and are not--optimists, whatever -they may pretend. The big man must foresee all the chances against -success. Then, if his judgment tells him there is still a chance for -success, his courage of the big man will enable him to go firmly ahead, -not blunderingly but wisely. The general must be pessimist. The private -must be optimist; for if he were pessimist, if he saw what the general -must see, he would be paralyzed with fear and doubt. - -“You’re always grumbling,” said Armitage. “Yet you’re the luckiest man -I know.” - -“Perhaps that’s why,” replied I. - -He understood, nodded. “Doubtless,” said he. - -“What’s luck? Nothing but shrewd calculation. The fellow who can’t -calculate soon loses any windfalls that may happen to blunder his way. -But what’s the grouch now?” - -I was so helplessly befogged that I resolved to tell him. - -“My late wife is threatening not to release me,” said I. - -He smiled curiously. “But she hasn’t done it yet?” - -“Not yet,” replied I. “At least not up to eleven o’clock this morning, -New York time.” - -“I don’t think she will,” said he. - -“Why?” demanded I. - -“You won’t let her, for one reason,” replied he. - -“You’re as fond of your freedom as I am. And nothing on earth -could induce me to marry again. When women--English women--look -at me I see them fairly twitching to get me where they can make -free use of me. Yes--marriage has gone the way of everything else. -Business--finance--politics--religion--they’ve all degenerated into so -many means of graft. And art’s going the same way. And marriage--it’s -the woman’s great and only graft. Our women look at marriage in two -ways--how much can be got out of it, living with the man; how much will -it net as alimony.” - -“You seemed rather positive that my late wife would not hold on to me?” -persisted I. - -He eyed me sharply. “You really wish to be free?” - -“I am determined to be free.” - -“She’s a charming--a lovely woman,” said he. - -There was doubt of my candor in his eyes. It is all but impossible for -a man rightly to judge any woman except her he has tired of or for -some other reason does not want and cannot imagine himself wanting. -The unpossessed woman has but the one value; the possessed woman must -have other values--or she has none. Armitage could judge Edna only as -female, unpossessed female. Said he: - -“She’s a charming--a lovely woman.” - -“Like the former Mrs. Armitage,” I reminded him. - -“So--so,” conceded he. “But I’ve always believed you were a fond -husband at bottom.” - -“Dismiss it from your mind,” said I. “You are hesitating about telling -me something. Say it!” - -With a certain nervousness he yielded to his love of gossip. “Prince -Frascatoni--you know him?” - -I beamed in a reassuring smile. “My late wife’s chief admirer,” said I. -“A fine fellow. I like him.” - -“He’s visiting down at--what’s the name of the place your son-in-law -has taken?” - -“He is?” exclaimed I jubilantly. “When did he go?” - -“About a week, I hear.” - -“That looks encouraging, doesn’t it?” cried I. - -“It certainly does,” said he. “They say he was charging round town like -a lunatic up to a few weeks ago----” - -“Two weeks ago,” said I. - -“But now he has calmed again--looks serene. I had a note from him this -morning. I’m positive he’s content with the way the cards are falling.” - -The change in me was so radical that Armitage must have been -convinced--for the moment. “If I only knew!” said I. - -“I can find out for you,” suggested he. “Your daughter has asked me -down for the week end. I’ll sacrifice myself, if you wish.” - -“I’ll take your going as a special favor,” said I. - -“Besides,” he went on, “these Anglo-American menages interest me. -American women are so brash with the men of their own country. I like -to see them playing the part of meek upper servants. The only kind of -wife to have is a grateful one. To get a grateful wife an American has -to marry some poor creature, homely, neglected by everyone till he -came along. Even then the odds are two to one she’ll go crazy about -herself and despise him--because he stooped to her, if she can’t find -any other excuse. But a titled foreigner-- An American girl is on her -knees at once and stays there. He can abuse her--step on her--kill her -almost--neglect her--waste her money. She is still humbly grateful.” - -“The worms have been known to turn,” protested I. For, while I could -not deny the general truth of Armitage’s attack I felt he was whipped -too far by bitterness that he, for lack of a title, could not command -what these inferior men with titles had offered to them without the -bother of asking. - -“Not a worm,” declared he. “No American woman ever divorced a title -unless she was either in terror of her life or in terror of being -robbed to the last penny and kicked out.” - -“Thank God all our women aren’t title crazy,” said I. - -“How do you know they aren’t?” retorted he. “Do you know one who has -been tempted and has resisted?” - -I had to confess I did not. - -“Then you thanked God too soon. The truth is our women are brought up -to be snobs, spenders--useless, vain parasites. Their systems are all -ready to be infected with the title mania.” - -Armitage, on his favorite subject, talked and talked. I did not listen -attentively--not so much because I did not like what he was saying or -because I thought him prejudiced as because I knew him to be a secret -snob of the thoroughgoing variety. I suspected that if things were -reversed, if he could get a title by marriage and a position that would -enable him to swagger and would make everyone bow and scrape, he would -put the eagerest of the female title-hunters to the blush. It may be -just and proper to criticise women for being what they are. But let us -also hear in mind that it is not their fault but the fault of their -training; also that the men do no better when they have the chance to -live in idle vanity upon the labors of some one else. - -On the following Monday my emissary returned from Garton Hall full to -the brim with news. - -But first he had again to assure himself that there was no pretense in -my seeming anxiety to be free. I saw doubt of me in his eyes before he -began his adroit cross-examination. I gave no sign that I knew what -he was about; for in those cases the one chance of convincing is to -submit to whatever tests may be applied. It was not unnatural that he -should doubt, coming as he did direct from seeing and talking with the -charming Edna. Men are habitually fools about women--not because women -make fools of them but because they enjoy the sensation of making fools -of themselves. That is a sensation much praised by poets, romancers, -sentimentalists of all kinds; and because of this praise it has come -to have a certain fictitious value, has come to be a cheap way for -a man to imagine himself a devil of a fellow, a figure of romantic -recklessness. There is no limit to which the passion for living up to -a pose will not carry a man. Men have flung away their fortunes, their -lives, for the sake of a pose; martyrs have burned at the stake for -pose. So a man of experience even more than your ordinary brick-brained -citizen is distrustful of his fellow men where women are concerned. -And it is nothing against Armitage’s intelligence, nor any sign of his -having a low estimate of my strength of mind, that he tried to make -absolutely sure of me before proceeding. - -Then, too, there was Edna’s charm. Women--I mean, our fashionable and -would-be fashionable American women of all classes, from Fifth Avenue -to the Bowery, from Maine to the Pacific--women are parlor-bred--are -bred to make an imposing surface impression. The best of them fool -the most expert man, as Edna had been fooling Armitage during those -two days down in the country. A man has to live with them to find -them out. And often, our men, being extremely busy and kindly disposed -toward their women and unobservant of them and uncritical of them, do -not find them out for many years. The house is run badly, the money -is wasted, the children are not brought up right. But the man lets it -pass as “part of the game.” He tells himself that not much but good -looks is to be expected of a woman; he buries himself still deeper in -his business. Then-- If he is a successful man, along about forty when -he has got up high enough to be able to relax from the labor of his -career and thinks of enjoying himself, he tries to form an alliance -for pleasure with his wife. And lo and behold, he discovers that he is -married to a vain, superficial fool. - -There could have been no more delightful experience than passing a -few days in the society of Edna. She had educated herself, admirably, -thoroughly, for show. She could have fooled the fashionable man his -whole life through, for one cannot see beyond the range of his own -vision. She might have fooled many a serious man of the narrow type; -an excellent shoemaker might easily be misled by a clever showy jack -of all trades into thinking him a master of all trades so long as he -avoided betraying his ignorance of shoemaking. But your successful -American man of the highest type, having a broad range of practical -interests, becomes a shrewd judge of human values. Thus, the American -woman who can pass for brilliant in fashionable society at home -or abroad cannot deceive the American man--for long. Not when he -lives with her. No wonder she finds him coarse; who does not wince -when vanity is stepped on or ignored? No wonder she thinks him -uninteresting. A child would have an equally poor opinion of any person -inexpert at catcher, marbles, and mud pies. - -Armitage, in a company of titled people, his nostrils full of his -beloved, stealthily enjoyed perfumes of wealth and rank, was captivated -by Edna. If he had stopped a week or so, his American shrewdness might -have found her out, might have seen why I could view with unruffled -sleeves, as the Chinese say, the loss of so lovely and lively a -companion. But, stopping only for the week end, he became doubtful -of my sincerity. I measured how deeply he had been deluded when he -spoke of her keen sense of humor. Woman nature is too practical, too -matter of fact for even the cleverest of them to have a real sense -of humor--with now and then an exception, of course. Edna had not a -glimmer of appreciation of either wit or humor. But only I, before -whom she dropped all pretenses except those that were essential to her -pose--only I knew this. Before the rest of the world, with the aid of -her vivacity!--What an aid to women is vivacity!--how many of them it -marries well!--With the aid of her vivacity she made a convincing show -not only of appreciating humor and wit but also of having much of both. -At precisely the right place she gave the proper, convincing, charming -exhibition of dancing eyes and pearl-white teeth. And occasionally -with a pretty liveliness she repeated as her own some witticism she -had heard much applauded in another and remote company. But I do not -blame you, ladies, for your inveterate and incessant posing. We men -are determined to idealize and to be gulled, and you need us to pay for -your luxury and your finery. - -I let Armitage probe on and on until my impatience for his news would -suffer no further delay. I said: - -“I see you refuse to be convinced. So let it go at that, and tell me -what you found out. Is she to marry Frascatoni?” - -“As I’ve been telling you, I believe she is in love with you, Loring.” - -“But is she going to free me?” - -“Unless you do something pretty soon, I’m afraid you’ll lose her.” - -It was too absurd that he, who had lived with one of these showy -vivacious women, had found her out and had rid himself of her should be -thus taken in by another of precisely the same kind. But that’s the way -it is with men. They understand why they yawn at their own show piece; -but they can’t appreciate that all show pieces in time produce the same -effect. - -“There still remain three weeks before the day on which her lawyers -must ask the judge to confirm the decree,” said I. “Do you think she -will have them do it or not?” - -“Unless you get busy, old man----” - -“But I shall not get busy. I shall do everything I can to encourage her -to stay free.” - -“Then you’ll lose her,” said he. “Frascatoni is mad about her, and he -knows how to make an impression on a woman. It irritated me to see a -damned dago carrying off such a prize--and you know I’m not prejudiced -in favor of American women.” - -“I want to see her happy,” said I. “She will be happy with him--so, I -hope he gets her.” I laughed mockingly. “She wouldn’t be happy with an -American, Bob--not even with you.” - -He colored guiltily. “That idea never entered my head,” protested he. - -But I laughed the more. “And she wouldn’t have you, Bob,” I went on. -“So, don’t put yourself in the way of being made uncomfortable.” - -He had enjoyed himself hugely. Not only was my former wife most -entertaining, but also Margot. She had, beyond question, been -beautifully educated for the part she was to take in life. Her -manner--so Armitage assured me--was the perfection of gracious -simplicity--the most exquisite exhibition of the perfect lady--“note -how ladylike I am, yet how I treat you as if you were my equal.” -Gracious--there’s the word that expresses the whole thing. And she -had a quantity of bright parlor tricks--French recitation, a little -ladylike singing in a pleasant plaintive soprano that gave people an -excuse for saying: “She could have been a grand-opera star if she had -cared to go in seriously for that sort of thing.” Also, a graceful -skirt dance and a killing cake walk. She had an effective line of -fashionable conversation, too--about books and pictures, analysis -of soul states, mystic love theories--all the paraphernalia of a -first-class heroine of a first-class society novel. And you, gentle -reader, who know nothing, would never have dreamed that she knew -nothing. You who are futile would not have seen how worthless she -was--except to do skirt dances well enough for a drawing-room or to -talk soul