CHAPTER X"A FIN-DE-SIECLE PAIR""I have seen Hayes argue with a tough horse—I have seen a tonga driver coerce a stubborn pony—I have seen a riotous setter broken to gun by a hard keeper—but the breaking-in of Pluffles ... was beyond all these."—Kipling."But, Henry, you should be glad to see your brother's children.""I don't see why. A pair of young ragamuffins who'll pull the house about my ears.""My dear Henry! They're nineteen.""Worse and worse! The boy will be certain to fall in love with you.""Do you think so?" asked Mrs. Hadwell, eagerly."I think it won't be your fault if he doesn't," responded her husband with acerbity."Well, at all events the girl won't fall in love with you," said Mrs. Hadwell with a twinkle in her eye.Her spouse grunted something unintelligible."Not if she sees you with that expression on your face," went on Mrs. Hadwell, rather sadly. "It always seems so strange to me that a man of your experience and charm—a finished man of the world, in other words—should give way to these useless moods."Mr. Hadwell's brow slightly cleared in spite of his efforts to hide the fact."If I had seen when I first met you," went on Mrs. Hadwell in chastened accents, "that, beneath the mask of courtly politeness and delicate flattery, you concealed the nature of a gloomy tyrant.""Da—I mean, confound it all!" said Mr. Hadwell, much affected, "what on earth do you want, Estelle?""Why, I'm afraid I don't quite understand you," said Mrs. Hadwell, raising her pretty eyebrows in pained surprise."My dear little girl, you know I am not a tyrant," said Mr. Hadwell, miserable at the thought of being so misunderstood, yet, at the same time, secretly delighted at the reference to his "courtly politeness." His delight was natural when one considers the fact that, at no time of his life, had his manners surpassed those of an average groom."No—perhaps not," said Mrs. Hadwell, softly. "Yet, Henry, there are times when—when—""When what, darling?" inquired Mr. Hadwell, abjectly."When," said Mrs. Hadwell with sorrowful dignity, "when, Henry, I am actually afraid to ask you for the little extra money which will provide for the entertainment of your brother's children.""Must they be so much entertained?" asked Mr. Hadwell, humbly yet uneasily. He was a kind old man, but the prospect of parting with a dollar never failed to cause him acute agony."They need not be entertained," responded Mrs. Hadwell with feeling. "Those unfortunate children may come here and stay with us three weeks and return to Ohio to tell their father and mother that the woman who has deprived them of their uncle's fortune, grudges them a ball or a"— She wept: and Mr. Hadwell writhed in agony. There were only two things in life that he really loved: his big income and his small wife. Of the two, he really preferred his wife: and after a few moments' silent struggle, he succumbed to her tears and her fascinations and drew out his cheque book."How much?" he inquired, hardily.Little Mrs. Hadwell dried her eyes."How much?" she inquired, innocently. "How mu—oh, Henry! were you thinking of giving me some money?"Mr. Hadwell regarded her with perplexity."Isn't that what you wanted?" he inquired looking puzzled.Mrs. Hadwell buried her eighty-dollar head in her pretty hands."I wanted you to show some interest in these children—your own brother's children!" she wept. "And you—offer—me—money!"Mr. Hadwell groaned, feeling that he was a tactless brute yet not quite seeing why. Suddenly a bright thought struck him: he tore out a blank cheque, signed it and tossed it playfully to his wife."There, there!" he observed, soothingly. "Don't cry any more, Estelle. Of course these children must be entertained—of course I am pleased about their coming. But, you see, we business men have so much to worry us."Mr. Hadwell's business consisted in driving to his office every morning, receiving the obsequious greetings of his manager—and drawing his handsome income. Mrs. Hadwell knew this as well—better than he did—therefore——"Of course," she cooed, drying her eyes and regarding her spouse with mingled awe and wonder. "Of course, dear. You must forgive me if I seem a little unreasonable, sometimes; but it did hurt me so when you seemed to think that all I wanted from you was money"——"Of course—of course!" said her husband, hastily. "Now I must be off. What are you going to do, to-day?""Well, let me see! Lynn is coming to dinner and we are going for a drive first.""Ah!" said Mr. Hadwell, looking pleased. He heartily approved of Lynn and took great pleasure in the thought that this exceptionally "nice" young woman was his wife's best friend; feeling that Estelle's evident devotion to Lynn overbalanced her quite as evident love of flattery and attention. Mr. Hadwell never forgot that Lynn insisted on teaching in the public schools rather than allow her uncle to support her, wholly: a piece of unselfishness that went straight to his heart. Needless to say, he did not know that Estelle had talked him over with Lynn from every point of view, both before and after his marriage to the former.Estelle Harding had been the granddaughter of a wealthy man who had died when she was sixteen, leaving her penniless. For the next five years she had lived with different relatives, positively refusing to follow the example of her friend, Lynn Thayer, who was preparing at the High and Normal schools, to earn her living as a teacher. Being tremendously popular both with girls and boys, she was deluged with invitations and love affairs; but at twenty-one, she met Mr. Hadwell, a wealthy and retiring bachelor of sixty-three, and, from that time on, she paid assiduous and tactful court to him. The net result of this campaign was that, in six months from the time she had first met him, Mr. Hadwell was a married man. It speaks well for our small heroine's tactics that her husband, to his dying day, believed that he had fallen madly in love with her when he saw her first and that nothing but his overpowering fascinations had induced the shy damsel to become his wife. "You were the first man who had ever cared for me," Estelle would say to him, sometimes. "The others—oh, they were just boys! I couldn't look up to them, dear: they were on a level with myself." This was a particularly tactful lie on Mrs. Hadwell's part: she knew well that among her admirers had been young men whose intellect and strength of character had far surpassed her husband's. But tactful lying was Mrs. Hadwell's forte.Many and varied were the comments on Miss Harding's engagement. "Little cat! how clever she is," said some. The majority, however, murmured feelingly, "So glad that sweet girl will have her reward.""That sweet girl" had had her reward. All that she cared for in life—money, social position, unlimited flattery and envy were hers without stint. And, much as I hate to grieve the moralists, Estelle Hadwell was a supremely happy and contented woman. If she had been childless it is possible that her lot might, at times, have palled on her: but two pretty, healthy children occupied what little heart she had. Her husband, though in a vague way proud of his children's beauty and brightness, cared little for them: what hearthehad was occupied by his wife who played upon his affections with the hand of a practised artist.She let the cheque lie by her plate, now, as she rose and kissed her better half, affectionately."What a delightful visit those dear twins will have, thanks to your generosity," she said, smiling at him, affectionately.Mr. Hadwell waved a patronizing disclaimer."Oh, I shall be glad to do what I can for Carl's children," he said, magnificently."That is so like you, dear," returned his simple little wife, gently.She was giggling softly to herself over this conversation in the afternoon as she pinned an expensive little hat over her still more expensive tresses. "I really do think I am cleverer than most women," she mused. "I get just what I want and I never hurt the dear old thing's feelings." She was really fond of her husband whose absorption in her satisfied her vanity and whose jealousy served to render life interesting. When Lynn Thayer arrived she entered into a long and detailed account of her morning's work, ending by triumphantly displaying the cheque. Lynn laughed, unwillingly."I do hate that sort of thing, Estelle," she said. "I know you're awfully clever at getting your own way, but I can never understand why you don't get Mr. Hadwell to allow you a certain sum, monthly. Then you wouldn't have to stoop to this sort of thing.""Oh, but I like stooping," said Estelle, placidly. "And, besides, if I knew just how much I was going to get every month it would be awfully tame. You haven't a bit of the gambler in you, Lynn.""Not a particle.""Then there's another side to the question. If Henry had to make me an allowance he would only allow for necessities. For instance, if I wanted to run down to New York for a week or two it would have to come out of my dress allowance. That would be horrid. Oh, I had such a time getting a few hundred dollars out of him the last time I went. He wrangled over every detail—actually wanted me to stay in the suburbs because hotels were cheaper there, quite forgetting that my fare in and out would amount to something. As I said to him, 'I suppose I could walk to the ferry—it's only twenty miles or so each way and exercise is good for one—but I really couldn't walk across the water; I'm notquitedivine yet!'""You absurd child! What did he say to that?""Oh, he mumbled something to the effect that I ought to be a Christian Scientist. That was meant as a joke. He always jokes when he feels ashamed. So I said, 'Yes, if I were a Christian Scientist I could walk over anything, yourself included; but because I am only your poor, stupid, little wife, I must humbly beg you for money for this little trip.' Then he tried to be pompous, the way he always does when I pretend to knuckle down. He said, 'If I don't want you to go to New York, that ought to be enough for any well-regulated wife.' And I said, 'You dear old stupid! I'm not a well-regulated wife. Don't be so ridiculous. Anyone would think I was a watch to hear you talk!' Then I looked cute and rolled my eyes at him and he caved right in. Dear me, Lynn, what a pity it is I can't bestow some of my superfluous cleverness on you. Your aunt tells me that you are positively discouraging Mr. Lighton. You must be mad.""I am mad—thoroughly mad about the whole business. Why in the world should I marry this man simply because he asks me? Really, I have been so advised and dictated to and badgered about him that now the very thought of his face makes me feel angry.""Then why do you think of his face?" inquired Mrs. Hadwell, opening her grey eyes, innocently. "Why don't you forget about his face and think about his figure at the bank? That is what any sensible girl would do."Lynn groaned. "I'm not a sensible girl, unfortunately," she said. "Now, Del, if you're going for a drive before dinner you had better hurry.""Very well. I'm ready. Dear me! I must just see Mrs. Waite before we go and tell her to have dinner at seven. Oh, Lynn! that woman is such a comfort to me. She's a regular automaton, knows how everything in the house should be done—and does it! Of course she is absolutely heartless, but—what are you giggling at? Oh, my dear, I may not be particularly intense or passionate, but I assure you I am a volcano beside Mrs. Waite. She doesn't care for the children, she doesn't even care for me. Now you know there must be something radically wrong with any one who doesn't care for me—I may have my faults, but no one can deny that I am the most fascinating person!