states well enough for a society novel. - -The more Armitage discoursed of the delights of his little visit the -more nervous I became lest Edna should again change her mind and -inflict me further. What he had said brought back my life with her in -stinging vividness. I lived again the days of my self-deception, the -darker days of my slow awakening, the black days of my full realization -of the mess my life was, and of my feeling that there was no escape for -me. - -“I will admit, Loring,” said Armitage, “that as women go our women are -the best of all.” - -“Yes,” I assented, sincerely. “And they ought to be. America is the -best place to grow men. Why shouldn’t it be the best place to grow -women?” - -He did not pursue the subject. In his heart he disagreed with me, for -he was wholly out of conceit with everything American. His pose had -been the other way, and he shrank from uncovering himself. - -A day or so later I was crossing Green Park when I ran straight into -Hartley Beechman. I smiled pleasantly, though not too cordially. He -planted himself in front of me and stared with a tragic frown. I then -noted that he verged on the unkempt, that he had skipped his morning -shave and perhaps his bath. His stare was unmistakably offensive--the -look of a man who is seeking a quarrel. - -“How’re you, Beechman?” said I, ignoring the signs of foul weather. -“Armitage told me you were in town, but didn’t know your address. -Stopping long?” - -“You are a scoundrel,” said he. - -I shrugged my shoulders. As I was much the larger and stronger man I -could afford to do it. “So I’ve often heard,” said I. “Perhaps it’s -true. What of it? Why should you think I cared to know your opinion of -me?” - -“If I send you a challenge will you accept it?” - -I laughed. “No, I never pay the slightest attention to crank letters.” - -“You are a coward. You will not give me a chance to meet you on equal -terms.” - -“I’ll take you over my knee and give you a spanking if you don’t behave -yourself,” said I, and I pushed him out of my path and was passing on. - -“You took her away from me,” he jeered. “But it will do you no good. -She is laughing at us both.” - -I strode away. I had heard enough to put me in high good humor. - - * * * * * - -As the end of my wait upon the anxious seat drew into its last week, I -fell into a state of deep depression. Too much eating and drinking was, -of course, the cause. But I had to pass the time somehow; and what is -there to do in London but eat and drink? - -Four days before the last, Rossiter came into my sitting room with -the news that Edna was calling. There arose a nice question: Would I -better send word I was out or see her? Because of my knowledge of her -persistence where her interest was really engaged, I decided to see her -and have done with. So in she came, vivacious, radiant--dressed for a -scene in which she was to be heroine, as I saw at a glance. - -“Pray don’t think I’m going to repeat what I did the other day,” cried -she by way of beginning. “I’m in quite another mood.” - -“So I see,” said I. - -“I was horribly ashamed and disgusted with myself afterwards,” she went -on. “You must have thought me crazy. In fact, you did. You treated me -as if I were.” - -“Won’t you sit?” said I, arranging a chair for her. - -She smiled mischievously at me as she seated herself. “You do know -something about women,” said she. “You put this chair so that my face -would be spared the strong light.” As she said this, she turned into -the full strength of the light a face as free as a girl’s from wrinkles -or any other sign of years. “You certainly do know something about -women.” - -“Very little,” said I, for it was not a time to pause and poke a -finger into the swelling bubble of woman’s baffling complexity and -unfathomable mystery. “You’ve come to tell me what it was you wanted -the other day?” - -She shook her head. She was wearing a charming hat--but her costumes -were never indifferent and nearly always charming--a feat the more -remarkable because she, being a timidly conventional woman, followed -the fashions and ventured cautiously and never far in individual style. -“You’re usually right, my dear,” said she, “in your guesses at people’s -underlying motives. But you were mistaken that time. I wanted exactly -what I said. I wanted _you_.” - -“Incredible,” laughed I. - -“Yes--it does sound so,” conceded she. “But it’s the truth. I had a -queer attack--an attack of jealousy. I’d often heard of that sort of -thing. I fancied myself above it. Perhaps that was why I fell such -a foolish victim. But I’ve recovered completely.” And her eyes were -mocking me as if she had a secret joke on me. - -“It couldn’t last long,” said I, to be saying something. - -“No, perhaps not,” replied she. “At any rate, as soon as I heard of -Mary Kirkwood’s engagement I was cured--instantly cured.” - -“I told you she was engaged,” said I. - -“Oh, I don’t mean that Beechman person,” scoffed Edna. “She was simply -amusing herself with him. A woman--a woman of our world--might have -an affair with a man of that sort--as you men sometimes do with queer -women. But she wouldn’t think of _marrying_ him. Marriage is a serious -matter.” - -“Yes, indeed,” said I. - -“It’s a woman’s whole career,” pursued she. “It means not only her -position, but the position of her children, too.” - -“Very serious,” said I. - -“No--I mean Mary’s engagement to Count von Tilzer-Borgfeldt.” - -“I hadn’t heard of it,” said I indifferently. There could be nothing in -such a silly story. - -“Didn’t Bob Armitage tell you?” - -“Not yet,” said I. “But why should he?” - -“That’s queer,” mused she. “Perhaps he thought there might be a little -something in the talk about you and Mary, and that it would be well not -to stir things up.” - -“That might account for it,” I agreed. - -She was studying me closely. “I believe you really didn’t care about -Mary,” continued she. “I confess I was astonished when I first heard -that you did. She’s--” Edna laughed--“hardly up to _me_.” - -“Hardly,” said I. - -“But let’s not talk of her. I’ve forgotten all that. I’ve come to make -a last proposal to you.” - -She was smiling, but I detected seriousness in her eyes, in her -unsteady upper lip, in her hands trying not to move restlessly. - -“You don’t realize what a strong hold you have on me, Godfrey. Is it -love? Is it habit? I don’t know. But I can’t shake it off. Don’t you -think me strange, talking to you in this way?” - -“Why shouldn’t you?” said I. - -“It’s more like a woman who isn’t attractive to men.” - -“On the contrary,” said I. “You speak like a woman accustomed to deal -with men according to her own good pleasure.” - -“How shrewd that is!” said she, with an admiring glance. “How shrewd -you are! That’s what I miss in other men--in these men over here who -have so much that I admire. But they--well, they give me the feeling -that they are superficial. Do you think _I_ am superficial?” - -“How could I?” said I. - -“That’s an evasion,” laughed she. “You _do_ think so. And perhaps I am. -A woman ought to be. A man looks after the serious side of life. The -woman’s side is the lighter and graceful side--don’t you think so?” - -“That sounds plausible,” said I. - -“But I grow tired of superficial men. They give me the feeling -that--well, that they couldn’t be relied on. And you are reliable, -Godfrey. I feel about you that no matter what happened you’d be equal -to it. And that’s why I don’t want to give you up.” - -I sat with my eyes down, as if I were listening and reflecting. - -“Since you’ve been over here long enough to--to broaden a little-- You -don’t mind my saying you’ve broadened?” - -“It’s true,” said I. - -“I’ve fancied perhaps you might be seeing that I wasn’t altogether -wrong in my ideas?” - -“Yes?” said I, as she hesitated. - -“Margot was telling me about some plans you had--for living on the -other side. You weren’t in earnest?” - -I looked at her gravely. “Very much in earnest,” said I. “I shall never -again, in any circumstances, live as we used to live.” - -She sank back in her chair, slowly turned her parasol round and round. -“Then--it’s hopeless,” said she, with a sigh that was a sob also. And -the look in the eyes she lifted to mine went straight to my heart. “I -simply can’t stand America,” said she. “It reminds me of--” She rose -impatiently. “If you only knew, Godfrey, how I _loathe_ my origin--the -dreadful depth we came from--the commonness of it.” She shuddered. - -“Europe is the place for you,” said I. - -“Yes, it is,” cried she. “And we could be happy over here--if you’d -only see it in the right light. Godfrey, I don’t want to--to change. -Won’t you compromise?” - -“By conceding everything?” said I good-humoredly. “By becoming the -bedraggled tail to your gay and giddy kite?” - -“You simply won’t reason about these things!” exclaimed she. “Yet they -say men are reasonable!” - -“My dear Edna, I don’t ask you to make yourself wretched for _my_ sake. -And I don’t purpose to be wretched for _your_ sake.” - -She sat down again. The brightness had faded from her. She looked older -than I’d have believed she could. “Well--I see it’s useless,” she said -finally. “And as I’ve got to stay over here, I simply must marry again. -You understand that?” - -“Perfectly,” said I. - -“Don’t you care the least bit?” said she wistfully. - -“You wish me to be unhappy about it,” laughed I, “to gratify your -vanity.” - -She sighed again. - -“You are content with the settlements?” - -“Oh, yes,” said she wearily. - -No doubt you, gentle reader, are now completely won over to her and -think that the least I could in decency have done would have been -to insist on her accepting half my fortune. I had no impulse toward -that folly. There is a kind of wife who can justly claim that she is -the equal partner in her husband’s wealth. But not the Edna kind. I -had made my fortune in spite of her. Nor was I keen to give her any -more money than I should be compelled; why turn over wealth to her to -fritter away and to bolster the pretensions of a family of worthless -Italian aristocrats? - -With a sudden darting look at me, she said: “You know Frascatoni. What -do you think of him?” - -“A fine specimen,” said I. “A fascinating man.” - -She shrugged her shoulders. “Fascinating enough, I suppose. But--would -you _trust_ him?” - -“I would not,” replied I. “Nor any other man. I have long since learned -not to trust even myself. But I’d trust him as far as the next man--as -far as it’s necessary to trust anyone.” - -She nodded in appreciation and agreement. “I believe he genuinely cares -for me,” she said, adding with a melancholy look at me, “And it’s -pleasant to be cared about.” - -“So I have heard,” said I. - -“You never wanted anyone to care about you,” said she. “You are -independent of everything and everybody.” - -“That’s safest,” said I. - -She did not reply. After reflecting she burst out with, “You ought to -have _made_ me, Godfrey--ought to have trained me to your taste. Women -have to be _made_.” - -“Even if that had been possible in this case,” I observed, “I didn’t -know enough.” - -Again she thought a long time; then with a sigh she said: “But it’s too -late now. You’re right. It’s too late.” - -It puzzled me to note how much the world had taught her in some -ways, and how little in others. But that is a familiar puzzle--the -unexpected, startling ways in which knowledge juts out into ignorance -and ignorance closes in upon knowledge, forming a coast line between -the land of knowledge and the sea of ignorance more jagged than that -of Alaska or Norway. The result is that each of us is a confused -contention of wisdom and folly in which the imperious instincts of -elemental passions and appetites, by their steady persistence, easily -get their way. - -“Since I’ve begun to look at these foreign men seriously,” she went on, -“to study them-- It’s one thing to size them up, as you say in America, -with the idea that they’re mere outsiders--acquaintances--social -friends. It’s very different to measure them with a view to serious -relations. I’m not altogether a fool--even from your standpoint--am I, -Godfrey?” - -“Distinctly not,” said I. - -“Since I’ve been _studying_ these upper-class men over here--I’ve -changed my mind in some respects. I’m not a child, you know. I haven’t -done what I’ve done without using some judgment of men and women.” -She flooded me with a smile of gratitude. “I owe my judgment to you, -Godfrey. You taught me.” - -“You never agreed with anything I said--when I did occasionally venture -an opinion.” - -“Because a woman disagrees and scorns--it doesn’t follow that she isn’t -convinced.” - -“You’ve changed your mind about these men?” said I, for my curiosity -was aroused. - -“I find a lack in them. You’re right to a certain extent, Godfrey. They -_are_ futile--the cleverest of them. Culture gives a great deal, of -course.” - -“What?” said I. - -“It’s too long and involved to explain. And you don’t believe in it.” - -“I’m willing to,” said I. “But first, I’d like to know what it is, and -second, I’d like to know what it _does_. I’ve never been able to get -anything but words in answer to either question.” - -“Well, _I_ see that it gives a great deal. But I must admit that it -takes away something--yes, much--strength from the mind and softness -from the heart.” - -I was astonished at this admission from her--at the admission itself, -at the fresh evidences of what a good natural mind she had. But I -had no desire to discuss with her. I had long outgrown the folly of -discussion with futile people. I was tempted to air my own views of -this so-called culture--how it emasculated where it pretended to -soften; how it discovered nothing, invented nothing, produced nothing, -did not feed, or clothe, or shelter, or in any way contribute to the -sane happiness of a human being; how it unfitted men and women for -active life, made them pitiful spectators merely, scoffing or smiling -superciliously at the battle. But I refrained. I knew she believed -the rôle of spectator the only one worthy a lady or a gentleman--and -certainly it is the only one