—and in her case it is the stranger as she is a decayed gentlewoman and I have gone out of my way to show her kindness. Why, I even asked her to dine with Henry and me once when we had people who knew her coming to dinner: and she looked at me with her Medusa-like countenance and refused. But as a housekeeper she is a jewel and, as long as she runs my house like clockwork, I can excuse her lack of geniality. Here she is. Oh, Mrs. Waite, will you tell Sarah to put off dinner till eight. I am going out with Miss Thayer. By the way, you don't know Miss Thayer, do you? Miss Thayer, Mrs. Waite. Don't forget about dinner."There, isn't she a Gorgon, Lynn? She is always just like that—neat, accurate, frigid, freezing. Ugh! What a lovely day for a drive, isn't it? I'm going to Mr. Amherst's to take a look at my portrait. It is going to be so nice and I want you to see it. I am sure it will be hung in the Art Gallery at the Spring Exhibition. What a nice man he is, isn't he? By the way, speaking of Mrs. Waite, I am going to tell you why I always make a point of introducing her to all my friends and having things just as pleasant for her as possible. It's because she's like that much-talked-of 'skeleton at the feast'; she's a perpetual reminder to me of how lucky I am. I wish you would compare us and take a lesson, my friend. I'm the bright example, she's the awful warning. I might have been just where she is to-day if I hadn't had my wits about me. She might be where I am if she had made the most of her opportunities. Don't waste time telling me that she's plain and uninteresting. I would be plain if I didn't dress properly and eat good food and take good care of myself; and, as for 'interesting,'everywoman is interesting to a man if she impresses him as being sensible and womanly—that is, if she enjoys his conversation and tells him that she likes dusting. Every man likes a woman who is fond of dusting. I don't know why. And, as for sweeping, there is no surer passport to a man's affections than to tell him that you sweep out your own room every morning. It never fails to have the desired effect. It doesn't matter if the man is a multi-millionaire with an army of housemaids and footmen; he still thinks it is womanly and domestic to sweep. If I ever found my hold on Henry's affections becoming a trifle slack, I should immediately start sweeping.""Del, I don't think I ever met anyone who could talk more nonsense than you, in a given space of time.""Nonsense! Oh, Lynn, if I could only get you to understand that what I am saying, although delivered as if it were the merest airy persiflage, is the soundest common sense. If you want to be admired and respected by the male sex—sweep! Or, if you don't like sweeping, don't sweep; but talk about sweeping as if it were the one thing that you doted on; convey the impression that you would rather sweep than go motoring any day. The man in question may have thought you a charming girl before, but, after that, his feelings will take a deeper tinge; you will advance in his mind to the status of a womanly woman. Delicious! Instead of these lectures girls are always attending at Y.W.C.A.'s and colleges, about Browning and the Pyramids and the condition of the poor and the prevalence of frivolity, what a pity it is they can't attend lectures given by some past-master in the art of flirting—such as I, for instance! Wouldn't those lectures be crowded, though; that is, if girls knew what was good for them. And here you have all the advantages of a private course of instruction and you won't take the trouble to learn the first rules of the game. Ah, the golden words of wisdom wasted! the opportunities lost. Ah me!""Del, I strongly object to your speaking as though I had no opportunities. Haven't I always at least one person who wants to marry me? even though I do tell the truth occasionally?""You have. But that's by good luck, not by management. You might have twenty if you exerted yourself properly.""You make me feel as though I were a sort of derelict. It's a horrid feeling.""If I succeed in making you feel a derelict I have succeeded beyond my wildest expectations. Don't you know, my dear child, that you are experiencing in a faint degree what you will experience all your life if you don't hurry up and settle yourself. Don't you know that for the next fifty years you will, not only feel, but be a derelict if you don't accept Lighton and marry him before he changes his mind.""Thank goodness, this drive can't last forever," exclaimed Lynn, laughing. "Otherwise I should be compelled to get out and walk. You are perfectly unendurable sometimes, Del, and this is certainly one of the times.""I'm going to be unendurable again and to better purpose, I hope, a little later on," said Mrs. Hadwell, darkly. "But now I suppose we'll have to descend—or ascend, if you like it better—from practical life to pictures. Mr. Amherst paints well, doesn't he? And what a nice man he is. I don't know anyone who doesn't like him, do you?""No, I don't think I do. He's nice and very popular.""And a great friend of yours too, isn't he? I haven't heard you speak of him, lately. I thought at one time"—"Oh, Del, do think of something else!" exclaimed Lynn a little crossly. "Men, men, men—and marriage, marriage, marriage!Dolet us think and talk of something else.""Very well, my dear, we'll talk of myself. I wanted to get up a flirtation with Mr. Amherst this winter and he didn't seem to respond at all. So I immediately thought that he must be interested in someone else and, as he was always calling on you, naturally I thought"—"Men again!""Not men but a man. Don't you perceive the delicate distinction? Well, as I was saying, Mr. Amherst didn't seem a bit interested in me, charming though I am and was—what a mercy old Tom is stone deaf!—and I was extremely puzzled. I didn't like to be too pointed in my attentions"—"I do wish, Del, that you wouldn't talk in that way. It sets my teeth on edge to hear a married woman speak in the way you do. Why don't you"—"Stay at home and attend to my house and children? So I do; but not being altogether a fossil yet I want to do something else at times. Isn't that natural at my age?""Quite natural at your age, and there is just the weak point of a marriage like yours. If you had married somebody you really cared about, other men wouldn't interest you.""Not for the first year or so, no. After that, they would. I might not like them so well as I did my husband, but I should like them and want them to like me. Yes, and I should want them to fall in love with me, too, so long as they didn't tell me about it and insist on making unpleasant scenes. Of course, in that case, they would go, just as they do, now. You know that, Lynn.""Yes, I know that. You are very careful, Del. I suppose it is all right and quite harmless in its way, but I can't say that I approve of it. What is the sense of having two or three men always sighing around because they can't marry you?""What's the sense of music or flowers or strawberry tarts? I like them and they agree with me. You know there is a lot of misconception with regard to the real tastes of a young woman after she marries. If she is a person who grows and develops she must, of necessity, like many things besides her husband and children. Now here is a case in point. Because I am devoted to my own children is that any reason why I should not be fond of other people's children? As a matter of fact, I don't care much for any children but my own; but, if I did, wouldn't that be blameless and even praiseworthy? So with men. I should always like them all even if I were eighty and had been married all my life.""It's a funny thing, Del, but some way you never seem married, to me.""I was married, I assure you. I remember it very distinctly. White is not becoming to me, so I wore a dark blue cashmere dress and a stunning black toque with little feathers—you remember? And Henry thought I was so sensible and so above feminine frivolities.""It is awfully hard to know what is right and wrong, I must say. You certainly make Mr. Hadwell perfectly happy and you are an ideal mother. Perhaps you are more in the right than I think.""My dear, I have read somewhere that there are certain plants which die just as soon as they have propagated. That is all they exist for; just to reproduce their own life and then die. Now there are a good many women in the world who are like these plants. They are not half as good mothers, not half as satisfactory wives as I am; but they are devoid of all possibility of offending because, to all intents and purposes, they died with the birth of their first child. Henceforth they exist in a modified form. They are no longer individuals but vegetables. All the young plant needs is air and light; but, as the young human needs food, clothes, exercise and various other things, they exist solely for the purpose of furnishing it with those things. They are incapable of holding an opinion or formulating a thought; they all think exactly alike on all subjects—which means, practically, that they do not think at all—their education, intellectually, stopped when they graduated from school, their education, emotionally, when they married. Are they more commendable than I? What do they do that I don't? Only I do other things in addition. I am a living woman, not a maternal cipher. I have a heart and a mind and a life of my own and these develop side by side with the development of my children. Of course the mere fact of life existing means that there are possibilities of mistakes being made, faults being committed; but isn't it better to live than to die? Lynn, I didn't know I was so clever! Aren't you proud of me?""Proud of you, all round, Del, except that I still wish you didn't flirt. Even if you are not in love with your husband it is bad form to publish the fact. And the very fact that you are still alive—very much alive—and capable of leading a life apart from your children makes your way of acting dangerous. I am always afraid that some day you will"—"That some day I shall fall in love and make a fool of myself? Don't worry. Some women are dominated by one of the great primal instincts, some by another. I am a mother, first and last and always. Men are only things to play with, but my children are necessities. I could never do anything that would cause them a moment's anxiety or difficulty in the future. No, my dear! When little Aileen is enjoying her first season her mother will be the same irreproachable, if frivolous, matron that she is at present. What a serious conversation we have drifted into, haven't we? I don't like it—seriousness! Dear me, Lynn, what in the world should I do if anything were to happen to you? You're the only person whom I dare to be myself with. Catch me trusting another woman. What makes you so unlike other women, Lynn?""Possibly the lack of sense for which you were upbraiding me so heartily a little while ago," said Lynn, slyly. "By the way, Del, that name, 'Waite,' is strangely familiar to me. Oh, of course! I know, now. I had a little pupil, once"—"Oh, Lynn, please don't start to talk about those ragamuffins of yours. I should think you would be glad to put them out of your mind for a few hours.""He was a most unfortunate child," pursued Lynn, unheeding. "He was plain and stupid and he knew it: and he came from a different social class from most of the others, which seemed to put the final touch to his isolation. I was glad when he died, poor little chap! He was devoted to me and I made a great pet of him because he seemed so lonely. I wonder if"—"Oh, a Gorgon-faced, icebergy automaton like Mrs. Waite never had a child in her life, I'm sure. Here we are at last."CHAPTER XIVISITORS AND DISCLOSURES"Knowledge comes but wisdom lingers."—Tennyson."I would that you were all to me.You that are just so much, no more,Nor yours, nor mine, not slave nor free!Where does the fault lie? What the coreO' the wound, since wound must be."—Browning."I love studios," announced Mrs. Hadwell with effusion, "and I love artists. Not you, only, Mr. Amherst, but all artists. They're so interesting.""Don't, please don't, Mrs. Hadwell," implored Amherst, laughing. "I have always hoped that my habit of keeping my head closely cropped and my face carefully shaved would save me from being thought 'interesting.' You have no idea what visions that word 'interesting' conjures up in the mind of the average man. Dinky velvet coats, unkempt beards, dirty hands, soulful eyes—don't, whatever else you do, call me 'interesting.' You might as well call a spoilt beauty a 'nice, sensible girl.'""That is something that no one ever called me," said Mrs. Hadwell thoughtfully, tugging at her gloves. "You needn't look at me, Mr. Amherst; I feel like staying here a while and I'm going to stay, no matter how busy you are—there, don't apologize or waste time in saying you'll be glad to see me and have me stay. Of course you will—a sensible man like you! What were we saying when you interrupted me—I mean, when I interrupted myself? Oh, yes! I was saying that no one had ever called me a 'nice, sensible girl.'""The reason is obvious," declared Amherst, laughing."Why—oh, I see! Thank you. You mean that I don't look sensible. No, I should hope I didn't. I should hate to!""I don't know whether I look sensible," said Lynn, wheeling suddenly round from the contemplation of a picture, "but people must think I do, for I so often hear myself referred to as 'that nice, sensible girl.' Is it an insult? I never thought of it in that light.""Not an insult, dear," said Mrs. Hadwell, composedly, "but an undoubted lie. Of all people who lack the first elements of sense you certainly head the list. Doesn't she, Mr. Amherst? But no, of course, you wouldn't think so, naturally. You're a man, and anyway, you don't know her.""I should have said I knew Miss Thayer pretty well," said Amherst, looking surprised, "and I should certainly have thought that she was very sensible. I don't see what you mean.""Of course you don't. As I previously remarked, you're a man. You think she's sensible and I have little doubt but that, in your heart of hearts, you think I'm a foolish little thing. Yet there's more sense in my little finger than there is in all of Lynn's tall body.Iknow.""What you call sense I call lying and cheating," returned Lynn, composedly.Amherst burst out laughing."You and Miss Thayer are certainly the most candid pair I have ever run across," he cried. "Do you always give and return these insults in perfect good faith? or does one or the other sometimes get annoyed?""Never," replied Lynn. "I can't imagine anything happening to make Del and me quarrel. In fact, I don't believe we could quarrel. I don't know what other people fight about, anyway. Do you, Del?""Why, yes," said Mrs. Hadwell. "They fight because one has a better hat than the other or because one likes red and the other likes blue, but, generally, because they both want the same man. Isn't that so, Mr. Amherst? But, you see, in this case, Lynn and I never like the same man, so we don't clash.""But even if we did," said Lynn, emphatically, "I can't imagine either of us doing anything so vulgar as to quarrel, Del. I'm sure if the man preferred you, you could have him; and, if he preferred me, I'd give him up to you without a moment's hesitation.""I wonder!" said her friend, teasingly. "Suppose I had taken a fancy to that absurd boy with the black eyes and the unpronounceable Italian name—would you have given him up to me, Lynn? I doubt it. Do you remember him, Mr. Amherst? Wasn't it funny, the way our dear sensible Lynn bowed down before him? I think it must have been her attentions that drove him to drink, don't you? he probably thought that he was in imminent danger of being dragged to the altar."Lynn smiled a little but stirred restlessly and did not make any comment on this."What has become of that boy?" cried Mrs. Hadwell, suddenly. "There, now! I'm so glad I thought to ask you. You ought to know if anyone would; you were quite pals, weren't you, Mr. Amherst? Is the boy dead?""Unfortunately, no," returned Amherst, dryly."Then what's become of him?""Are you, too, interested in his fate, Miss Thayer?" asked Amherst, turning to where she stood looking intently at him, as though something hung on his answer. "You used to be very good to him, as Mrs. Hadwell says. Would you like to know where he is, now?""Yes—no—yes, I should like to very much," said Lynn in a low voice."Well, he is within a few minutes' walk of this place.""You don't say so! And what is he doing?" asked Mrs. Hadwell with much excitement."Going to the devil as fast as he possibly can.""How? Why? Wherefore? Lynn, I shall shake you in another minute if you don't show a little more interest. This is positively the most exciting thing. Think of it! Ricossia!—going to the Devil with a big D!—within a few minutes' walk of this place. What's his address, Mr. Amherst?""I—I don't feel at liberty to tell you that," responded Amherst, after a slight hesitation. "I don't think he would like to have it known.""Oh, he must be a terribly shady character," said Mrs. Hadwell with a delighted chuckle. "I think all this is thrilling. Do tell me his address. I won't hurt him. I only want to see for myself what he is doing and how he is. I'll—I'd like to take him a glass of jelly and some grapes. What's the matter, Mr. Amherst?""Excuse me. The idea of Ricossia in conjunction with the glass of jelly and the grapes upset me for the moment, that is all.""I'd take him some champagne if Lynn wasn't with me. In my most abandoned moments I never forget that I am a chaperon so I'm afraid the champagne will have to be left behind. But I will go and see him—Mr. Amherst, do tell me."Amherst smilingly shook his head."He wouldn't like it, I know.""You're quite right," said Lynn, regarding the speaker, gratefully. "I'm sure he wouldn't like it. I wouldn't, in his place. Do—do you ever see him, Mr. Amherst?""Often. I frequently run over and just have an eye to him. I always expect to find him frozen or burnt to death or something of that sort. But Providence always looks after people of that kind. He'll die in his bed, no fear—the little brute!"Lynn started and flushed."I thought you liked him," she said with involuntary reproach in her tone."Well—fact is, I don't. What's more, I don't know anyone who does. The boy's unfit to live and about equally unfit to die—poor little chap! It's wonderful, though, the way he lasts. He's a living example of a theory I've always held, namely, that consumption doesn't really kill, no matter what the hardships may be, until the consumptive loses interest in life and living. Then, he goes very quickly.""You may be right," said Lynn, tonelessly."Now, while Mrs. Hadwell is absorbed in the bald man with the red nose who is hanging at the other end of the room," said Amherst, hastily, "I want to ask you something. How is it that I never see you, now? It must be a month since I last had a real talk with you. What's the matter?""The matter? Why, nothing.""You're not offended with me about anything?""Why, no.""In the last few weeks I must have rung you up a dozen times, but you have always been out or engaged. You must lead a busy life.""I do," said Lynn, smiling faintly. "But I am sorry you thought I didn't want to see you. It wasn't that.""Wasn't it?"Amherst's voice changed."Do you know that you have avoided me ever since that night at the Burns'?""I—I hadn't thought about it.""Is that the truth?"Lynn was silent: then—"Not exactly," she said with a faint effort."I tried to say something to you that evening—you remember?""Yes.""Why wouldn't you let me say it?""I thought you had better not," said Lynn in a low voice."Don't say that; not unless you mean me to understand that"—"Mr. Amherst," broke in Mrs. Hadwell, imperatively, "you are a horrid man! First you refuse to give me Ricossia's address, next you stand and talk to Miss Thayer in a low voice without giving me a chance to show her my portrait. She's dying to see it, aren't you, Lynn? and it's getting so dark. Can't you drive back with me and take dinner? then you can talk to Lynn as much as ever you want and Mr. Hadwell and I will sit by like deaf-mutes and play propriety. Won't you?""Awfully sorry!" said Amherst with genuine regret in his voice. "I have an engagement of long standing, so it's impossible. But if you'll only repeat the invitation, I'd love to come. Will you?""I will," responded Mrs. Hadwell. "I'll look up my engagement book and see if we can find an evening when we shall all be free. In the meantime, let me ask you what this means, this little wrinkle in my brow? I've puzzled over it for at least ten minutes and I demand to have it explained. If it is copied from life, you must simply paint it out, that's all!"CHAPTER XIITHE VIEWS OF TWO WOMEN"Is it your moral of Life?Such a web, simple and subtle,Weave we on earth here in impotent strife,Backward and forward each throwing his shuttle,Death ending all with a knife."—Browning."The time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things," quoted Mrs. Hadwell, settling back in her easy-chair with intense satisfaction. If, as the poet asserts, "a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things" certainly a joy's crown of joy may be remembering unhappier things. One principal reason for Mrs. Hadwell's calm and unlimited enjoyment of her life lay in the fact that her youth had been spent in other people's easy-chairs. It is noteworthy that it had been spent in easychairs; women of her type always do spend their lives in easy-chairs, metaphorical and literal; but an easy-chair bestowed upon one by a doting husband, and an easy-chair occupied by sufferance in other people's homes are, as will readily be perceived, two very different pieces of furniture."What do you want to talk about in particular?" Lynn asked, regarding her hostess lazily. Dinner was over; Mr. Hadwell had betaken himself to his club; and the two sat at their ease in a softly shaded luxurious library, filled with unread books in half-calf. Polished mahogany, heavy damask curtains, thick, soft carpets, scent of mignonette and roses, all added to its comfort."I want to talk about all sorts of things," returned Estelle, in answer to her friend's question. "Interesting things—things that matter—yourself for instance! I wonder why it is that so few people talk interestingly about ordinary things! I believe it must be because they simply will not tell the truth about them; they stick to platitudes for fear of blundering on some thought they feel they oughtn't to have. Don't you think that is it? Now we always look things right in the face and say just what we think about them; and that is why we're so queer—and so nice—and so interesting to one another. And this is such a good opportunity for a talk. We've had such a lovely dinner—wasn't that soup delicious? and, as for that muscatel! Don't you simply dote on things to eat? I do. I never agree with that man—Solomon, wasn't it?—who said that he would rather have a dinner of herbs and peace than a stalled ox and strife therewith. Let him have the herbs! and give me the stalled ox every time. If it were nicely served and properly cooked I wouldn't care if there were seven bad-tempered married couples and sixteen cross cats and twenty squalling parrots all rowing together at my elbow. That's what it is to be practical. Give me things to eat and a good appetite and I don't care much what happens. There's something about a dinner which appeals to me in a way that sunsets and sonatas don't. And yet some one described me the other day as being 'spirituelle.' Fancy!""Some one who didn't know you very well, evidently.""Some one who has called me 'Estelle' all his life except the four years of it when I wasn't born; but, as you say, some one who doesn't know me very well because he happens to be a man and a man who used to be in love with me. Poor thing! And yet he's happy in his way and I'm happy in mine. He has his ideals and I have my dinners. The only really happy people are the people who have the sense to prefer dinners to ideals and who steadily set to work to get them.""I suppose you are happy. If dinners could make anyone happy you ought to be. But, tell me, Del, do you never want anything else?""Oh, yes. I want silk dresses and diamond brooches and the feeling that every snob in town will kow-tow as soon as my snub nose appears. And I've got them all—thank goodness! I very easily might not have, you know. There are so many others looking out for just the opportunity I seized. And every one said that Henry wasn't a marrying man. Ridiculous! As if every one wasn't a marrying man as soon as the right woman came along; the woman who made love to him unremittingly and tactfully without letting him see that she was doing it. It was an awful bore, sometimes, to make love to Henry. It had to be done so carefully. O dear, he was so surly and snubby and so scared of being hooked. But it didn't do any good:I intended to marry him and I married him—and so could you if you had any gumption!" she exclaimed, veering around and fixing Lynn with a look of intense determination."What? Marry Henry?""Not my Henry, no; but some other Henry. There are plenty of them and if you don't take them somebody else will. They all like to be admired and courted. And oh, lucky girl! Fate has dropped an ideal Henry right in your lap.""Don't, Del! My poor lap! And as for 'ideal,' why, he has green teeth and goggly eyes.""I am sure you are not so good-looking, yourself.""Now, Del! Have I goggly eyes and green teeth? Let us be accurate before we are aggravating. Besides, it was horrid of me to speak of his appearance. Only his appearance is so exactly like him that it grates on me, some way.""He is a great deal too good for you," said her friend, indignantly."So every one has already told me. Anything is too good for an old, ugly school-teacher, I dare say; but I don't want him, even if he is too good for me.""Now, Lynn, we'll talk this over. I want to have the whole thing out with you.""As you please.""Very well, then. We will assume that you are quite determined not to marry Lighton. Two other courses are open to you; the first, to go on teaching all your life; the second, to marry some one else. We will examine these two alternatives—with your permission.""Or without it!""Or, as you say, without it. Let us begin then. We will suppose that you stay as you are and go on teaching. You are not at all young, now—you needn't grin. I know I am two years older, but that has nothing to do with it; I'm married. You are not, I repeat, young. Every year you become a little older and a little older.""The truth of your remarks is only equalled by their unpleasantness.""I don't care. You go on getting older and older. Your aunt, who has been good to you and of whom you are fond, will be very much disappointed in you. She feels that it is disgraceful not to marry and criminal not to marry Lighton, and I am strongly inclined to agree with her. So, as the years go by and you get older and plainer and less desirable your aunt will grow less and less fond of you. You are not a great favourite with your uncle; to be sure, he has only one supreme favourite in the universe and I needn't say who that is!