either lady or gentleman could take -without being exposed as ridiculous. I knew that her wise observations -were clever conversation merely, after the manner of futile -people--that when the time for action came her snobbishness dominated -her. - -“I wish these men were not so--so----” - -“Good-for-nothing?” I suggested. - -She accepted the phrase, though she would have preferred one less -mercilessly truthful. - -“You can’t find everything in one person,” said I. - -That kind of tame generality--lack of interest thinly veiled in a -polite show of interest--kills conversation and sets a tarrying caller -to moving where dead silence produces a nervous tendency to linger. -Edna extended her arm, resting her hand upon the crook of her parasol -in a gesture of approaching departure. Yet she seemed loth to go. She -rose, but counterbalanced with: - -“You know, I suppose, that it’s likely to be Frascatoni?” - -I rose, replied indifferently, “So I hear.” - -She stood, smiling vaguely down at the gloved hand on the crook of the -parasol. “If I were only younger--or more credulous,” said she. And I -knew that there was a thin, sour after-taste to the sparkling wine of -the prince’s love-making. I smiled--pleasant, noncommittal. - -“I ask too much of life,” said she impatiently. “Isn’t it irritating -that I should become critical just as I am in a position to get -everything I’ve longed for and worked for?” - -“Those moods pass,” said I. - -“No doubt,” said she. “Well--good-by.” She put out her hand with a -radiant smile. “I’ll not annoy you any more.” - -My answering smile and pressure of the hand were friendly, but -cautiously so, for I felt I was still on thin ice. I opened the door -for her. We shook hands again. Our eyes met. I think it must have given -each of us a shock to see in the other’s face the polite, distant look -of strangers parting. How easy it is for two to become like one--and -when they are, how impossible it seems that they could ever be aliens. -How easy it is for two that are as one to become utter strangers; the -sea is wide, and its currents curve rapidly away from each other. - -“Rossiter,” said I--he was at work in the anteroom, “take Mrs. Loring -to her carriage, please.” - -So--she was gone; I was free! - - - - -XIII - - -Not a shadow of doubt lingered. She was gone; I was free. Her manner -had been the manner of finality. Her reluctance and her sadness were -little more than the convention of mourning which human beings feel -compelled to display on mortuary occasions of all kinds. Beneath the -crepe I saw a not discontented resignation, a conviction of the truth -that life together was impossible for her and me. - -My male readers--those who have a thinking apparatus and use it--will -probably wonder, as I did then, that she had overlooked certain obvious -advantages to be gained through refusing to divorce me. She knew me -well enough to be certain I would not compel her to go to America and -live with me, but if she insisted would let her stay in Europe or -wander where she pleased. This would have given her all the advantages -of widowhood. Free, with plenty of money, she could have led her own -life, without ever having to consult the conveniences and caprices of -a husband. It seemed to me singularly stupid of her to resign this -signal advantage, to tie herself to a husband she could not ignore, a -husband she already saw would bore her, as poseurs invariably bore each -other--to tie herself to such a man with no compensating advantage but -a title. Indeed, so stupid did it seem that from the moment she began -to waver about confirming the divorce I all but lost hope of freedom. - -My women readers will understand her. A man cannot appreciate how -hampered a woman of the lady class is without a legitimate male -attachment of some kind--a husband, a brother, or a father in constant -attendance, ready for use the instant the need arises. Our whole -society is built upon the theory that woman is the dependent, the -appendage of man. Freedom is impossible for a woman, except at a price -almost no woman voluntarily pays. To have any measure of freedom a -woman must bind herself to some man, and the bondage has to be cruel -indeed not to be preferable to the so-called freedom of the unattached -female. Thus it was not altogether snobbishness, it may not have been -chiefly snobbishness, that moved Edna to transfer herself to a husband -who would be a more or less unpleasant actuality. She had to have a -man. She wished to live abroad and to be in fashionable society. She -chose shrewdly. I imagine, from several things she said, that she had -measured Frascatoni with calm impartiality, had discovered many serious -disadvantages in him as husband to a woman of her fondness for her own -way. But estimating the disadvantages at their worst, the balance still -tipped heavily toward him. - -I am glad I was not born a woman. I pity the women of our day, bred -and educated in the tastes of men, yet compelled to be dependents, and -certain of defeat in a finish contest with man. - -Though there was now no reasonable doubt of Edna’s having the decree of -divorce made final, I, through overcaution or oversensitiveness as to -Mary Kirkwood’s rights, or what motive you please, would not let myself -leave London until a cable from my lawyers in New York informed me that -the decree had been entered and that I was legally free. The newspapers -had given much space to our affairs. It was assumed that I had come -abroad “to make last desperate efforts to win back the beautiful and -charming wife, the favorite of fashionable European society.” Stories -had been published, giving in minute detail accounts of the bribes I -had offered. And when the final decree was entered, my chagrin and fury -were pictured vividly. - -I did nothing to discredit this, but, on the contrary, helped along the -campaign for the preservation of the literary and journalistic fiction -that the American woman is a kind of divine autocrat over mankind. If -I had been so vain and so ungallant as to try to make the public see -the truth I should have failed. You can discredit the truth to the -foolish race of men; but you cannot discredit, nor even cast a shade -of doubt upon, a generally accepted fiction of sentimentality. And of -all the sentimental fictions that everyone slobbers over, but no one -in his heart believes with the living and only valid faith of works, -the fictions about woman are the most sacred. Further, how many men are -there who believe that a man could get enough of a physically lovely -woman, however trying she might be? Once in a while in a novel--not -often, but once in a while--there are scenes portraying with some -approach to fidelity what happens between a woman and a man who is -of the sort that is attractive to women. Invariably such scenes are -derided or denounced by the critics. Why? For an obvious reason. A -critic is, to put it charitably, an average man. He has no insight; he -must rely for his knowledge of life solely upon experience. Now what -is the average man’s experience of women? He treats them in a certain -dull, conventional way, and they treat him--as he invites and compels. -So when he reads how women act toward a man who does not leave them -cold or indifferent, who rouses in them some sensation other than -wonder whether they would be able to stomach him as a husband, the -critic scoffs and waxes wroth. The very idea that women might be less -reserved, less queenly, less grudgingly gracious than woman has ever -been to him sends shooting pains through his vanity--and toothache and -sciatica are mild compared with the torturings of a pain-shotten vanity. - -Edna scored heavily in the newspapers. You would never have suspected -it was her late husband’s money that had given her everything, that -had made her throughout; for, what had she, and what was she, except -a product of lavishly squandered money? Think about that carefully, -gentle reader, before you damn me and commiserate her as in these pages -a victim of my venomous malice.... She was the newspaper heroine of the -hour. If she had been content with this-- But I shall not anticipate. - -My cable message from New York came at five o’clock. At half-past six, -accompanied only by my valet, I was journeying toward Switzerland. - -Mrs. Kirkwood, I had learned from her brother, was at Territet, at the -Hotel Excelsior, with the Horace Armstrongs. At four the following -afternoon I descended at Montreux from the Milan express; at five, with -travel stains removed, I was in the garden of the Excelsior having -tea with Mrs. Armstrong and listening to her raptures over the Savoy -Alps. Doubtless you know Mrs. Armstrong’s (Neva Carlin’s) work. Her -portrait of Edna is famous, is one of the best examples I know of -inside-outness. Edna does not like it, perhaps for that reason. - -Mary and Horace Armstrong had gone up to Caux. “But,” said Neva, -“they’ll surely be back in a few minutes. Count von Tilzer-Borgfeldt is -coming at half-past five.” - -I instantly recognized that name as the one Edna gave in telling me -that Mary had gone shopping for a title and had invested. I had thought -Edna’s jeer produced no effect upon me. I might have known better. My -nature has, inevitably, been made morbidly suspicious by my business -career. Also, I had found out Robert Armitage as a well-veneered snob, -and this could not but have put me in an attitude of watchfulness -toward his sister, so like him mentally. Also my investigations of -that most important phenomenon of American life, the American woman, -had compelled me to the conclusion that the disease of snobbishness -had infected them all, with a few doubtful exceptions. So, without my -realizing it, my mind was prepared to believe that Mary Kirkwood was -like the rest. When Neva Armstrong pronounced the name Edna had given, -there shot through me that horrible feeling of insufferable heat and -insufferable cold which it would be useless to attempt to describe; for -those who have felt it will understand at once, and those who have not -could not be made to understand. And then I recalled Hartley Beechman’s -jeer, “She’s laughing at us both.” But my voice was natural as I said: - -“Tilzer-Borgfeldt. That’s the chap she’s engaged to just now, isn’t it?” - -Mrs. Armstrong, who is a loyal friend, flushed angrily. “Mary isn’t -that sort, and you know it, for you’ve known her a long time.” - -“Then she’s not engaged to him?” said I. - -“Yes, she is,” replied Neva. “And if you knew him, you’d not wonder at -it. I don’t like foreigners, but if I weren’t bespoke I think I’d have -to take Tilzer-Borgfeldt if he asked me.” - -“No doubt it’s a first-class title,” said I. - -“You know perfectly well, Godfrey Loring, that I don’t mean the title.” -She happened to glance toward the entrance to the garden. “Here he -comes now. You’ll judge for yourself.” - -Advancing toward us was a big, happy blond man of the pattern from -which nine out of ten German upper-class men are cut. He had the -expression of simple, unaffected joy natural to a big, healthy, happy -blond youth looking forward to seeing his best girl. He had youth, good -looks, unusual personal magnetism--and you will imagine what effect -this produced upon my mood. I could not deny that Neva was right. -Without a title this man would have all the chances in his favor when -he went courting. He had not a trace of aristocratic futility. - -You would have admired the frank cordiality of my greeting. Instead of -sitting down again I glanced at my watch and said: - -“Well, my time’s up. I shall have to go without seeing Horace and Mary.” - -“But you’ll come to dinner?” said Mrs. Armstrong. - -“I’m taking the first express back to Paris,” said I. “I found a -telegram waiting for me at my hotel.” - -“Mary will be disappointed,” said Neva. “You’ll give Mrs. Loring my -best?” - -I remembered that the English papers, with the news doubtless in it, -would not reach Territet until late that evening or the following -morning. But I could not well tell her what had occurred. “Good-by,” -said I, shaking hands. “Tell them how sorry I was. I may see you all in -Paris.” - -And away I went, with not an outward sign of my internal state. In less -than half an hour I was in the Paris express. - - * * * * * - -I stopped at Paris a month. A letter came from her--a bulky letter. I -tossed it unopened into the fire. A week, and a second letter came. It -was not so bulky. I flung it unopened into the fire. About two weeks, -and a third letter came. I got Rossiter to address an envelope to her. -I inclosed her unopened letter in the envelope and mailed it. I was -giving myself an exquisite pleasure, the keener because it was seasoned -with exquisite pain. - -All this time I had been amusing my idle days in the usual fashion. -My readers who lead quiet lives--the women who sit thinking what they -would do if only they were men--the men who slip away occasionally -for a scampish holiday, and return to their sober routine with the -cheering impression that they have been most fearfully and wonderfully -devilish--those women and those men will regret that I refrain from -details of how I amused myself. But to my notion I have said enough -when I have said “in the usual fashion.” It passed the time as probably -nothing else in the circumstances would have passed such tenacious -hours, every one lingering to be counted. But I confess I have never -been virtuous enough to be especially raptured by so-called vice. No -doubt those who divide actions into good and bad, using the good for -steady diet and the bad for dessert, have advantages in enjoyment over -those who simply regard things as interesting and uninteresting. For, -curiously enough, on that latter basis of division practically all the -things esteemed by most human beings as the delightful but devilish -dessert of life fall into the class of more or less uninteresting. But -for the stimulus of the notion that he is doing something courageously, -daringly wicked, I doubt if any but a dull fellow would perpetrate -vice enough