—and your aunt will probably die in time. What a happy home you will have, then! Suppose on the other hand, that he should die. You wouldn't have money enough to live in that big house and you would have to be cooped up in a flat and come home, after teaching all day, to listen to your aunt's lamentations about the nice establishment you might have had"—"Thank fortune there are always the poison and the dagger.""There are; but they're the refuge of the coward, and ordinary respectable people don't commit suicide, however much they want to. Now, having fully disposed of that alternative, let us turn to the other—that you marry some one else. Who else is there? You are a general favourite and lots of men like to talk to you; but who, besides Lighton, is in love with you? I mean of course, that is in a position to marry. We will suppose, though, that you have several other proposals in the next few years—what then? Whom would you rather marry?"Lynn said nothing and turned her head away."The fact is that there is no one you would rather marry and there are very few who could offer you what he does. The trouble with you is that you don't face things. You know that, if you don't marry him, you have nothing in life to look forward to; yet, because it isn't an ideal arrangement, you refuse to consider it. Surely you have outgrown the silly, pretty, childish idea of marrying for love? Look at the people who do marry for love! How many of them are as happy as I am? I, who deliberately angled to catch the richest man of my acquaintance and did it. You could not have managed matters for yourself in the way that I did; and then, Fate, instead of punishing you for being stupid, offers you a prize—and you throw it away. Why?""It is a little hard to explain why, Del," returned her friend, slowly. "I don't know whether I could make you understand.""I don't know that I have much heart, Lynn, but I have a mind. Try me.""Long ago, then, I 'faced things' as you call it. I looked right at them hard and baldly and I saw that Life is very hard on woman. Life, Society—even Nature—all seem to be leagued against her. Her one chance of happiness is to make a happy marriage; and in order to make a happy marriage how many things are needed—and how few are forthcoming! Even then she must make up her mind to face certain torture and possible death; and when, after bearing two or three children, she loses her youth, her strength, her good looks, she has the satisfaction of knowing that her husband is as attractive as he was the day she married him. So, practically, in the majority of cases, she has nothing but her children. I am not thinking of you, you monkey; you are a great exception. Of course the children must be worth a great deal to her, but, apart from them, the average woman has precious little. Her husband is usually fond of her—I am speaking, now, of happy marriages—but all the idealism and the romance die very quickly. If, on the other hand, she does as so many do and marries some one who is in love with her but for whom she cares little—what then? All the usual hindrances and no compensations. There is left only spinsterhood. Putting aside the lucky few who have some art, some profession, which means everything to them, unmarried women are, as you have said, simply incumbrances and not happy incumbrances at that. The one happy thing for a woman is to fall in love when she is young, marry some one who adores her, and become so absorbed in her children that she won't mind the rest. Of course there are a few ideal marriages here and there; cases where people fall in love and stay in love and have satisfactory children and enjoy life; but you know as well as I do how many of these there are. Four altogether; and I have sometimes doubted the fourth.""Well, of all the cynics"—"Not a bit of it; I don't cherish useless illusions in the face of facts, that's all. Well, as I began to say, long ago I 'faced things' and saw them as they were. The best thing to do was to fall in love and make a happy marriage; that I couldn't do. The next was to marry some one I didn't want, or to do something that would support me, and remain unmarried. Of the two, the last seemed the only possible thing. I can get along for the present just as I am and I do not look into the future. As far as I can see, it is bound to be a wretched one, anyway; but I may die—a thousand things may happen. In the meantime I do not worry because of realizing that life is a tragic thing; and I take things very coolly and don't make a fuss about anything that can't be helped. When I feel down in the mouth I always console myself with the reflection, first, that it can't last forever; and, secondly, that however industriously Fate may knock me, she can't compel me to squeal about it.""What a truly cheerful and comforting reflection.""Well, do you know anyone more cheerful than I?""No, I can't say that I do; but appearances are certainly deceptive. Then you really prefer unmarried unhappiness to married unhappiness—that is your final choice?""That is my final choice.""It is an extraordinary one, that is all I can say, when one thinks of all the money that is thrown in with the married unhappiness.""Money can't buy happiness.""No, but it can buy some mighty good substitutes for it, my dear. And as far as I can see, you are not going to get anything at all with the unmarried unhappiness.""Nothing at all? Freedom, a peaceful mind and an independent income. I'd rather have my liberty than all the houses in Christendom and all the men. Of course I am human; I should prefer to make a happy marriage; but how many people do, and why should I be picked out for a happy fate when so many kinder and better people than I have nothing but trouble from beginning to end of their lives? No; I complain of nothing.""Don't you think you will be sorry for this, some day?""If I am, no one will ever know it.""If you think all this about your future, why do you want to live?""I don't want to live. Do you? Does any mature person? But I must live and so must you. There is probably some reason for the world and for Nature and for Sin and for all the other queer works of God and of the Devil. Perhaps we shall find it all out some day and then again perhaps we shall sleep so soundly that we shall not care to find out anything at all. That would be nice. It would be still nicer, though, to find out that everything was for the best, really, and that everything about the world was necessary. 'God's in his heaven, all's right with the world,' you know, and all that sort of thing. That phrase about the 'best of all possible worlds,' when applied to this, is such rubbish and such inhuman rubbish at that; such an insult to the intelligence and humanity of mankind; yet one can't help hoping that there will be a 'best of all possible worlds' and the mere fact that we want it and look forward to it so instinctively shows that there must be one, somewhere, I think. What do you think?""I think I should like to have a brandy and soda," said Mrs. Hadwell, forlornly. "Positively you have given me the blues. I do hate thinking of heaven and poets and metaphysics and things. This earth is all right if you only have sense. The trouble is, you haven't any. Oh! I have just thought of something. I have a lovely box of Huyler's that I haven't touched. We'll eat that and Thomas shall light us a little fire and you can have the latest magazine and I'll read the book of that woman's—you know! the one that they are making all the fuss about. It's frightfully amusing and very improper and it doesn't make one think the least little bit. That's the sort of book I like, and it's the sort of book most people like, too, only they won't say so. Yes, it is, Lynn. You needn't say it isn't. Else why is it always out at the library, though they have seven copies, and why is its author able to travel all over the world on her earnings? You don't understand human nature. All it wants is to be amused andnotto be improved. We all like to slide down hill, comfortably, without being obliged to climb up again. And we would all slide down much faster if it wasn't that the company at the foot of the hill is so unpleasant and the people at the top throw things at you and you can't throw them back. And the reason that the people at the top throw things is that they are so cross because they don't really like being stuck up there and they have to pretend they do.""Well, you're not at all cross, yet, Del, and you haven't slid down hill very fast," said Lynn, laughing."Oh, yes, I have. Anyway I didn't have far to slide from. I began pretty low down, you know. Oh, I have no illusions about myself. But, even so I have slidden. But you see, if you are clad in gold armour, you can slide as much as you like; for that renders you bullet-proof. If I were a nursery-governess slaving over spoilt brats for the sake of getting a miserable living, I should be thought a very shady character. Just suppose I had said what I said just now about only liking improper things that didn't make me think! Why, I should be turned out of doors without a character, I suppose. But I am Mrs. Henry Hadwell and so I can slide just as much as I please—within limits. Perhaps it is just as well that there are limits to everything. Otherwise I dare say I should be even worse than I am. And I'm pretty bad, you know. I haven't any conscience and very little affection. And I havenoideals. But then, as I said before, I have dinners—lovely dinners! How glad I am to think that I am going to have another one to-morrow. Some way, when I think of that, I quite forget all the horrid things you have put into my head to-night. Just think! I—Imight have been a nursery-governess.I!I hadn't brains or industry enough to become a teacher. Ugh! Oh, what horrible lives there are in the world and how lovely to think that I have a lovely home and a doting husband and three darling childrenandmy dinners! What are you thinking about, now?""I was just thinking that we were awfully like the lower animals, really," replied Lynn, with a half-laugh. "A little more complex, but just about like them, otherwise. What does the average bear want? A mate, cubs,—and dinners. If he gets them he is happy; if he doesn't, he is miserable. If Bob could talk, he would say just about what you have been saying, now.""Bob is a sensible dog," said Mrs. Hadwell, solemnly. "I don't like dogs and I do like you but justice compels me to state that Bob has a lot more sense than you have. Never mind! you will get wise when it is too late and then you will wish that you had had the sense to imitate me and Bob and all the other practical people in the world. You needn't think I mind being called a lower animal. If being a lower animal means getting what you want and being a higher animal means getting what you don't want,—well, I want to be a lower animal, thank you! Lynn! these marron glaces are simply the most delicious things you ever thought of.Dohave one!"
CHAPTER X
"A FIN-DE-SIECLE PAIR"
"I have seen Hayes argue with a tough horse—I have seen a tonga driver coerce a stubborn pony—I have seen a riotous setter broken to gun by a hard keeper—but the breaking-in of Pluffles ... was beyond all these."—Kipling.
"I have seen Hayes argue with a tough horse—I have seen a tonga driver coerce a stubborn pony—I have seen a riotous setter broken to gun by a hard keeper—but the breaking-in of Pluffles ... was beyond all these."—Kipling.
"But, Henry, you should be glad to see your brother's children."
"I don't see why. A pair of young ragamuffins who'll pull the house about my ears."
"My dear Henry! They're nineteen."
"Worse and worse! The boy will be certain to fall in love with you."
"Do you think so?" asked Mrs. Hadwell, eagerly.
"I think it won't be your fault if he doesn't," responded her husband with acerbity.
"Well, at all events the girl won't fall in love with you," said Mrs. Hadwell with a twinkle in her eye.
Her spouse grunted something unintelligible.
"Not if she sees you with that expression on your face," went on Mrs. Hadwell, rather sadly. "It always seems so strange to me that a man of your experience and charm—a finished man of the world, in other words—should give way to these useless moods."
Mr. Hadwell's brow slightly cleared in spite of his efforts to hide the fact.
"If I had seen when I first met you," went on Mrs. Hadwell in chastened accents, "that, beneath the mask of courtly politeness and delicate flattery, you concealed the nature of a gloomy tyrant."
"Da—I mean, confound it all!" said Mr. Hadwell, much affected, "what on earth do you want, Estelle?"
"Why, I'm afraid I don't quite understand you," said Mrs. Hadwell, raising her pretty eyebrows in pained surprise.
"My dear little girl, you know I am not a tyrant," said Mr. Hadwell, miserable at the thought of being so misunderstood, yet, at the same time, secretly delighted at the reference to his "courtly politeness." His delight was natural when one considers the fact that, at no time of his life, had his manners surpassed those of an average groom.
"No—perhaps not," said Mrs. Hadwell, softly. "Yet, Henry, there are times when—when—"
"When what, darling?" inquired Mr. Hadwell, abjectly.
"When," said Mrs. Hadwell with sorrowful dignity, "when, Henry, I am actually afraid to ask you for the little extra money which will provide for the entertainment of your brother's children."
"Must they be so much entertained?" asked Mr. Hadwell, humbly yet uneasily. He was a kind old man, but the prospect of parting with a dollar never failed to cause him acute agony.
"They need not be entertained," responded Mrs. Hadwell with feeling. "Those unfortunate children may come here and stay with us three weeks and return to Ohio to tell their father and mother that the woman who has deprived them of their uncle's fortune, grudges them a ball or a"— She wept: and Mr. Hadwell writhed in agony. There were only two things in life that he really loved: his big income and his small wife. Of the two, he really preferred his wife: and after a few moments' silent struggle, he succumbed to her tears and her fascinations and drew out his cheque book.
"How much?" he inquired, hardily.
Little Mrs. Hadwell dried her eyes.
"How much?" she inquired, innocently. "How mu—oh, Henry! were you thinking of giving me some money?"
Mr. Hadwell regarded her with perplexity.
"Isn't that what you wanted?" he inquired looking puzzled.
Mrs. Hadwell buried her eighty-dollar head in her pretty hands.
"I wanted you to show some interest in these children—your own brother's children!" she wept. "And you—offer—me—money!"
Mr. Hadwell groaned, feeling that he was a tactless brute yet not quite seeing why. Suddenly a bright thought struck him: he tore out a blank cheque, signed it and tossed it playfully to his wife.
"There, there!" he observed, soothingly. "Don't cry any more, Estelle. Of course these children must be entertained—of course I am pleased about their coming. But, you see, we business men have so much to worry us."
Mr. Hadwell's business consisted in driving to his office every morning, receiving the obsequious greetings of his manager—and drawing his handsome income. Mrs. Hadwell knew this as well—better than he did—therefore——
"Of course," she cooed, drying her eyes and regarding her spouse with mingled awe and wonder. "Of course, dear. You must forgive me if I seem a little unreasonable, sometimes; but it did hurt me so when you seemed to think that all I wanted from you was money"——
"Of course—of course!" said her husband, hastily. "Now I must be off. What are you going to do, to-day?"
"Well, let me see! Lynn is coming to dinner and we are going for a drive first."
"Ah!" said Mr. Hadwell, looking pleased. He heartily approved of Lynn and took great pleasure in the thought that this exceptionally "nice" young woman was his wife's best friend; feeling that Estelle's evident devotion to Lynn overbalanced her quite as evident love of flattery and attention. Mr. Hadwell never forgot that Lynn insisted on teaching in the public schools rather than allow her uncle to support her, wholly: a piece of unselfishness that went straight to his heart. Needless to say, he did not know that Estelle had talked him over with Lynn from every point of view, both before and after his marriage to the former.
Estelle Harding had been the granddaughter of a wealthy man who had died when she was sixteen, leaving her penniless. For the next five years she had lived with different relatives, positively refusing to follow the example of her friend, Lynn Thayer, who was preparing at the High and Normal schools, to earn her living as a teacher. Being tremendously popular both with girls and boys, she was deluged with invitations and love affairs; but at twenty-one, she met Mr. Hadwell, a wealthy and retiring bachelor of sixty-three, and, from that time on, she paid assiduous and tactful court to him. The net result of this campaign was that, in six months from the time she had first met him, Mr. Hadwell was a married man. It speaks well for our small heroine's tactics that her husband, to his dying day, believed that he had fallen madly in love with her when he saw her first and that nothing but his overpowering fascinations had induced the shy damsel to become his wife. "You were the first man who had ever cared for me," Estelle would say to him, sometimes. "The others—oh, they were just boys! I couldn't look up to them, dear: they were on a level with myself." This was a particularly tactful lie on Mrs. Hadwell's part: she knew well that among her admirers had been young men whose intellect and strength of character had far surpassed her husband's. But tactful lying was Mrs. Hadwell's forte.
Many and varied were the comments on Miss Harding's engagement. "Little cat! how clever she is," said some. The majority, however, murmured feelingly, "So glad that sweet girl will have her reward."
"That sweet girl" had had her reward. All that she cared for in life—money, social position, unlimited flattery and envy were hers without stint. And, much as I hate to grieve the moralists, Estelle Hadwell was a supremely happy and contented woman. If she had been childless it is possible that her lot might, at times, have palled on her: but two pretty, healthy children occupied what little heart she had. Her husband, though in a vague way proud of his children's beauty and brightness, cared little for them: what hearthehad was occupied by his wife who played upon his affections with the hand of a practised artist.
She let the cheque lie by her plate, now, as she rose and kissed her better half, affectionately.
"What a delightful visit those dear twins will have, thanks to your generosity," she said, smiling at him, affectionately.
Mr. Hadwell waved a patronizing disclaimer.
"Oh, I shall be glad to do what I can for Carl's children," he said, magnificently.
"That is so like you, dear," returned his simple little wife, gently.
She was giggling softly to herself over this conversation in the afternoon as she pinned an expensive little hat over her still more expensive tresses. "I really do think I am cleverer than most women," she mused. "I get just what I want and I never hurt the dear old thing's feelings." She was really fond of her husband whose absorption in her satisfied her vanity and whose jealousy served to render life interesting. When Lynn Thayer arrived she entered into a long and detailed account of her morning's work, ending by triumphantly displaying the cheque. Lynn laughed, unwillingly.
"I do hate that sort of thing, Estelle," she said. "I know you're awfully clever at getting your own way, but I can never understand why you don't get Mr. Hadwell to allow you a certain sum, monthly. Then you wouldn't have to stoop to this sort of thing."
"Oh, but I like stooping," said Estelle, placidly. "And, besides, if I knew just how much I was going to get every month it would be awfully tame. You haven't a bit of the gambler in you, Lynn."
"Not a particle."
"Then there's another side to the question. If Henry had to make me an allowance he would only allow for necessities. For instance, if I wanted to run down to New York for a week or two it would have to come out of my dress allowance. That would be horrid. Oh, I had such a time getting a few hundred dollars out of him the last time I went. He wrangled over every detail—actually wanted me to stay in the suburbs because hotels were cheaper there, quite forgetting that my fare in and out would amount to something. As I said to him, 'I suppose I could walk to the ferry—it's only twenty miles or so each way and exercise is good for one—but I really couldn't walk across the water; I'm notquitedivine yet!'"
"You absurd child! What did he say to that?"
"Oh, he mumbled something to the effect that I ought to be a Christian Scientist. That was meant as a joke. He always jokes when he feels ashamed. So I said, 'Yes, if I were a Christian Scientist I could walk over anything, yourself included; but because I am only your poor, stupid, little wife, I must humbly beg you for money for this little trip.' Then he tried to be pompous, the way he always does when I pretend to knuckle down. He said, 'If I don't want you to go to New York, that ought to be enough for any well-regulated wife.' And I said, 'You dear old stupid! I'm not a well-regulated wife. Don't be so ridiculous. Anyone would think I was a watch to hear you talk!' Then I looked cute and rolled my eyes at him and he caved right in. Dear me, Lynn, what a pity it is I can't bestow some of my superfluous cleverness on you. Your aunt tells me that you are positively discouraging Mr. Lighton. You must be mad."
"I am mad—thoroughly mad about the whole business. Why in the world should I marry this man simply because he asks me? Really, I have been so advised and dictated to and badgered about him that now the very thought of his face makes me feel angry."
"Then why do you think of his face?" inquired Mrs. Hadwell, opening her grey eyes, innocently. "Why don't you forget about his face and think about his figure at the bank? That is what any sensible girl would do."
Lynn groaned. "I'm not a sensible girl, unfortunately," she said. "Now, Del, if you're going for a drive before dinner you had better hurry."
"Very well. I'm ready. Dear me! I must just see Mrs. Waite before we go and tell her to have dinner at seven. Oh, Lynn! that woman is such a comfort to me. She's a regular automaton, knows how everything in the house should be done—and does it! Of course she is absolutely heartless, but—what are you giggling at? Oh, my dear, I may not be particularly intense or passionate, but I assure you I am a volcano beside Mrs. Waite. She doesn't care for the children, she doesn't even care for me. Now you know there must be something radically wrong with any one who doesn't care for me—I may have my faults, but no one can deny that I am the most fascinating person!—and in her case it is the stranger as she is a decayed gentlewoman and I have gone out of my way to show her kindness. Why, I even asked her to dine with Henry and me once when we had people who knew her coming to dinner: and she looked at me with her Medusa-like countenance and refused. But as a housekeeper she is a jewel and, as long as she runs my house like clockwork, I can excuse her lack of geniality. Here she is. Oh, Mrs. Waite, will you tell Sarah to put off dinner till eight. I am going out with Miss Thayer. By the way, you don't know Miss Thayer, do you? Miss Thayer, Mrs. Waite. Don't forget about dinner.