to lift the most easily scandalized hands in the world. -The trouble with vice is that it is so tiresome--and so bad for the -health. And most of it is so vulgar. Drinking to excess and gambling, -for instance. I have indulged in both at times, when hard pressed -for ways to pass the time or when in those stupid moods of obstinate -unreasonableness in which a man takes a savage pleasure in disgusting -himself with himself. Drinking has a certain coarse appeal to the -imagination--coarse and slight but definite. But gambling is sheer -vulgarity. I have been called money-mad, because I have made money, -finding it easy and occupying to attend to business. Yet never have I -cared about money sufficiently to take the faintest interest in the -gaming table. Gambling--all forms of it--is for those sordid creatures -who love money, and who have no intelligent appreciation of its value. -Gambling--all the vices, for that matter--is essentially aristocratic; -for, as I believe I have explained, aristocracy analyzes into the -quintessence of vulgarity. The two incompetent classes--the topmost -and the bottommost--are steeped in vice, for the same reason of their -incompetence to think or to act. - -A fourth letter, the bulkiest of all, came from Mary Kirkwood. A few -hours before it was delivered a telegram came from her: - - “A letter is on the way. Godfrey, I beg you to read it. I love you.” - -I tore up the telegram, sent back the letter without opening it. You -are denouncing me as inhuman, gentle reader. Perhaps you are right. -But permit me to point out to you that, if I had not in my composition -a vein of iron, I should never have risen from the mosquito-haunted -flats of the Passaic. Also, gentle reader, if I had been a man of the -ordinary sort would Mary Kirkwood have been sufficiently interested in -me to send those letters and that telegram? - -A day or so after the return of her last letter I was seized--I can’t -say why--with a longing to see my father and mother and sister, on that -lonely farm out in New Jersey. I had never felt that desire since I -first left home, but had made my few and brief visits out of a sense -of duty--no, of shame. The thought of them gave me no sensation of -horror, as it gave Edna and her daughter. When I remembered them it -was simply as one remembers any random fact. They did not understand -me; and in them there was nothing to understand. We had few subjects -for conversation, and those not wildly interesting and soon exhausted. -You will smile when I say I loved them. Yet it is the truth. We do not -always love those we like to be with; we do not always like to be with -those we love. - -There was nothing to detain me in Paris. The hours hung like guests -who do not know how to take leave. So not many days elapsed between -my seizure and my appearance at the spacious and comfortable stone -farmhouse where the four old people were awaiting in a semi-comatose or -dozing state what they firmly believed was a summons to a higher life. -Their belief in it, like that of most religious people, was not strong -enough to make them impatient to get it; still they believed, and found -the belief a satisfactory way of employing such small part of their -minds as remained awake. - -I had not seen them or their place in several years, so I was -astonished by the changes. My sister Polly--a homely old maid--and -Edna’s father had some glimmerings of enterprise. Polly took in and -read several magazines, and from them gathered odds and ends of -up-to-date ideas about dress, about furnishing, about gardens. With -the valuable assistance of old Weeping Willie she had wrought a most -creditable transformation. The old people now “looked like something,” -as the saying is. And the place had a real smartness--both within and -without. - -Polly--she was about eight years my senior, but looked old enough to be -my mother--Polly watched me anxiously as I strolled and nosed about. My -delight filled her with delight. - -“You’re not so ashamed of us, perhaps?” said she. - -“I never have been,” replied I. Nor did I put an accent on the personal -pronoun that would have been a hint about somebody else’s feelings. - -“Well--you ought to have been,” said she. “We were mighty far behind -even the tail of the procession.” - -“I’ll admit I like this better than the way we used to live in Passaic. -Polly, you’ve got the best there is going. All the rest--all the luxury -and other nonsense--is nothing but a source of unhappiness.” - -She did not answer. I noted a touching sadness in her expression. - -“You don’t agree with me?” said I. - -“Yes, I do,” replied she emphatically. “I wasn’t thinking of that.” - -“What have _you_ got to be unhappy about?” - -“You think I’m ungrateful to you,” said she, with quick sensitiveness. -“But I’m not, Godfrey--indeed I’m not.” - -“Ungrateful?” I laughed. “Don’t talk nonsense.” - -“You’ve done all you could--all anyone could. And in a way I am happy. -But----” - -“Yes?” I urged, as she hesitated. - -“Well, I’ve found out--looking back over my life--I’ve found out that -I-- It seems to me I’ve got all the _tools_ of happiness, but nothing -to _work on_. I keep thinking, ‘How happy I could be if I only had -something to work on!’” - -I was silent. A shadow crept out of a black corner of my heart and cast -a somberness and a chill over me. - -“You understand?” said she. - -I nodded. - -“I thought you would,” she went on. “Godfrey, I’ve often felt sorry for -you--sorrier than I do for myself.” She laid her hand on my arm. “But -you’re a man--a handsome, attractive, _young_ man. You’ll have only -yourself to blame if you waste your life as mine’s been wasted.” - -“You don’t realize how lucky you’ve been,” said I, with a bitterness -that surprised me. “You’ve at least escaped marriage.” - -“I wish to God I hadn’t,” cried she with an energy that startled me. -There was a fierce look of pain in her eyes. “I thought you understood. -But I see you don’t.” - -“What do you mean, Polly Ann?” said I gently. - -“The real unhappiness isn’t an unhappy marriage,” replied she. “It’s -being not married at all--not having any children. You know what I -am--an old maid. You think that means the same thing as old bachelor. -Well, it don’t.” - -“Why not?” - -“An old bachelor--nine times out of ten that means simply an old, -selfish, comfortable man. But an old maid-- The nature of woman’s -different from the nature of man. A woman’s got to have a home--_her_ -home--her nest, with her children in it. And I’m an old maid. If I’d -been a man--” She turned on me. “I’m ugly, ain’t I? You know I am. -_I_ know it. Dress me up in men’s clothes and I’d be a good-looking -person--as a man. But as a woman I’m ugly. If I’d have been a man I -could have got a mighty nice, mighty nice-looking wife--one that’d have -been grateful to me for taking her and would have cared for me. But as -a woman I couldn’t get a husband.” - -“You can get a very good one,” said I. “Money--what would have bought -you a wife as a man--what buys most men their wives--will buy you a -husband. And he’ll be grateful and loving, so long as you manage the -purse strings well--just as most wives are loving and grateful if their -husbands don’t treat them too indulgently.” - -“It’s different, and you know it is,” retorted she. “Custom has made it -different. And I’m ugly--and that’s fatal in a woman.” - -“Charm will beat beauty every time,” said I. - -“I’ve got no charm--none on the outside. And that’s where a woman’s -charm has to be. No, I’ve thought out my case. It’s hopeless. I’m a -born old maid. No man ever asked me to marry him. No man ever said a -word of love to me. Do you know what that means, Godfrey?” - -I was silent. A choke in my throat made speech impossible. - -“Never a word of love,” she went on monotonously. “Yet I don’t suppose -any woman ever wanted to hear it more. And no children. Yet I know -no woman ever wanted them more. No, not adopted children--but my own -flesh and blood. I’ve heard women complain of the burden of bearing a -child. It made me wild to listen to them--the fools--the selfish fools! -What wouldn’t I have given to have felt a child within me. Does it -scandalize you to hear me talk like this?” - -“No,” said I. “No.” - -“It’s a wonder,” said she, with a grim smile. She was quieting down, -was hiding the heart from which she had on impulse snatched the -veil, was ashamed of her outburst. “A woman can talk about having a -cancer, or a tumor, or any frightful disease inside her, and nobody’s -modesty is shocked. But if she speaks of having a child within her--a -wonderful, living human being--a lovely baby--why, it’s immodest!” She -gave a scornful laugh. “What a world! What a world!” - -I looked at her and marveled. What a world, indeed!--where _this_ -was one of the sort of relatives of whom pushing arrived people were -ashamed! - - * * * * * - -I think I forced myself to stay three days with them. I cannot recall; -perhaps I left the second day. However that may be, I have the sense of -a long, a very long visit. To one who has the city habit the country -is oppressively deliberate even when it is interesting. It makes you -realize how there is room, and to spare, for sixty minutes in an hour, -for sixty seconds in each minute. The city entertains; the country -compels you to seek entertainment, to make entertainment. People whose -mentality tapers away from mediocrity grow old and dull rapidly in -the country as soon as childhood’s torrential life begins to slacken. -For men of thought the country ought to be ideal, I should say, once -they formed its habit and lost the city habit of waiting in confident -expectation of being amused. But for men of action like myself, for men -whose whole life is dealing directly with their fellow men, to acquire -the country habit is a matter of years, of a complete revolution. - -I brought a sore and a sick heart to the country. I took back to town -one that was on the way toward the normal. And I owed the improvement -not to the country directly, but to my sister. Polly Ann had reminded -me of the futility of graveyard mooning, of its egotism and hypocrisy. -She had reminded me that only the fool walks backward through life. -I believed I had been guilty of the folly of blowing a bubble of -delusion, pretending to myself that it was no bubble, but permanent, -substantial, real. The bubble had burst, as bubbles must--had burst -with a mocking and irritating dash of cold spray straight into my face. -Well!--the sensible thing to do, the only thing to do, was to laugh and -blow no more bubbles. - -I went back to finance; I busied myself to the uttermost of my capacity -for work. But I could not uproot the idea Mary Kirkwood had set growing -in my mind. I saw ever more clearly that my sister was eternally right. -Some men might be successful bachelors. I could be fairly successful -at that selfish and solitary profession for a few years, perhaps -for ten or fifteen years longer. But I knew with the clearness of a -vision trained to search the horizon of the future that the feeling -of loneliness, of complete futility which already shadowed me, would -become a black pall. I _must_ have companionship; and to companionship -there is but the one way--the way of wife and children. A poor, an -uncertain way; nevertheless the only way. - -You have, perhaps, observed the marriages of the rich. You have noted -that every rich man and every rich woman is surrounded by a smaller -or larger army of satellites--persons nominally their social equals, -often distinctly their mental superiors, salaried persons, wearers of -cast-off clothing, eaters of luncheons and dinners, permanent free -lodgers, constant or occasional pensioners more or less disguised. -Family life fails with the rich as it fails with the well off, or with -the poor. But while other classes revert to the herd life, the life of -clubs, saloons, teas, receptions, the rich take up the parasite-beset -life, each rich person aloof with his or her particular circle of -flatterers, attendants, coat-holders, joke-makers, and boot-lickers. - -Now it so happened that for me there could be no enduring of this -standing apart in the meadow, switching my tail while parasites bit -and tickled, buzzed and burrowed. Riches, like any other heavy and -constantly growing responsibility, usually rob a man of his sense of -humor and turn his thoughts in upon himself and make him a ridiculous -ass of an egotist. They had not had that effect upon me. I can give no -reason; I simply state the fact. So, with my sense of humor active, -and my sense of proportion fairly well balanced, I could not give -myself up to the dreary life custom assigns to the rich. I retained the -normal human instincts. - -I had hoped to satisfy them to the uttermost with the aid of Mary -Kirkwood. That hope had fallen dead. I must search on--not for the best -conceivable, but for the best possible. - -You are not surprised at my lack of sentiment, gentle reader. By this -time, I am sure, I could not surprise you with any exhibition of -that or other depravity. But it confirms your conviction of my utter -sordidness. So? Then you imagine, do you, that there are many love -marriages in the world, leaving out of the count those in novels and -in the twaddling gossip men and women repeat as the true heart stories -of this and that person? Yes, I should say your intelligence was -about rudimentary enough to give you such a false notion of life as -it is lived. Marriages of passion there are a-plenty. Rarely, indeed, -does a man become bill-payer to a woman for life--not to speak of the -insurance--without having been more or less agitated by her physical -charms; and usually the woman, eager to be married, whips up for him -a return feeling that looks well, convinces the man and herself, -and makes you, gentle reader, sigh and wipe your sloppy eyes. But -love-marriage--that’s a wholly different matter. I should say it almost -never occurs. Where love, a sentiment of slow and reluctant growth, -does happen occasionally to come afterwards, because the two are really -congenial, really mated--where love does come afterwards, it did not -exist when the wedding bells rang. And I doubt not that love has grown -as often, if not oftener, where the motives that led to the marriage -were practical and even sordid than where they were the bright, swift -fading, and in death most foul-smelling, flowers of passion. - -I was willing to buy a wife, if I could find a woman who promised -to wear well, to improve on acquaintance, or, at least, not to -deteriorate. And, beyond question, with my money I could have taken -my pick. Almost any girl anywhere, engaged or unengaged, would have -fallen in love with me as soon as she discovered my charms--of person -and of purse. Yes, would have fallen in love, gentle reader. Don’t you -know that a nice, pure girl always makes herself, or lets herself, fall -in love, before she gives herself? And don’t you know that, except -falling out of love--out of that kind of love--there’s nothing easier, -especially for an inexperienced girl, than falling in love--in that -kind of love? - -But where was I to find a woman with enough solid quality to give me a -reasonable hope that she would aid me in my quest for family happiness? - -Do not denounce me, gentle reader. Epithet and hiss are not reply. -Answer my question. - -You say there are millions of such girls. Yes? But where? - -You say there are millions of pure, sweet, charming girls, intelligent -and domestic. Yes. No doubt. But how long would they remain so if -tempted by wealth, by the example of all the money-mad, luxury-mad, -society-mad women about them? - -Mind you, I did not want a stupid rotter, a cow, a sitter and lounger -and taker on of fat and slougher off of intelligence. I did not want -the lazy slattern who poses as domestic, who is fond of home in exactly -the same way that a pig is fond of an alley wallow. - -You laugh at me. You say: “He is a conceited fool!