"There, isn't she a Gorgon, Lynn? She is always just like that—neat, accurate, frigid, freezing. Ugh! What a lovely day for a drive, isn't it? I'm going to Mr. Amherst's to take a look at my portrait. It is going to be so nice and I want you to see it. I am sure it will be hung in the Art Gallery at the Spring Exhibition. What a nice man he is, isn't he? By the way, speaking of Mrs. Waite, I am going to tell you why I always make a point of introducing her to all my friends and having things just as pleasant for her as possible. It's because she's like that much-talked-of 'skeleton at the feast'; she's a perpetual reminder to me of how lucky I am. I wish you would compare us and take a lesson, my friend. I'm the bright example, she's the awful warning. I might have been just where she is to-day if I hadn't had my wits about me. She might be where I am if she had made the most of her opportunities. Don't waste time telling me that she's plain and uninteresting. I would be plain if I didn't dress properly and eat good food and take good care of myself; and, as for 'interesting,'everywoman is interesting to a man if she impresses him as being sensible and womanly—that is, if she enjoys his conversation and tells him that she likes dusting. Every man likes a woman who is fond of dusting. I don't know why. And, as for sweeping, there is no surer passport to a man's affections than to tell him that you sweep out your own room every morning. It never fails to have the desired effect. It doesn't matter if the man is a multi-millionaire with an army of housemaids and footmen; he still thinks it is womanly and domestic to sweep. If I ever found my hold on Henry's affections becoming a trifle slack, I should immediately start sweeping."
"Del, I don't think I ever met anyone who could talk more nonsense than you, in a given space of time."
"Nonsense! Oh, Lynn, if I could only get you to understand that what I am saying, although delivered as if it were the merest airy persiflage, is the soundest common sense. If you want to be admired and respected by the male sex—sweep! Or, if you don't like sweeping, don't sweep; but talk about sweeping as if it were the one thing that you doted on; convey the impression that you would rather sweep than go motoring any day. The man in question may have thought you a charming girl before, but, after that, his feelings will take a deeper tinge; you will advance in his mind to the status of a womanly woman. Delicious! Instead of these lectures girls are always attending at Y.W.C.A.'s and colleges, about Browning and the Pyramids and the condition of the poor and the prevalence of frivolity, what a pity it is they can't attend lectures given by some past-master in the art of flirting—such as I, for instance! Wouldn't those lectures be crowded, though; that is, if girls knew what was good for them. And here you have all the advantages of a private course of instruction and you won't take the trouble to learn the first rules of the game. Ah, the golden words of wisdom wasted! the opportunities lost. Ah me!"
"Del, I strongly object to your speaking as though I had no opportunities. Haven't I always at least one person who wants to marry me? even though I do tell the truth occasionally?"
"You have. But that's by good luck, not by management. You might have twenty if you exerted yourself properly."
"You make me feel as though I were a sort of derelict. It's a horrid feeling."
"If I succeed in making you feel a derelict I have succeeded beyond my wildest expectations. Don't you know, my dear child, that you are experiencing in a faint degree what you will experience all your life if you don't hurry up and settle yourself. Don't you know that for the next fifty years you will, not only feel, but be a derelict if you don't accept Lighton and marry him before he changes his mind."
"Thank goodness, this drive can't last forever," exclaimed Lynn, laughing. "Otherwise I should be compelled to get out and walk. You are perfectly unendurable sometimes, Del, and this is certainly one of the times."
"I'm going to be unendurable again and to better purpose, I hope, a little later on," said Mrs. Hadwell, darkly. "But now I suppose we'll have to descend—or ascend, if you like it better—from practical life to pictures. Mr. Amherst paints well, doesn't he? And what a nice man he is. I don't know anyone who doesn't like him, do you?"
"No, I don't think I do. He's nice and very popular."
"And a great friend of yours too, isn't he? I haven't heard you speak of him, lately. I thought at one time"—
"Oh, Del, do think of something else!" exclaimed Lynn a little crossly. "Men, men, men—and marriage, marriage, marriage!Dolet us think and talk of something else."
"Very well, my dear, we'll talk of myself. I wanted to get up a flirtation with Mr. Amherst this winter and he didn't seem to respond at all. So I immediately thought that he must be interested in someone else and, as he was always calling on you, naturally I thought"—
"Men again!"
"Not men but a man. Don't you perceive the delicate distinction? Well, as I was saying, Mr. Amherst didn't seem a bit interested in me, charming though I am and was—what a mercy old Tom is stone deaf!—and I was extremely puzzled. I didn't like to be too pointed in my attentions"—
"I do wish, Del, that you wouldn't talk in that way. It sets my teeth on edge to hear a married woman speak in the way you do. Why don't you"—
"Stay at home and attend to my house and children? So I do; but not being altogether a fossil yet I want to do something else at times. Isn't that natural at my age?"
"Quite natural at your age, and there is just the weak point of a marriage like yours. If you had married somebody you really cared about, other men wouldn't interest you."
"Not for the first year or so, no. After that, they would. I might not like them so well as I did my husband, but I should like them and want them to like me. Yes, and I should want them to fall in love with me, too, so long as they didn't tell me about it and insist on making unpleasant scenes. Of course, in that case, they would go, just as they do, now. You know that, Lynn."
"Yes, I know that. You are very careful, Del. I suppose it is all right and quite harmless in its way, but I can't say that I approve of it. What is the sense of having two or three men always sighing around because they can't marry you?"
"What's the sense of music or flowers or strawberry tarts? I like them and they agree with me. You know there is a lot of misconception with regard to the real tastes of a young woman after she marries. If she is a person who grows and develops she must, of necessity, like many things besides her husband and children. Now here is a case in point. Because I am devoted to my own children is that any reason why I should not be fond of other people's children? As a matter of fact, I don't care much for any children but my own; but, if I did, wouldn't that be blameless and even praiseworthy? So with men. I should always like them all even if I were eighty and had been married all my life."
"It's a funny thing, Del, but some way you never seem married, to me."
"I was married, I assure you. I remember it very distinctly. White is not becoming to me, so I wore a dark blue cashmere dress and a stunning black toque with little feathers—you remember? And Henry thought I was so sensible and so above feminine frivolities."
"It is awfully hard to know what is right and wrong, I must say. You certainly make Mr. Hadwell perfectly happy and you are an ideal mother. Perhaps you are more in the right than I think."
"My dear, I have read somewhere that there are certain plants which die just as soon as they have propagated. That is all they exist for; just to reproduce their own life and then die. Now there are a good many women in the world who are like these plants. They are not half as good mothers, not half as satisfactory wives as I am; but they are devoid of all possibility of offending because, to all intents and purposes, they died with the birth of their first child. Henceforth they exist in a modified form. They are no longer individuals but vegetables. All the young plant needs is air and light; but, as the young human needs food, clothes, exercise and various other things, they exist solely for the purpose of furnishing it with those things. They are incapable of holding an opinion or formulating a thought; they all think exactly alike on all subjects—which means, practically, that they do not think at all—their education, intellectually, stopped when they graduated from school, their education, emotionally, when they married. Are they more commendable than I? What do they do that I don't? Only I do other things in addition. I am a living woman, not a maternal cipher. I have a heart and a mind and a life of my own and these develop side by side with the development of my children. Of course the mere fact of life existing means that there are possibilities of mistakes being made, faults being committed; but isn't it better to live than to die? Lynn, I didn't know I was so clever! Aren't you proud of me?"
"Proud of you, all round, Del, except that I still wish you didn't flirt. Even if you are not in love with your husband it is bad form to publish the fact. And the very fact that you are still alive—very much alive—and capable of leading a life apart from your children makes your way of acting dangerous. I am always afraid that some day you will"—
"That some day I shall fall in love and make a fool of myself? Don't worry. Some women are dominated by one of the great primal instincts, some by another. I am a mother, first and last and always. Men are only things to play with, but my children are necessities. I could never do anything that would cause them a moment's anxiety or difficulty in the future. No, my dear! When little Aileen is enjoying her first season her mother will be the same irreproachable, if frivolous, matron that she is at present. What a serious conversation we have drifted into, haven't we? I don't like it—seriousness! Dear me, Lynn, what in the world should I do if anything were to happen to you? You're the only person whom I dare to be myself with. Catch me trusting another woman. What makes you so unlike other women, Lynn?"
"Possibly the lack of sense for which you were upbraiding me so heartily a little while ago," said Lynn, slyly. "By the way, Del, that name, 'Waite,' is strangely familiar to me. Oh, of course! I know, now. I had a little pupil, once"—
"Oh, Lynn, please don't start to talk about those ragamuffins of yours. I should think you would be glad to put them out of your mind for a few hours."
"He was a most unfortunate child," pursued Lynn, unheeding. "He was plain and stupid and he knew it: and he came from a different social class from most of the others, which seemed to put the final touch to his isolation. I was glad when he died, poor little chap! He was devoted to me and I made a great pet of him because he seemed so lonely. I wonder if"—
"Oh, a Gorgon-faced, icebergy automaton like Mrs. Waite never had a child in her life, I'm sure. Here we are at last."
CHAPTER XI
VISITORS AND DISCLOSURES
"Knowledge comes but wisdom lingers."—Tennyson."I would that you were all to me.You that are just so much, no more,Nor yours, nor mine, not slave nor free!Where does the fault lie? What the coreO' the wound, since wound must be."—Browning.
"Knowledge comes but wisdom lingers."—Tennyson.
"I would that you were all to me.You that are just so much, no more,Nor yours, nor mine, not slave nor free!Where does the fault lie? What the coreO' the wound, since wound must be."—Browning.
"I would that you were all to me.
You that are just so much, no more,
You that are just so much, no more,
Nor yours, nor mine, not slave nor free!
Where does the fault lie? What the core
Where does the fault lie? What the core
O' the wound, since wound must be."
—Browning.
—Browning.
—Browning.
"I love studios," announced Mrs. Hadwell with effusion, "and I love artists. Not you, only, Mr. Amherst, but all artists. They're so interesting."
"Don't, please don't, Mrs. Hadwell," implored Amherst, laughing. "I have always hoped that my habit of keeping my head closely cropped and my face carefully shaved would save me from being thought 'interesting.' You have no idea what visions that word 'interesting' conjures up in the mind of the average man. Dinky velvet coats, unkempt beards, dirty hands, soulful eyes—don't, whatever else you do, call me 'interesting.' You might as well call a spoilt beauty a 'nice, sensible girl.'"
"That is something that no one ever called me," said Mrs. Hadwell thoughtfully, tugging at her gloves. "You needn't look at me, Mr. Amherst; I feel like staying here a while and I'm going to stay, no matter how busy you are—there, don't apologize or waste time in saying you'll be glad to see me and have me stay. Of course you will—a sensible man like you! What were we saying when you interrupted me—I mean, when I interrupted myself? Oh, yes! I was saying that no one had ever called me a 'nice, sensible girl.'"
"The reason is obvious," declared Amherst, laughing.
"Why—oh, I see! Thank you. You mean that I don't look sensible. No, I should hope I didn't. I should hate to!"
"I don't know whether I look sensible," said Lynn, wheeling suddenly round from the contemplation of a picture, "but people must think I do, for I so often hear myself referred to as 'that nice, sensible girl.' Is it an insult? I never thought of it in that light."
"Not an insult, dear," said Mrs. Hadwell, composedly, "but an undoubted lie. Of all people who lack the first elements of sense you certainly head the list. Doesn't she, Mr. Amherst? But no, of course, you wouldn't think so, naturally. You're a man, and anyway, you don't know her."
"I should have said I knew Miss Thayer pretty well," said Amherst, looking surprised, "and I should certainly have thought that she was very sensible. I don't see what you mean."
"Of course you don't. As I previously remarked, you're a man. You think she's sensible and I have little doubt but that, in your heart of hearts, you think I'm a foolish little thing. Yet there's more sense in my little finger than there is in all of Lynn's tall body.Iknow."
"What you call sense I call lying and cheating," returned Lynn, composedly.
Amherst burst out laughing.
"You and Miss Thayer are certainly the most candid pair I have ever run across," he cried. "Do you always give and return these insults in perfect good faith? or does one or the other sometimes get annoyed?"
"Never," replied Lynn. "I can't imagine anything happening to make Del and me quarrel. In fact, I don't believe we could quarrel. I don't know what other people fight about, anyway. Do you, Del?"
"Why, yes," said Mrs. Hadwell. "They fight because one has a better hat than the other or because one likes red and the other likes blue, but, generally, because they both want the same man. Isn't that so, Mr. Amherst? But, you see, in this case, Lynn and I never like the same man, so we don't clash."
"But even if we did," said Lynn, emphatically, "I can't imagine either of us doing anything so vulgar as to quarrel, Del. I'm sure if the man preferred you, you could have him; and, if he preferred me, I'd give him up to you without a moment's hesitation."
"I wonder!" said her friend, teasingly. "Suppose I had taken a fancy to that absurd boy with the black eyes and the unpronounceable Italian name—would you have given him up to me, Lynn? I doubt it. Do you remember him, Mr. Amherst? Wasn't it funny, the way our dear sensible Lynn bowed down before him? I think it must have been her attentions that drove him to drink, don't you? he probably thought that he was in imminent danger of being dragged to the altar."
Lynn smiled a little but stirred restlessly and did not make any comment on this.
"What has become of that boy?" cried Mrs. Hadwell, suddenly. "There, now! I'm so glad I thought to ask you. You ought to know if anyone would; you were quite pals, weren't you, Mr. Amherst? Is the boy dead?"
"Unfortunately, no," returned Amherst, dryly.
"Then what's become of him?"
"Are you, too, interested in his fate, Miss Thayer?" asked Amherst, turning to where she stood looking intently at him, as though something hung on his answer. "You used to be very good to him, as Mrs. Hadwell says. Would you like to know where he is, now?"
"Yes—no—yes, I should like to very much," said Lynn in a low voice.
"Well, he is within a few minutes' walk of this place."
"You don't say so! And what is he doing?" asked Mrs. Hadwell with much excitement.
"Going to the devil as fast as he possibly can."
"How? Why? Wherefore? Lynn, I shall shake you in another minute if you don't show a little more interest. This is positively the most exciting thing. Think of it! Ricossia!—going to the Devil with a big D!—within a few minutes' walk of this place. What's his address, Mr. Amherst?"
"I—I don't feel at liberty to tell you that," responded Amherst, after a slight hesitation. "I don't think he would like to have it known."
"Oh, he must be a terribly shady character," said Mrs. Hadwell with a delighted chuckle. "I think all this is thrilling. Do tell me his address. I won't hurt him. I only want to see for myself what he is doing and how he is. I'll—I'd like to take him a glass of jelly and some grapes. What's the matter, Mr. Amherst?"
"Excuse me. The idea of Ricossia in conjunction with the glass of jelly and the grapes upset me for the moment, that is all."
"I'd take him some champagne if Lynn wasn't with me. In my most abandoned moments I never forget that I am a chaperon so I'm afraid the champagne will have to be left behind. But I will go and see him—Mr. Amherst, do tell me."
Amherst smilingly shook his head.
"He wouldn't like it, I know."
"You're quite right," said Lynn, regarding the speaker, gratefully. "I'm sure he wouldn't like it. I wouldn't, in his place. Do—do you ever see him, Mr. Amherst?"
"Often. I frequently run over and just have an eye to him. I always expect to find him frozen or burnt to death or something of that sort. But Providence always looks after people of that kind. He'll die in his bed, no fear—the little brute!"
Lynn started and flushed.
"I thought you liked him," she said with involuntary reproach in her tone.
"Well—fact is, I don't. What's more, I don't know anyone who does. The boy's unfit to live and about equally unfit to die—poor little chap! It's wonderful, though, the way he lasts. He's a living example of a theory I've always held, namely, that consumption doesn't really kill, no matter what the hardships may be, until the consumptive loses interest in life and living. Then, he goes very quickly."
"You may be right," said Lynn, tonelessly.
"Now, while Mrs. Hadwell is absorbed in the bald man with the red nose who is hanging at the other end of the room," said Amherst, hastily, "I want to ask you something. How is it that I never see you, now? It must be a month since I last had a real talk with you. What's the matter?"
"The matter? Why, nothing."
"You're not offended with me about anything?"
"Why, no."
"In the last few weeks I must have rung you up a dozen times, but you have always been out or engaged. You must lead a busy life."
"I do," said Lynn, smiling faintly. "But I am sorry you thought I didn't want to see you. It wasn't that."
"Wasn't it?"
Amherst's voice changed.
"Do you know that you have avoided me ever since that night at the Burns'?"
"I—I hadn't thought about it."
"Is that the truth?"
Lynn was silent: then—
"Not exactly," she said with a faint effort.
"I tried to say something to you that evening—you remember?"
"Yes."
"Why wouldn't you let me say it?"
"I thought you had better not," said Lynn in a low voice.
"Don't say that; not unless you mean me to understand that"—
"Mr. Amherst," broke in Mrs. Hadwell, imperatively, "you are a horrid man! First you refuse to give me Ricossia's address, next you stand and talk to Miss Thayer in a low voice without giving me a chance to show her my portrait. She's dying to see it, aren't you, Lynn? and it's getting so dark. Can't you drive back with me and take dinner? then you can talk to Lynn as much as ever you want and Mr. Hadwell and I will sit by like deaf-mutes and play propriety. Won't you?"
"Awfully sorry!" said Amherst with genuine regret in his voice. "I have an engagement of long standing, so it's impossible. But if you'll only repeat the invitation, I'd love to come. Will you?"
"I will," responded Mrs. Hadwell. "I'll look up my engagement book and see if we can find an evening when we shall all be free. In the meantime, let me ask you what this means, this little wrinkle in my brow? I've puzzled over it for at least ten minutes and I demand to have it explained. If it is copied from life, you must simply paint it out, that's all!"
CHAPTER XII
THE VIEWS OF TWO WOMEN
"Is it your moral of Life?Such a web, simple and subtle,Weave we on earth here in impotent strife,Backward and forward each throwing his shuttle,Death ending all with a knife."—Browning.
"Is it your moral of Life?Such a web, simple and subtle,Weave we on earth here in impotent strife,Backward and forward each throwing his shuttle,Death ending all with a knife."—Browning.
"Is it your moral of Life?
Such a web, simple and subtle,
Such a web, simple and subtle,
Weave we on earth here in impotent strife,
Backward and forward each throwing his shuttle,
Backward and forward each throwing his shuttle,
Death ending all with a knife."
—Browning.
—Browning.
—Browning.
"The time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things," quoted Mrs. Hadwell, settling back in her easy-chair with intense satisfaction. If, as the poet asserts, "a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things" certainly a joy's crown of joy may be remembering unhappier things. One principal reason for Mrs. Hadwell's calm and unlimited enjoyment of her life lay in the fact that her youth had been spent in other people's easy-chairs. It is noteworthy that it had been spent in easychairs; women of her type always do spend their lives in easy-chairs, metaphorical and literal; but an easy-chair bestowed upon one by a doting husband, and an easy-chair occupied by sufferance in other people's homes are, as will readily be perceived, two very different pieces of furniture.
"What do you want to talk about in particular?" Lynn asked, regarding her hostess lazily. Dinner was over; Mr. Hadwell had betaken himself to his club; and the two sat at their ease in a softly shaded luxurious library, filled with unread books in half-calf. Polished mahogany, heavy damask curtains, thick, soft carpets, scent of mignonette and roses, all added to its comfort.
"I want to talk about all sorts of things," returned Estelle, in answer to her friend's question. "Interesting things—things that matter—yourself for instance! I wonder why it is that so few people talk interestingly about ordinary things! I believe it must be because they simply will not tell the truth about them; they stick to platitudes for fear of blundering on some thought they feel they oughtn't to have. Don't you think that is it? Now we always look things right in the face and say just what we think about them; and that is why we're so queer—and so nice—and so interesting to one another. And this is such a good opportunity for a talk. We've had such a lovely dinner—wasn't that soup delicious? and, as for that muscatel! Don't you simply dote on things to eat? I do. I never agree with that man—Solomon, wasn't it?—who said that he would rather have a dinner of herbs and peace than a stalled ox and strife therewith. Let him have the herbs! and give me the stalled ox every time. If it were nicely served and properly cooked I wouldn't care if there were seven bad-tempered married couples and sixteen cross cats and twenty squalling parrots all rowing together at my elbow. That's what it is to be practical. Give me things to eat and a good appetite and I don't care much what happens. There's something about a dinner which appeals to me in a way that sunsets and sonatas don't. And yet some one described me the other day as being 'spirituelle.' Fancy!"
"Some one who didn't know you very well, evidently."
"Some one who has called me 'Estelle' all his life except the four years of it when I wasn't born; but, as you say, some one who doesn't know me very well because he happens to be a man and a man who used to be in love with me. Poor thing! And yet he's happy in his way and I'm happy in mine. He has his ideals and I have my dinners. The only really happy people are the people who have the sense to prefer dinners to ideals and who steadily set to work to get them."
"I suppose you are happy. If dinners could make anyone happy you ought to be. But, tell me, Del, do you never want anything else?"
"Oh, yes. I want silk dresses and diamond brooches and the feeling that every snob in town will kow-tow as soon as my snub nose appears. And I've got them all—thank goodness! I very easily might not have, you know. There are so many others looking out for just the opportunity I seized. And every one said that Henry wasn't a marrying man. Ridiculous! As if every one wasn't a marrying man as soon as the right woman came along; the woman who made love to him unremittingly and tactfully without letting him see that she was doing it. It was an awful bore, sometimes, to make love to Henry. It had to be done so carefully. O dear, he was so surly and snubby and so scared of being hooked. But it didn't do any good:I intended to marry him and I married him—and so could you if you had any gumption!" she exclaimed, veering around and fixing Lynn with a look of intense determination.