--to think that _he_ -could attract and absorb an intelligent woman with a complex woman’s -soul!” Not so, gentle reader. I did not wish to attract and to absorb -her. As for the “complex woman’s soul,” the less I saw or heard of it, -the better pleased I’d be. I simply wanted a woman who would join me in -being attracted by and absorbed in family life. - -You are still smiling mockingly. But let me tell you a few secrets of -wisdom and happiness. First--Friendship is divine, but intimacy is the -devil himself--unless it is the intimacy of the family. Second--To love -your neighbor as yourself, he must be and must remain your neighbor, -that is to say, within hail, but not within touch. Third--Husband, -wife, and children are the only natural intimates--intimate because -they have the bond of common interest. The family that looks abroad -for intimates has ceased to be a family. Finally--A man who has his -wife and children for intimates has neither need nor time for other -intimates; and unless a man’s wife and children are his intimates, he -has, in fact, no wife and no children. Let me add, for the benefit -of--perhaps of you and your husband, gentle reader--that the only -career worth having is built upon and with efficient work; careers made -with friendships, gaddings, pulls, and the like would better be left -unmade. - -You are smiling still, in your smug, supercilious fashion--smiling -at what you promptly call old-fashioned trite truisms. I am not -sure that, after they have been thought about a while, they would -seem old-fashioned or stale. Rather, I flatter myself, they are -the statement of a new philosophy of life. For the old theory -with which you are confusing these truths was that the family is -the _social unit_. In fact, it is not; the only _social_ units -are individuals--capable individuals. My theory, or rather my -philosophy--for it is more than a theory--my philosophy is that the -family is the _unit of happiness_. Society can--and does--get along -fairly well with little or no happiness. But happiness is an excellent -thing, nevertheless. And _I_ wanted it. - -Now, perhaps, you see why I was not looking forward with any exuberance -of optimism to finding the woman whom I needed and wanted, and who -needed and wanted me. Prompted by my experiences and guided somewhat -by my shrewd and cynical friend Bob Armitage, I had been giving no -small amount of spare time to observing and thinking about the American -woman. And while I admired that charming lady and found her an amusing -companion for an occasional leisure hour, I saw that she was not to be -taken seriously by a serious person. She knew how to look well, how -to make a good “front,” how to get perhaps a hundred dollars worth of -pleasing surface results by squandering a thousand or two thousand -dollars. As an ornament, a decoration, as a basket of rare inedible -fruit to irradiate lovely costliness, she could not be beaten. As wife -to a showy plutocrat, ignorant of the art of comfortable living, as -head mistress to an European noble with servants trained to maintain -his state in splendid and orderly discomfort, she would do excellently -well. But not for the practical uses of sensible life. She had no -training for them, no taste for them, no intention of adapting herself -to them, whatever she might pretend in order to catch a bill-payer. - -Still, I did not despair. I dared not despair. If I had, -loneliness--and heartache, yes, heartache--and my sense of present and -future futility would have become intolerable. On the other hand, while -there was every reason for haste--when happiness was my goal, and life -is short and uncertain--I was resolved to be deliberate. If I should be -deceived--perhaps by the girl’s honest self-deception--into choosing -wrong, how she would hate me! For not again would, or could I let a -woman use me as Edna had used me. A fool is a grown-up person who has -never grown up. I had grown up--had become a definite person, knowing -what I wanted and what I did not want. Such persons are hated by those -who try in vain to use them. My one chance lay in finding a woman with -the same definite tastes as mine. Only disaster could come through the -woman who might marry me, pretending to agree with me and secretly -resolved to “redeem” me once she got me firmly in her grasp. - -Armitage was back in New York, was eager to resume our old relations. -But that could not be. I had outgrown him. And he, at the dangerous -age, was allowing himself to harden into all the habits of the rich -class and of middle life. Despite his efforts to conceal it, I saw -that he had even reached the pass where a man of property regards a -new idea as a menace to society. If it is a new invention, it may make -some stock he owns worthless. If it is a new social or political idea -it may make his laborers demand higher wages, or in some other way -affect his dividends. And, of course, whenever a man speaks of a menace -to society, he means a menace to himself whom he naturally regards as -the most precious and vital thread in the social fabric. Compelled by -my need for ideas to occupy me in supplement to the now thoroughly -familiar and rather monotonous routine of investing and reinvesting, -organizing and reorganizing, I was associating more and more with -artists and writers of the sort who feel suffocated in the society of -the merely rich. - -Material conditions force upon men inexorable modes of life. And every -mode of life breeds a definite, distinct set of ideas. Men fancy -themselves original because they suddenly discover certain ideas in -their brains. As well might a hen who has just eaten hot bran fancy -herself original because she laid an egg. The idea was not from the -man, but from his material conditions--lawyer idea, politician idea, -banker idea, anarchist idea, big or little merchant idea, dog-fighter -idea, professor idea, preacher idea, and so on. I was fighting to -escape this to me repellent molding process--and I was making headway. -But poor Armitage was rapidly yielding; his struggle, I fear, had been -in its best days in large part a brassy make-believe--the valor of the -trumpet, not of the sword. - -He was a sorry sight. His once handsome face was taking on that petty, -pinched, frost-bitten Fifth Avenue expression. And he had been driven -for companionship into forming the familiar parasite circle. The chief -figures in it were a decaying dandy of an old New York family who had -been fawner and crumb snapper all his days, and a broken-down plutocrat -who had squandered his fortune on fine women, fine wine, and fine food. -The dandy gave Bob the fashionable gossip; the broken-down plutocrat -gave him the gossip and scandal of the giddy part of town, also the -latest gamey stories; also he--perhaps both--arranged for him the -peculiar pleasures of the rich man with the palate that needs strong -sensations to make it respond. - -Armitage was out of the question for me. Then---- - -I drifted into the Amsterdam Club one evening--to write a note or send -a telegram--and there sat Hartley Beechman. The instant he saw me he -sprang up and made straight for me. His expression was puzzling, but -not hostile--still, I was unobtrusively ready. Said he in a straight, -frank fashion: - -“Loring, I want to apologize to you. I made a damned ass of myself -in Green Park last summer. My excuse is that I was more than half -crazy----” - -I put out my hand. “I half guessed at the time,” said I. “I know all -about it now.” - -We looked at each other with the friendliness that has become the -stronger by a mended break--for broken hearts and broken lives and -broken friendships are much the stronger if the break mends. Said he: - -“One way of measuring the strength of a man is the length of the -intervals between the times when he makes a fool of himself about a -woman. My first came at eighteen, my next at thirty-eight. Not a bad -showing, I flatter myself--eh?” - -“Uncommonly good,” said I. - -“And the second shall be the last.” - -“Optimism!” I warned him laughingly. “Beware of optimism!” - -“No. I shall write about women, but I’ll see no more of them. I’ve -got hold of myself again. I’m as good as ever--better than ever, -probably. But--it cost! And I’ll not pay that price again. For a while -I thought it was you who had upset my happiness. Then--” He gave a -loud, unnatural laugh--“That German purchase! I saw she had been simply -playing with me. You know how fond women of that sort are of playing -with romantic or sentimental ideas. But when it came to the test--why, -she would have married only a fortune or a title.” - -I made no comment. He was saying only what I thought, what I believed -true. But I hated to hear it. - -“I may wrong her,” pursued he reflectively. “Not altogether, but to a -certain extent. I rather think the impulse to something saner and less -vulgar was there--actually there.” - -As he was looking at me inquiringly I said: “I think so.” - -“But--nothing came of it. And there’s little in these fine impulses of -which nothing comes.” - -“Little?” laughed I. “Why, they produce the most beautiful decorative -effects. Life would be barren without them. What a repulsive sight -the poor little human animal would be, grunting and grubbing about, -thinking always of its beloved self--what a repulsive sight if it -didn’t wear the flowers of high ideals in its ears--and the jewels of -fine impulses ringed in its nose.” - -“_I_ think it would look better without them,” said he. “Less -ridiculous--less contemptible.” - -“To you--yes. Because you’re like I am--coarse. But not to itself and -its fellows.” - -“I’m going back to the woods to-morrow,” said he. - -“Better come on a yachting trip to South America with me,” said I. - -He flushed. “Thank you--but I can’t do that,” replied he. “I can’t -afford it.” - -It was my turn to flush. “I beg your pardon,” I said. “I spoke without -thinking--spoke on impulse. You are quite right.” - -“A man’s a fool or a sycophant who goes where he can’t pay his own -way,” continued he. “I’ve come to realize that. I’ll do it no more. -I’ll stick to my own class. I’ve been justly punished for blundering -out of it. But not so severely punished as I should have been had my--” -he smiled ironically--“my love affair prospered.” - -He thought for several minutes, then he said: “I wonder--when the clash -came--would I have gone with her or she with me?” - -I did not reply. - -He pulled himself together, smiled mockingly at his own folly of -lingering near the unsightly and not too aromatic corpse. “I must get -into the woods and breathe it out of my system. Did you see the account -of the arrangements for her approaching marriage in this evening’s -paper? Nearly a page--and I read every line.” - -When he had finished his drink he rose and departed--and I have not -talked with him since. He resumed his career; we all know how brilliant -it is. As I have said before, I have no sympathy with the silly notion, -bruited about by silly flabby people that women ruin the lives of -strong men. Now and then a woman may be the proverbial last straw that -breaks the camel’s back. But there’s a vast difference between woman -the actuality, woman the mere last straw, and woman the vampire, the -scarlet destroyer as portrayed in novels and so-called histories. Those -mighty men, made or ruined by women--why do we never _see_ them, why do -we only read about them? - -I resisted the temptation to follow Beechman’s example and read the -newspaper account of Mary Kirkwood’s approaching apotheosis into the -heaven that is the dream of all true American ladies. There is but -one way to do a thing--and that is to do it. I had destroyed or sent -back the letters; I had resisted the telegram. I could not yet bar my -mind from wandering to her. But I could avoid leading it to her--and -I did. So it was by accident that, the following week, I one morning -let my eye take in the whole of a four-line newspaper paragraph before -I realized what it was about. The purport was that the engagement -between Count von Tilzer-Borgfeldt and Mrs. Kirkwood had been broken -off because of a “failure to agree as to settlements.” This, in the -same