"What? Marry Henry?"
"Not my Henry, no; but some other Henry. There are plenty of them and if you don't take them somebody else will. They all like to be admired and courted. And oh, lucky girl! Fate has dropped an ideal Henry right in your lap."
"Don't, Del! My poor lap! And as for 'ideal,' why, he has green teeth and goggly eyes."
"I am sure you are not so good-looking, yourself."
"Now, Del! Have I goggly eyes and green teeth? Let us be accurate before we are aggravating. Besides, it was horrid of me to speak of his appearance. Only his appearance is so exactly like him that it grates on me, some way."
"He is a great deal too good for you," said her friend, indignantly.
"So every one has already told me. Anything is too good for an old, ugly school-teacher, I dare say; but I don't want him, even if he is too good for me."
"Now, Lynn, we'll talk this over. I want to have the whole thing out with you."
"As you please."
"Very well, then. We will assume that you are quite determined not to marry Lighton. Two other courses are open to you; the first, to go on teaching all your life; the second, to marry some one else. We will examine these two alternatives—with your permission."
"Or without it!"
"Or, as you say, without it. Let us begin then. We will suppose that you stay as you are and go on teaching. You are not at all young, now—you needn't grin. I know I am two years older, but that has nothing to do with it; I'm married. You are not, I repeat, young. Every year you become a little older and a little older."
"The truth of your remarks is only equalled by their unpleasantness."
"I don't care. You go on getting older and older. Your aunt, who has been good to you and of whom you are fond, will be very much disappointed in you. She feels that it is disgraceful not to marry and criminal not to marry Lighton, and I am strongly inclined to agree with her. So, as the years go by and you get older and plainer and less desirable your aunt will grow less and less fond of you. You are not a great favourite with your uncle; to be sure, he has only one supreme favourite in the universe and I needn't say who that is!—and your aunt will probably die in time. What a happy home you will have, then! Suppose on the other hand, that he should die. You wouldn't have money enough to live in that big house and you would have to be cooped up in a flat and come home, after teaching all day, to listen to your aunt's lamentations about the nice establishment you might have had"—
"Thank fortune there are always the poison and the dagger."
"There are; but they're the refuge of the coward, and ordinary respectable people don't commit suicide, however much they want to. Now, having fully disposed of that alternative, let us turn to the other—that you marry some one else. Who else is there? You are a general favourite and lots of men like to talk to you; but who, besides Lighton, is in love with you? I mean of course, that is in a position to marry. We will suppose, though, that you have several other proposals in the next few years—what then? Whom would you rather marry?"
Lynn said nothing and turned her head away.
"The fact is that there is no one you would rather marry and there are very few who could offer you what he does. The trouble with you is that you don't face things. You know that, if you don't marry him, you have nothing in life to look forward to; yet, because it isn't an ideal arrangement, you refuse to consider it. Surely you have outgrown the silly, pretty, childish idea of marrying for love? Look at the people who do marry for love! How many of them are as happy as I am? I, who deliberately angled to catch the richest man of my acquaintance and did it. You could not have managed matters for yourself in the way that I did; and then, Fate, instead of punishing you for being stupid, offers you a prize—and you throw it away. Why?"
"It is a little hard to explain why, Del," returned her friend, slowly. "I don't know whether I could make you understand."
"I don't know that I have much heart, Lynn, but I have a mind. Try me."
"Long ago, then, I 'faced things' as you call it. I looked right at them hard and baldly and I saw that Life is very hard on woman. Life, Society—even Nature—all seem to be leagued against her. Her one chance of happiness is to make a happy marriage; and in order to make a happy marriage how many things are needed—and how few are forthcoming! Even then she must make up her mind to face certain torture and possible death; and when, after bearing two or three children, she loses her youth, her strength, her good looks, she has the satisfaction of knowing that her husband is as attractive as he was the day she married him. So, practically, in the majority of cases, she has nothing but her children. I am not thinking of you, you monkey; you are a great exception. Of course the children must be worth a great deal to her, but, apart from them, the average woman has precious little. Her husband is usually fond of her—I am speaking, now, of happy marriages—but all the idealism and the romance die very quickly. If, on the other hand, she does as so many do and marries some one who is in love with her but for whom she cares little—what then? All the usual hindrances and no compensations. There is left only spinsterhood. Putting aside the lucky few who have some art, some profession, which means everything to them, unmarried women are, as you have said, simply incumbrances and not happy incumbrances at that. The one happy thing for a woman is to fall in love when she is young, marry some one who adores her, and become so absorbed in her children that she won't mind the rest. Of course there are a few ideal marriages here and there; cases where people fall in love and stay in love and have satisfactory children and enjoy life; but you know as well as I do how many of these there are. Four altogether; and I have sometimes doubted the fourth."
"Well, of all the cynics"—
"Not a bit of it; I don't cherish useless illusions in the face of facts, that's all. Well, as I began to say, long ago I 'faced things' and saw them as they were. The best thing to do was to fall in love and make a happy marriage; that I couldn't do. The next was to marry some one I didn't want, or to do something that would support me, and remain unmarried. Of the two, the last seemed the only possible thing. I can get along for the present just as I am and I do not look into the future. As far as I can see, it is bound to be a wretched one, anyway; but I may die—a thousand things may happen. In the meantime I do not worry because of realizing that life is a tragic thing; and I take things very coolly and don't make a fuss about anything that can't be helped. When I feel down in the mouth I always console myself with the reflection, first, that it can't last forever; and, secondly, that however industriously Fate may knock me, she can't compel me to squeal about it."
"What a truly cheerful and comforting reflection."
"Well, do you know anyone more cheerful than I?"
"No, I can't say that I do; but appearances are certainly deceptive. Then you really prefer unmarried unhappiness to married unhappiness—that is your final choice?"
"That is my final choice."
"It is an extraordinary one, that is all I can say, when one thinks of all the money that is thrown in with the married unhappiness."
"Money can't buy happiness."
"No, but it can buy some mighty good substitutes for it, my dear. And as far as I can see, you are not going to get anything at all with the unmarried unhappiness."
"Nothing at all? Freedom, a peaceful mind and an independent income. I'd rather have my liberty than all the houses in Christendom and all the men. Of course I am human; I should prefer to make a happy marriage; but how many people do, and why should I be picked out for a happy fate when so many kinder and better people than I have nothing but trouble from beginning to end of their lives? No; I complain of nothing."
"Don't you think you will be sorry for this, some day?"
"If I am, no one will ever know it."
"If you think all this about your future, why do you want to live?"
"I don't want to live. Do you? Does any mature person? But I must live and so must you. There is probably some reason for the world and for Nature and for Sin and for all the other queer works of God and of the Devil. Perhaps we shall find it all out some day and then again perhaps we shall sleep so soundly that we shall not care to find out anything at all. That would be nice. It would be still nicer, though, to find out that everything was for the best, really, and that everything about the world was necessary. 'God's in his heaven, all's right with the world,' you know, and all that sort of thing. That phrase about the 'best of all possible worlds,' when applied to this, is such rubbish and such inhuman rubbish at that; such an insult to the intelligence and humanity of mankind; yet one can't help hoping that there will be a 'best of all possible worlds' and the mere fact that we want it and look forward to it so instinctively shows that there must be one, somewhere, I think. What do you think?"
"I think I should like to have a brandy and soda," said Mrs. Hadwell, forlornly. "Positively you have given me the blues. I do hate thinking of heaven and poets and metaphysics and things. This earth is all right if you only have sense. The trouble is, you haven't any. Oh! I have just thought of something. I have a lovely box of Huyler's that I haven't touched. We'll eat that and Thomas shall light us a little fire and you can have the latest magazine and I'll read the book of that woman's—you know! the one that they are making all the fuss about. It's frightfully amusing and very improper and it doesn't make one think the least little bit. That's the sort of book I like, and it's the sort of book most people like, too, only they won't say so. Yes, it is, Lynn. You needn't say it isn't. Else why is it always out at the library, though they have seven copies, and why is its author able to travel all over the world on her earnings? You don't understand human nature. All it wants is to be amused andnotto be improved. We all like to slide down hill, comfortably, without being obliged to climb up again. And we would all slide down much faster if it wasn't that the company at the foot of the hill is so unpleasant and the people at the top throw things at you and you can't throw them back. And the reason that the people at the top throw things is that they are so cross because they don't really like being stuck up there and they have to pretend they do."
"Well, you're not at all cross, yet, Del, and you haven't slid down hill very fast," said Lynn, laughing.
"Oh, yes, I have. Anyway I didn't have far to slide from. I began pretty low down, you know. Oh, I have no illusions about myself. But, even so I have slidden. But you see, if you are clad in gold armour, you can slide as much as you like; for that renders you bullet-proof. If I were a nursery-governess slaving over spoilt brats for the sake of getting a miserable living, I should be thought a very shady character. Just suppose I had said what I said just now about only liking improper things that didn't make me think! Why, I should be turned out of doors without a character, I suppose. But I am Mrs. Henry Hadwell and so I can slide just as much as I please—within limits. Perhaps it is just as well that there are limits to everything. Otherwise I dare say I should be even worse than I am. And I'm pretty bad, you know. I haven't any conscience and very little affection. And I havenoideals. But then, as I said before, I have dinners—lovely dinners! How glad I am to think that I am going to have another one to-morrow. Some way, when I think of that, I quite forget all the horrid things you have put into my head to-night. Just think! I—Imight have been a nursery-governess.I!I hadn't brains or industry enough to become a teacher. Ugh! Oh, what horrible lives there are in the world and how lovely to think that I have a lovely home and a doting husband and three darling childrenandmy dinners! What are you thinking about, now?"
"I was just thinking that we were awfully like the lower animals, really," replied Lynn, with a half-laugh. "A little more complex, but just about like them, otherwise. What does the average bear want? A mate, cubs,—and dinners. If he gets them he is happy; if he doesn't, he is miserable. If Bob could talk, he would say just about what you have been saying, now."
"Bob is a sensible dog," said Mrs. Hadwell, solemnly. "I don't like dogs and I do like you but justice compels me to state that Bob has a lot more sense than you have. Never mind! you will get wise when it is too late and then you will wish that you had had the sense to imitate me and Bob and all the other practical people in the world. You needn't think I mind being called a lower animal. If being a lower animal means getting what you want and being a higher animal means getting what you don't want,—well, I want to be a lower animal, thank you! Lynn! these marron glaces are simply the most delicious things you ever thought of.Dohave one!"