newspaper that contained two columns descriptive of the quietly -gorgeous marriage of Frascatoni and Edna in my son-in-law’s new house -near London. - -“Failure to agree as to settlements--” Faugh! - -I had calmed until all my anger against her was gone and I was thinking -of her as merely human, as the result of her environment like everyone -else. I believed now that where she had deceived me she had also -deceived herself. And I saw as clearly as in the days of my infatuation -that she and I had been made for each other, that our coming together -had been one of those rare meetings of two who are entirely congenial. -It filled me with sadness that fate had not been kind instead of -sardonically cruel, had not brought us together ten years earlier, -before the world had poisoned her originally simple and sincere nature. -But how absurd to linger over impossible might-have-beens! I had gone -as far as I cared to go in the company of those who have made fools of -themselves for love. - -I believed I could trust myself with her in the same neighborhood. But -I was not sure, and I would take no chance. A few days after I read of -the broken engagement I departed on the yachting trip to South America. - - - - -XIV - - -There were but two in my party--Dugdale, the playwright, and myself. -A more amusing man than Dugdale never lived. He was amusing both -consciously and unconsciously. A mountain of a man--bone and muscle, -little fat. He had eyes that were large, but were so habitually -squinted, the better to see every detail of everything, that they -seemed small; and his expression, severe to the verge of savageness, -changed the instant he spoke into childlike simplicity and good humor. -He made money easily--large sums of money--for he had the talent for -success. But he spent long before he made. I think it must have been -his secret ambition to owe everybody in the world--except his friends. -From a friend he never borrowed. The general belief was that he had -never paid back a loan--and I have no reason to doubt it. What did he -do with his borrowings? Loaned them to his friends who were hard up. If -the list of those he owed was long, the list of those who owed him was -longer. If he never paid back, neither was he ever paid. - -He could work at sea, or anywhere else--no doubt even in a balloon. -On that trip he toiled prodigiously, crouched over a foolish little -table in his cabin, smoking endless cigarettes and setting down with -incredible rapidity illegible words in a tiny writing that contrasted -grotesquely with the enormous hand holding the pencil. He labored -altogether at night, after I had gone to bed. He was always astir -before me. He slept unbelievably little, probably kept up on the -quantities of whisky he drank. However that may be, he was as active by -day physically as he was mentally by night. He was all over the boat, -always finding something to do--something for me as well as for himself. - -The only terms on which Dugdale would consent to go were that I should -keep him away from New York not less than two months, and that I -should take no one else. I promptly assented to both conditions. It -was not the first time he had put me under a heavy debt of gratitude -for congenial society. We had made several long trips together, always -with satisfaction on both sides. Whatever else you may think of me, I -hope I have at least convinced you that I am not one of those rich men -who rely for consideration upon their wealth. I believe I am one of the -few rich men who can justly claim that distinction. When I ask a man -less well off than I am to dine with me--or to accept my hospitality -in any way--I ask him because I want him. And I do not either directly -or indirectly try to make him feel that he is being honored. I would -not ask the sort of man who feels honored by being in the society of -bank accounts or of any other glittering symbols in substitute for -good-fellowship. - -You will see, gentle reader, that my list was short indeed. - -It is one of the not few drawbacks of riches that they rouse the -instinct of cupidity in nearly all human beings. The rich man -glances round at a circle of constrained faces, each more or less -unsuccessfully striving to veil from him the glistening eye and the -watery lip of the gold hunger. Probably you know how pepsin is got for -the market--how they pen pigs so that their snouts almost touch food -which they can by no straining and struggling reach; how the unhappy -creatures soon begin to drip, then to slobber, then to stream into -the receiving trough under their jaws the pepsin which the sight of -the food starts their stomachs to secreting. As I have looked at the -parasite circles of some of my friends I have often been reminded of -the pepsin pigs. Some of my friends like these displays, encourage them -in every way, associate solely with pepsin pigs. I confess I have never -acquired the least taste for that sort of entertainment. - -I have traveled the world over, and everywhere I have found men either -industriously engaged in cringing or looking hopefully about for some -one to cringe to them. Well--what of it? - -I owe Dugdale a debt I cannot hope to repay. He, a light-hearted -philosopher, made me light-hearted. He kept my sense of humor and my -sense of proportion constantly active. There is a stripe of philosopher -of the light-hearted variety who lets his perception of the fundamental -futility of life and all that therein is discourage him from everything -but cynical laughter at himself and at the world. That sort is a -shallow ass, fit company for no one but the bleary, blowsy wrecks to -whose level he rapidly sinks. Dugdale--and I--were of the other school. -We did not--at least, not habitually--exaggerate our own importance. -It caused no swelling of the head in him that his name was known -wherever people went to the theater, or in me that I usually had to be -taken into account when they did anything important in finance. We did -not measure the world or rank its inhabitants according to the silly -standards in general use. But at the same time we appreciated that to -work and to work well was the only sensible way to pass the few swift -years assigned us. - -It takes a serious man to make even a good joke. A frivolous person can -do nothing. That is why so many of our American women, and so many of -the men, too, sink into insignificance as soon as the first freshness -of youth is gone from them. Youth has charm simply as youth because it -seems to be a brilliant promise. When the promise goes to protest the -charm vanishes. - -I shall reserve what I saw and heard in South America for another -volume, one of a different kind. I shall go forward to the following -spring when I was once more in New York. Edna and her daughter--so -I read in the newspapers--were living in fitting estate in a famous -villa they had taken in the fashionable part of the south of France, -“for the health of the two young sons of the marchioness.” Frascatoni -was gambling at Monte Carlo, Crossley was at his government post in -London. I could fill in the tiresome details for both the wives and the -husbands--and so, probably, can you. While some business matters were -settling, I was turning over in my mind plans for making a systematic -search for a wife. - -I count on your amusement confidently, gentle reader. If you wished a -fresh egg for your breakfast or a suit of clothes to be worn a few -weeks and discarded, or an automobile, you would set about getting it -with some attention to the best ways and means. But, saturated as you -are with silly sentimentalities about marriage, you believe that the -most important matter in the world--the matter which determines your -own happiness or unhappiness and also the current of posterity--you -believe that such a matter should be left to the lottery of chance! -Well, I had long since abandoned that delusion, and I purposed to -establish my life with as much thought and care as I gave all other -matters. - -“A dull fellow,” you are saying. “No wonder his wife fled from him.” - -I do not wonder that you regard as dull anything that is intelligent. -To ignorance intelligence must necessarily seem dull. When any subject -of real interest is brought up, some silly, empty-headed pretty woman -is sure to say, “How dull! Let’s talk of something interesting.” And -there will always be a chorus of laughing assent--because the woman is -pretty. So I accept your sneer at me with a certain pleasure. I wish -to be thought dull by some people, including some women very good to -look at. But out of vanity and in fairness to Edna I must acquit her of -having thought me dull--after she had been about the world. - -One evening at the Federal Club I fell in with my old acquaintance, -Sam Cauldwell, the fashionable physician. He was something more than -that--or had been--but was too lazy to use his mind when his gift -for sympathetic and flattering gab brought him in plenty of money. -Cauldwell was a trained, thoroughgoing sycophant and snob. But he saw -the humorous aspect of the gods he was on his knees before--and saw the -humor of his being there. He knew the kind of man I was, and liked to -take me aside and make sport of his deities for an hour over a bottle -of wine. Also--he liked the idea of being, and of being seen, intimate -with a man conspicuous for wealth and for the social position of his -family--the ex-husband of a princess, the father of a marchioness. -Gentle reader, if you wish to see human nature to its depth, you -must occupy such a position as mine. Believe me, you are mistaken in -thinking the traits you shamedly hide are unique. There are others like -you--many others. - -Cauldwell was perhaps ten years older than I, but being a -well-taken-care-of New Yorker, he passed for a young man--which, -indeed, he was. I do not regard fifty as anything but young unless it -insists upon another estimate by looking older than it really is. I -shall assuredly be young at fifty, perhaps younger than I am now, for -I take better care of my health every year--and I have health worth -taking care of. But, as I was about to say, Cauldwell had a meditative -look that night as we sat down to dinner together. And when he had -drunk his third glass of champagne he said: - -“Loring, why the devil don’t you get married?” - -I felt that he had something especial to say to me. I answered -indifferently, “Why don’t _you_?” - -“Very simple,” replied he. “Not rich enough. To marry in New York a man -must be either a pauper or a Crœsus.” - -“Then marry a rich girl,” said I. - -“I’d have done it long ago if I could,” he confessed with a laugh. “But -I’ve never been able to get at the girls who are rich enough. Their -mammas guard them for plutocrats or titles. But you-- Really, it’s a -shame for you to stay single. I know a dozen women who’re losing sleep -longing for you--for themselves, or for some lovely young daughter.” - -“Pathetic,” said I. - -“I see that irritates you. Well--you needn’t be alarmed. You’re famed -for being about the wariest bird in the preserves. And I know you don’t -want that kind of woman. Why not take the kind you do want?” - -“Where is she?” said I. - -“I could name a dozen,” rejoined he. “But I shan’t name any. I have one -in mind. A doctor has the best opportunity in the world to find out -about women--about men, too--the truth about them.” - -I laughed. “If I wanted misinformation about human nature,” said I, -“I’d go to a doctor--or a preacher. They’re the depositories of all the -hysterical tommyrot, all the sentimental lies that vain women and men -think out about themselves and their sex relations.” - -His smile was not a denial. “Yes, I’ve been rather credulous, I’ll -admit,” said he. “And men and women do tell the most astounding -whoppers about themselves. Especially women, having trouble with their -husbands. I try not to believe, but I’m caught every once in a while.” - -A gleam in his eye made me wonder whether he wasn’t thinking of some -yarn Edna had spun for him about me. Probably. There are precious few -women, even among the fairly close-mouthed, who don’t take advantage -of the family doctor to indulge in the passion for romancing. - -“But I wasn’t thinking of any confession,” he went on. “Several women -have confessed a secret passion for you to me--with the hope that I’d -help them. The woman I have in mind isn’t that sort. I don’t know that -she cares anything about you. I only know that she’s exactly the woman -for you.” - -“Interesting,” said I. - -“She’s young--unusually pretty--and in a distinguished way. She knows -how to run a house as a home--and she’s about the only woman I know in -our class who does. She’s got a good mind--not for a woman, but for -anybody. And she needs a husband and children and a home.” - -He must have misunderstood the peculiar expression of my face, for he -hastened on: - -“Not that she’s poor. On the contrary, she’s rich. I’d not recommend a -poor girl to you. Poor girls can think of nothing but money--naturally.” - -“Everybody, rich and poor, thinks of money--naturally,” said I. - -“Guess you’re right,” laughed he. “But it _looks_ worse in a poor girl.” - -“I should say the opposite. A feeding glutton looks worse than a -feeding famished man.” - -“At any rate--this woman I have in mind isn’t poor. That’s not a -disadvantage, is it?” - -“Not a hopeless obstacle,” said I. “By the way, what _are_ her -disadvantages?” - -“Well--she’s been married before.” - -“So have I,” said I. - -“But, on the other hand, she has no children.” - -“Neither have I,” said I, without thinking. I hastened to add, “My only -child is married.” - -“And splendidly married,” said he with the snob’s enthusiasm. - -“To return to the lady,” said I dryly. “Why don’t you marry her -yourself?” - -He had drunk several more glasses of the champagne. He laughed. “She -wouldn’t look at _me_. She sees straight through me. She wants a -man with domestic tastes. I’m about as fit for domestic life as a -fire-engine horse for an old maid’s phæton.” - -“Well--who is it?” said I. - -“I’m afraid you’ll think she’s been at me to help her. But, on my -honor, Loring, she isn’t that sort. We’ve talked of you. For some -reason, ever since I’ve known her--well, I’ve never seen her without -thinking of you. I often talk of you to her--not marrying talk--I’d not -dare--but in a friendly sort of way. She listens--says nothing.” - -“But she is sickly,” said I. - -“Sickly?” he cried. He looked horrified and amazed. “Good Lord, what -gave you that notion?” - -“You said you saw her often.” - -“Oh, I see. It was her brother who had the illness.” - -“All right. Bring her round and I’ll look her over,” said I carelessly. -And I forced a change of subject. - -Had Mary Kirkwood been taking this agreeable, insidious doctor into -her confidence? I did not know. I do not know. I have reasons for -thinking he told the literal truth. And yet--women are queer about -doctors. However, that’s a small matter. The thing that impressed me, -that agitated me as he talked, was the picture he, by implication, -was making of Mary Kirkwood, alone again, and evidently absolutely -unattached--living alone in the country as when I first knew her. - -I tossed and fretted away most of the hours of that night with the -result that at breakfast I resolved to leave town again, to put the -width of the continent or of the ocean between me and temptation to -folly. But one thing and another came up to detain me. It was perhaps -ten days later that I, walking alone in the Park, as was my habit, -found myself at a turning face to face with her. I don’t think my -expression reflected credit upon my boasted self-control. As for her--I -thought she was going to faint--and she is not one of the fainting -kind. We gazed at each other in fright and embarrassment, and both -had the same child’s impulse to turn and fly--one, of those sensible, -natural instincts for the shortest way out of difficult situations that -the cowardly conventionality of the grown-up estate makes it impossible -to obey. But--we had to do something. So, we laughed. - -She put out her hand; I took it. “How well you are looking,” said -I--and it was the truth. - -“You, too,” said she. - -I turned to walk with her. We strolled along cheerfully and -contentedly, talking of the early spring, of flowers, and birds, and -such neutral matters. I was fluent, she no less so. Our agitation -disappeared; our sense of congeniality returned. Our acquaintance -seemed to have lumped back to where it was before we had that first -confidential talk together on the yacht. After perhaps an hour, as -agreeable an hour as I ever spent, she said she must go home, as she -had an engagement. On the way to the Sixty-fifth Street entrance the -conversation lagged somewhat. We were both busily resolving the same -thing--the matter of explanations. Now that I was seeing her again--a -wholly different matter from inspecting my defaced and smirched and -battered image of her--battered by the blows of my jealousy, and -anger, and scorn--now that I was seeing _her_ again, I could not but -see and feel that she was in reality a sweet and simple and attractive -woman. No doubt she had her faults--as all of us have--grave faults of -inheritance, of education, of environment. But who was I that I should -sit in judgment on her? I realized that I had judged her unjustly so -far as her treatment of me was concerned. Assuming that she was tainted -with snobbishness, assuming that her defects were as bad as I had -thought in my worst paroxysms, still that did not alter the charms and -the fine qualities. - -“We are friends?” said I abruptly. - -“I hope so,” said she. She added: “I know so.” - -“Without discussion or explanation?” - -“That is best--don’t you think?” replied she. “I am--not--not proud of -some things I did.” - -“Nor I, of some things I did.” - -“I should like to forget them--my own and yours.” - -“I, too. And explanations do not explain. Let sleeping dogs lie.” - -She smiled and nodded. She said: - -“The latter part of the week I’m going back to the country. Perhaps -you’ll spend Saturday and Sunday there?” - -“Thank you,” said I. “Let me know at the Federal Club if your plans -change.” - -At her door we shook hands, but both lingered. Said she: - -“I am glad we are friends again.” - -“It was inevitable,” I replied. “We _like_ each other too well not to -have come round. Bitternesses and enmities are stupid.” - -“And sad,” said she. - -When we met again--at her house in the country--there was no -constraint on either side. We knew that neither of us had the power to -breach, much less to remove, the barrier between us. We ignored its -existence--and were content. - -You may have observed that I have rarely been able to speak of Edna -without resentment. I shall now tell you why: - -The friendship between Mary Kirkwood and me presently set the -newspaper gossips to talking. Our engagement was announced again and -again--the announcement always a pretext for rehashing the story of the -matrimonial bankruptcy through which each had passed. But as we were -above the reach of the missiles of the scandalmongers the worst that -was printed produced only a slight and brief irritation. This until -the Princess Frascatoni began her campaign of slander. - -I shall not go into it. I shall simply say that she ordered one of -her hangers-on--one of the semi-literary parasites to be found in the -train of every rich person--to attack Mary and me as keeping up an -intrigue of long standing, the one that was the real cause of my wife’s -divorcing me. When I read the first of these articles I believed, from -certain details, that no one in the world but the Princess Frascatoni -could have inspired it. But with my habitual caution I leashed my -impetuous anger and did not condemn her until I had investigated. Is it -not strange, is it not the irony of fate that in every serious crisis -of my life, except one, I should have had coolness and self-control, -and that the one exception should have been when I loved Mary Kirkwood -and condemned her unheard? After all, I am not sure that love isn’t a -kind of lunacy. - -Why did Edna engage in that campaign of slander? Why did she say -to everyone from this side the most malicious, the most mendacious -things about my relations with Mrs. Kirkwood--that she had ignored the -intrigue as long as she could for the sake of her dear daughter; that -it had driven her from New York, had forced her to get a divorce, and -so on through the gamut of malignant lying? There may perhaps be a clew -to the mystery in the failure of her second marriage--as a marriage, -I mean; not, of course, as a social enterprise, for there it was a -world-renowned success. If the clew is not in Edna’s emptiness of heart -and boredom, then I can suggest no explanation. I imagine she had been -hearing and reading the gossip about an impending marriage between -Mrs. Kirkwood and me until she had concluded that there must be truth -in it--and by outrageous slander she hoped to make it impossible. - -The first effect was as she had probably calculated. Mary and I avoided -each other. Mary hid herself and would see no one. Armitage and I for -a time kept up a pretense of close friendship, or, rather, publicly -again pretended a friendship that had long since all but ceased. But -when the talk both in the newspapers and among our acquaintances grew -until the “at last uncovered scandal” was the chief topic of gossip, he -and I almost stopped speaking. You may wonder why he or I or both of us -did not “do something” to crush the absurd lie. Gentle reader, did you -ever try to kill a scandal? It is done in novels and on the stage; but -in life the silly ass who draws his sword and attacks a pestilent fog -accomplishes nothing--beyond attracting more attention to the fog by -his absurd and futile gesticulations. The world had made up its nasty -little mind that the relations between Mary Kirkwood, divorced, and -Godfrey Loring, divorced, were not, and for years had not been, what -they should be. And the matter was settled. I think Armitage himself -believed. I know Beechman believed, for he pointedly crossed the street -to avoid speaking to me. - -I stood this for a month. Then I went down to Mary’s place on Long -Island. - -You may imagine the excitement my coming caused among the honest -yeomanry gathered at the station--those worthy folk who peep and pry -into the business of their fashionable overlords, and are learning -to cringe like English peasants. I found Mary setting out for a -ride--through her own grounds; she was ashamed to venture abroad. -I came upon her abruptly. Instead of the terror and aversion I had -steeled myself to meet, I got a radiance of welcome that made my heart -leap. But in an instant she had remembered and was almost in a panic. - -“Please send the groom away with the horse,” said I. “Let us walk up -and down here before the house.” - -She hesitated, obeyed. - -The broad space before the house was laid out in hedges and blooming -beds with a long, straight drive leading in one direction to the -highroad, in the other direction to stable, carriage house, and garage. -When we were securely alone I said: - -“Have you missed me?” - -“Our friendship meant a lot to me,” replied she. - -“I have discovered that it’s the principal thing in my life,” said I. - -We paced the length of the drive toward the lodge in silence. As we -turned toward the house again I said: - -“I have chartered the largest yacht I could get--for a cruise round the -world.” - -A pause, then she in a constrained voice: “When do you start?” - -“Immediately,” I answered. “Perhaps to-morrow.” - -She halted, leaned against a tree, and gazed out through the shrubbery. - -“You’ve not been well?” said I. - -“I never am, when I lose interest in life,” replied she. “You will be -gone--long?” - -“Long,” said I. “Either we shall not see each other again for -years--or--” I paused. - -After a wait of fully a minute she looked inquiringly at me. - -“Mary,” said I, “shall we take a motor launch and go over to -Connecticut and be married?” - -She began to walk again, I keeping pace with her. “It’s the only -sensible thing to do,” said I. “It’s the only way out of this mess. And -to-morrow we’ll sail away and not come back until--until we are good -and ready.” - -I waited a moment, then went on, and I had the feeling that I was -saying what we were both thinking: “We’ve had the same experience--have -been through the same bankruptcy. It has taught us, I think--I hope--I -can’t be sure; human nature learns slowly and badly. But I see a good -chance for us--not to be utterly and always blissfully happy, but to -get far more out of life than either is getting--or could get alone.” - -As we turned at the group of outbuildings she looked at me and I at -her--a look straight into each other’s souls. And then and there was -born that which alone can make a marriage successful or a life worth -the living. What is the difference between friendship and love? I had -thought--and said--that love was friendship in bloom. But as Mary and I -looked at each other, I knew the full truth. Love is friendship set on -fire. We did not speak. We glanced hastily away. At the front door she -halted. In a quiet, awed voice she said: - -“I’ll change from this riding suit.” - -And what did I say, gentle reader, to commemorate our standing upon -holy ground? I did no better than she. With eyes uncertain and voice -untrustworthy and hoarse I said: - -“And tell your maid to pack and go to town with the trunks--go to the -landing at East Twenty-third Street. Can she be there by four or five -this afternoon?” - -“Yes.” - -“Then I’ll see you at the bay--at the launch wharf--in half an hour? -I’ve got to send off a telegram.” - -“In half an hour,” said she, and with a grave smile and a wave of her -crop she disappeared into the house. - - * * * * * - -At seven that evening we steamed past Sandy Hook. At ten--after an -almost silent dinner--we were on deck, leaning side by side at the -rail, near the bow. We were alone on the calm and shining sea. No land -in sight, not a steamer, not a sail--not a sign of human existence -beyond the rail of our yacht. Her arm slipped within mine; my hand -sought hers. Not a sail, not a streamer of smoke. Alone and free and -together. - - * * * * * - -I forgive you, gentle reader. Go in peace. - - -THE END - - - - -TITLES SELECTED FROM - -GROSSET & DUNLAP’S LIST - -May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list. - - -_THE SECOND WIFE._ By Thompson Buchanan. Illustrated by W. W. Fawcett. -Harrison Fisher wrapper printed in four colors and gold. - -An intensely interesting story of a marital complication in a wealthy -New York family involving the happiness of a beautiful young girl. - - -_TESS OF THE STORM COUNTRY._ By Grace Miller White. Illustrated by - Howard Chandler Christy. - -An amazingly vivid picture of low class life in a New -York college town, with a heroine beautiful and noble, who makes -a great sacrifice for love. - - -_FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING._ By Grace Miller White. Frontispiece - and wrapper in colors by Penrhyn Stanlaws. - -Another story of “the storm country.” Two beautiful children -are kidnapped from a wealthy home and appear many years -after showing the effects of a deep, malicious scheme behind -their disappearance. - - -_THE LIGHTED MATCH._ By Charles Neville Buck. Illustrated by R. F. - Schabelitz. - -A lovely princess travels incognito through the States and -falls in love with an American man. There are ties that bind her -to someone in her own home, and the great plot revolves round -her efforts to work her way out. - - -_MAUD BAXTER._ By C. C. Hotchkiss. Illustrated by Will Grefe. - -A romance both daring and delightful, involving an American -girl and a young man who had been impressed into English -service during the Revolution. - - -_THE HIGHWAYMAN._ By Guy Rawlence. Illustrated by Will Grefe. - -A French beauty of mysterious antecedents wins the love -of an Englishman of title. Developments of a startling character -and a clever untangling of affairs hold the reader’s interest. - - -_THE PURPLE STOCKINGS._ By Edward Salisbury Field. Illustrated in - colors; marginal illustrations. - -A young New York business man, his pretty sweetheart, -his sentimental stenographer, and his fashionable sister are all -mixed up in a misunderstanding that surpasses anything in the -way of comedy in years. A story with a laugh on every page. - -_Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction_ - - - - -A FEW OF -GROSSET & DUNLAP’S -Great Books at Little Prices - - -WHEN A MAN MARRIES. By Mary Roberts Rinehart. Illustrated by Harrison - Fisher and Mayo Bunker. - -A young artist, whose wife had recently divorced him, finds that -a visit is due from his Aunt Selina, an elderly lady having ideas -about things quite apart from the Bohemian set in which her -nephew is a shining light. The way in which matters are temporarily -adjusted forms the motif of the story. - -A farcical extravaganza, dramatised under the title of “Seven Days.” - - -THE FASHIONABLE ADVENTURES OF JOSHUA CRAIG. By David Graham Phillips. - Illustrated. - -A young westerner, uncouth and unconventional, appears in -political and social life in Washington. He attains power in politics, -and a young woman of the exclusive set becomes his wife, undertaking -his education in social amenities. - - -“DOC.” GORDON. By Mary E. Wilkins-Freeman. Illustrated by Frank T. - Merrill. - -Against the familiar background of American town life, the -author portrays a group of people strangely involved in a mystery. -“Doc.” Gordon, the one physician of the place, D. Elliot, his -assistant, a beautiful woman and her altogether charming daughter -are all involved in the plot. A novel of great interest. - - -HOLY ORDERS. By Marie Corelli. - -A dramatic story, in which is pictured a clergyman in touch with -society people, stage favorites, simple, common village folk, powerful -financiers and others, each presenting vital problems to this man “in -holy orders”--problems that we are now struggling with in America. - - -KATRINE. By Elinor Macartney Lane. With frontispiece. - -Katrine, the heroine of this story, is a lovely Irish girl, of lowly -birth, but gifted with a beautiful voice. - -The narrative is based on the facts of an actual singer’s career, -and the viewpoint throughout is a most exalted one. - - -THE FORTUNES OF FIFI. By Molly Elliot Seawell. Illustrated by T. de - Thulstrup. - -A story of life in France at the time of the first Napoleon. Fifi, -a glad, mad little actress of eighteen, is the star performer in a third -rate Parisian theatre. A story as dainty as a Watteau painting. - - -SHE THAT HESITATES. By Harris Dickson. Illustrated by C. W. Relyea. - -The scene of this dashing romance shifts from Dresden to St. -Petersburg in the reign of Peter the Great, and then to New Orleans. - -The hero is a French Soldier of Fortune, and the princess, who -hesitates--but you must read the story to know how she that hesitates -may be lost and yet saved. - - - - -TITLES SELECTED FROM -GROSSET & DUNLAP’S LIST - -REALISTIC, ENGAGING PICTURES OF LIFE - - -THE GARDEN OF FATE. By Roy Norton. Illustrated by Joseph Clement Coll. - -The colorful romance of an American girl in Morocco, and -of a beautiful garden, whose beauty and traditions of strange -subtle happenings were closed to the world by a Sultan’s seal. - - -THE MAN HIGHER UP. By Henry Russell Miller. Full page vignette - illustrations by M. Leone Bracker. - -The story of a tenement waif who rose by his own ingenuity -to the office of mayor of his native city. His experiences -while “climbing,” make a most interesting example of the -possibilities of human nature to rise above circumstances. - - -THE KEY TO YESTERDAY. By Charles Neville Buck. Illustrated by R. - Schabelitz. - -Robert Saxon, a prominent artist, has an accident, while in -Paris, which obliterates his memory, and the only clue he has -to his former life is a rusty key. What door in Paris will it -unlock? He must know that before he woos the girl he loves. - - -THE DANGER TRAIL. By James Oliver Curwood. Illustrated by Charles - Livingston Bull. - -The danger trail is over the snow-smothered North. A -young Chicago engineer, who is building a road through the -Hudson Bay region, is involved in mystery, and is led into -ambush by a young woman. - - -THE GAY LORD WARING. By Houghton Townley. Illustrated by Will Grefe. - -A story of the smart hunting set in England. A gay young -lord wins in love against his selfish and cowardly brother and -apparently against fate itself. - - -BY INHERITANCE. By Octave Thanet. Illustrated by Thomas Fogarty. - Elaborate wrapper in colors. - -A wealthy New England spinster with the most elaborate -plans for the education of the negro goes to visit her nephew -in Arkansas, where she learns the needs of the colored race -first hand and begins to lose her theories. - - - - -A FEW OF -GROSSET & DUNLAP’S -Great Books at Little Prices - - -QUINCY ADAMS SAWYER. A Picture of New England Home Life. With - illustrations by C. W. Reed, and Scenes Reproduced from the Play. - -One of the best New England stories ever written. It is -full of homely human interest * * * there is a wealth of New -England village character, scenes and incidents * * * forcibly, -vividly and truthfully drawn. Few books have enjoyed a greater -sale and popularity. Dramatized, it made the greatest rural play -of recent times. - - -THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF QUINCY ADAMS SAWYER. By Charles Felton Pidgin. - Illustrated by Henry Roth. - -All who love honest sentiment, quaint and sunny humor, -and homespun philosophy will find these “Further Adventures” -a book after their own heart. - - -HALF A CHANCE. By Frederic S. Isham. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer. - -The thrill of excitement will keep the reader in a state of -suspense, and he will become personally concerned from the -start, as to the central character, a very real man who suffers, -dares--and achieves! - - -VIRGINIA OF THE AIR LANES. By Herbert Quick. Illustrated by William R. - Leigh. - -The author has seized the romantic moment for the airship -novel, and created the pretty story of “a lover and his lass” -contending with an elderly relative for the monopoly of the -skies. An exciting tale of adventure in midair. - - -THE GAME AND THE CANDLE. By Eleanor M. Ingram. Illustrated by P. D. - Johnson. - -The hero is a young American, who, to save his family from -poverty, deliberately commits a felony. Then follow his capture -and imprisonment, and his rescue by a Russian Grand Duke. A -stirring story, rich in sentiment. - - - - -THE NOVELS OF -GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON - - -GRAUSTARK. - -A story of love behind a throne, telling how a young -American met a lovely girl and followed her to a new and -strange country. A thrilling, dashing narrative. - - -BEVERLY OF GRAUSTARK. - -Beverly is a bewitching American girl who has gone to -that stirring little principality--Graustark--to visit her friend -the princess, and there has a romantic affair of her own. - - -BREWSTER’S MILLIONS. - -A young man is required to spend _one_ million dollars in -one year in order to inherit _seven_. How he does it forms the -basis of a lively story. - - -CASTLE CRANEYCROW. - -The story revolves round the abduction of a young American -woman, her imprisonment in an old castle and the adventures -created through her rescue. - - -COWARDICE COURT. - -An amusing social feud in the Adirondacks in which an -English girl is tempted into being a traitor by a romantic -young American, forms the plot. - - -THE DAUGHTER OF ANDERSON CROW. - -The story centers about the adopted daughter of the town -marshal in a western village. Her parentage is shrouded in -mystery, and the story concerns the secret that deviously -works to the surface. - - -THE MAN FROM BRODNEY’S. - -The hero meets a princess in a far-away island among -fanatically hostile Musselmen. Romantic love-making amid -amusing situations and exciting adventures. - - -NEDRA. - -A young couple elope from Chicago to go to London -traveling as brother and sister. They are shipwrecked and a -strange mix-up occurs on account of it. - - -THE SHERRODS. - -The scene is the Middle West and centers around a man -who leads a double life. A most enthralling novel. - - -TRUXTON KING. - -A handsome good-natured young fellow ranges on the -earth looking for romantic adventures and is finally enmeshed -in most complicated intrigues in Graustark. - - - - -KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN’S -STORIES OF PURE DELIGHT - -Full of originality and humor, kindliness and cheer - - -_THE OLD PEABODY PEW._ Large Octavo. Decorative text pages, printed in - two colors. Illustrations by Alice Barber Stephens. - -One of the prettiest romances that has ever come from this -author’s pen is made to bloom on Christmas Eve in the sweet -freshness of an old New England meeting house. - - -_PENELOPE’S PROGRESS._ Attractive cover design in colors. - -Scotland is the background for the merry doings of three very -clever and original American girls. Their adventures in adjusting -themselves to the Scot and his land are full of humor. - - -_PENELOPE’S IRISH EXPERIENCES._ Uniform In style _with “Penelope’s - Progress.”_ - -The trio of clever girls who rambled over Scotland cross the border -to the Emerald Isle, and again they sharpen their wits against -new conditions, and revel in the land of laughter and wit. - - -_REBECCA OF SUNNYBROOK FARM._ - -One of the most beautiful studies of childhood--Rebecca’s artistic, -unusual and quaintly charming qualities stand out midst a circle -of austere New Englanders. The stage version is making a phenomenal -dramatic record. - - -_NEW CHRONICLES OF REBECCA._ With illustrations by F. C. Yohn. - -Some more quaintly amusing chronicles that carry Rebecca -through various stages to her eighteenth birthday. - - -_ROSE O’ THE RIVER._ With illustrations by George Wright. - -The simple story of Rose, a country girl and Stephen a sturdy -young farmer. The girl’s fancy for a city man interrupts their love -and merges the story into an emotional strain where the reader follows -the events with rapt attention. - - - - -LOUIS TRACY’S -CAPTIVATING AND EXHILARATING ROMANCES - -May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list. - - -_CYNTHIA’S CHAUFFEUR._ Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy. - -A pretty American girl in London is touring in a car with -a chauffeur whose identity puzzles her. An amusing mystery. - - -_THE STOWAWAY GIRL._ Illustrated by Nesbitt Benson. - -A shipwreck, a lovely girl stowaway, a rascally captain, a -fascinating officer, and thrilling adventures in South Seas. - - -_THE CAPTAIN OF THE KANSAS._ - -Love and the salt sea, a helpless ship whirled into the hands -of cannibals, desperate fighting and a tender romance. - - -_THE MESSAGE._ Illustrated by Joseph Cummings Chase. - -A bit of parchment found in the figurehead of an old vessel -tells of a buried treasure. A thrilling mystery develops. - - -_THE PILLAR OF LIGHT._ - -The pillar thus designated was a lighthouse, and the author tells with -exciting detail the terrible dilemma of its cut-off inhabitants. - - -_THE WHEEL O’FORTUNE._ With illustrations by James -Montgomery Flagg. - -The story deals with the finding of a papyrus containing -the particulars of some of the treasures of the Queen of Sheba. - - -_A SON OF THE IMMORTALS._ Illustrated by Howard -Chandler Christy. - -A young American is proclaimed king of a little Balkan -Kingdom, and a pretty Parisian art student is the power behind -the throne. - - -_THE WINGS OF THE MORNING._ - -A sort of Robinson Crusoe _redivivus_ with modern settings -and a very pretty love story added. The hero and heroine, are -the only survivors of a wreck, and have many thrilling adventures -on their desert island. - -_Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction_ - - - - -B. M. Bower’s Novels -Thrilling Western Romances - -Large 12 mos. Handsomely bound in cloth. Illustrated - - -_CHIP, OF THE FLYING U_ - -A breezy, wholesome tale, wherein the love affairs of Chip and -Della Whitman are charmingly and humorously told. Chip’s -jealousy of Dr. Cecil Grantham, who turns out to be a big, blue-eyed -young woman is very amusing. A clever, realistic story of -the American Cow-puncher. - - -_THE HAPPY FAMILY_ - -A lively and amusing story, dealing with the adventures of -eighteen jovial, big hearted Montana cowboys. Foremost amongst -them, we find Ananias Green, known as Andy, whose imaginative -powers cause many lively and exciting adventures. - - -_HER PRAIRIE KNIGHT_ - -A realistic story of the plains, describing a gay party of Easterners -who exchange a cottage at Newport for the rough homeliness -of a Montana ranch-house. The merry-hearted cowboys, the -fascinating Beatrice, and the effusive Sir Redmond, become living -breathing personalities. - - -_THE RANGE DWELLERS_ - -Here are everyday, genuine cowboys, just as they really exist. -Spirited action, a range feud between two families, and a Romeo -and Juliet courtship makes this a bright, jolly, entertaining story, -without a dull page. - - -_THE LURE OF DIM TRAILS_ - -A vivid portrayal of the experience of an Eastern author, -among the cowboys of the West, in search of “local color” for a new -novel. “Bud” Thurston learns many a lesson while following -“the lure of the dim trails” but the hardest, and probably the most -welcome, is that of love. - - -_THE LONESOME TRAIL_ - -“Weary” Davidson leaves the ranch for Portland, where conventional -city life palls on him. A little branch of sage brush, pungent with -the atmosphere of the prairie, and the recollection of a pair of -large brown eyes soon compel his return. A wholesome love story. - - -_THE LONG SHADOW_ - -A vigorous Western story, sparkling with the free, outdoor, -life of a mountain ranch. Its scenes shift rapidly and its actors play -the game of life fearlessly and like men. It is a fine love story from -start to finish. - - -Ask for a complete free list of G. & D. 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