In every formation of a fresh family group there must be readjustments
of habit and of thought. Two people who fancy they know each other
intimately discover that they are in reality utter strangers. They
start a new acquaintanceship at the moment of marriage, and the wonder
of it is that so many millions of them manage the thing with success.
It is true that a man and woman who join their hands and their fortunes
because of a deep-seated, genuine, calm affection have a greater chance
of lasting happiness than those who unite because of the spur of
sudden, flaring passion. There are those who contend that friendship
and mutual confidence are a firmer foundation for marriage than the
emotion that we call love. Thousands of men and women have married
because prudence told them a certain other individual would make a
trustworthy, efficient, comfortable husband or wife, and as days and
weeks and years passed this respect and trust and regard has blossomed
into a beautifully permanent flower of love....Doubtless happiness has
resulted from marriages which resulted from motives purely mercenary,
for human beings are blessed by Heaven with a quality called
adaptability. Of no marriage can one predict happiness surely. At the
altar the best one can do is to hope for the best....But what can be
said of a marriage brought about by the causes and motives that led
Bonbright Foote to Ruth Frazer and Ruth Frazer to Bonbright Foote?
Of the two, Bonbright's reasons most nearly approached the normal, and
therefore the safe; Ruth had been urged by a motive, lofty perhaps,
visionary, but supremely abnormal. Therefore the adjustments to be
made, the problems to be mastered, the difficulties in their road to a
comfortable, reasonably happy future, were multiplied many times.
Instead of being probable, the success of their little social entity
became merely possible, doubtfully possible.
Ruth, being a woman, understood something of this. Bonbright, being a
boy, and a singularly inexperienced boy, understood it not at all, and
as he sat alone, a closed door between him and his wife, he wearied his
brain upon the puzzle of it. He came to the conclusion that the present
difficult situation was the natural thing. It was natural for the bride
to be timid, frightened, reluctant, for she was entering a dark forest
of strange, new experiences. He understood that his own case might be
exaggerated because their marriage had been preceded by no ordinary
courtship, with the opportunity which a courtship gives to begin the
inevitable readjustments, and to become accustomed to intimacy of
thought and act.
The ordinary man has little intuition, but a world of good intentions.
Men blunder woefully in their relations with women, not because of
innate boorishness in the sex, not because of willful brashness, but
because of lack of understanding. They mean well, but their performance
is deplorable.... In that moment Bonbright's most valuable possession
was a certain intuition, a fineness, a decency, a reserve, a natural
modesty. As he sat there alone he reached a conclusion which was,
probably, the most profoundly wise conclusion he was to arrive at in
his life. It came not so much from taking thought, as by blessed
inspiration. This conclusion was that he must court Ruth Frazer as a
sweetheart, not approach her as a husband....
It was a course that would require infinite patience, forbearance,
fineness. In his love for Ruth he felt himself capable of it; felt that
it would bring its reward.
So he sat and waited. He did not approach the door which she had
watched with apprehensive eyes until weariness had closed them in
sleep....
The luncheon hour had passed when he heard Ruth moving about within.
"Hungry?" he called to her, boyishly. His voice reassured her. It was
comradely. There was nothing in it that menaced her security....The
sleep and the rest had bettered her. She was less tense, more calmly
resigned to events. She had marshaled her will; had set it to bear her
up and to compel her to carry on bravely and without hysteria the part
of a wife.
"I am hungry," she said, and presently she appeared in the door, stood
there a moment, and then walked across the room to Bonbright. "Thank
you," she said, simply, and he understood.
"You don't mind being poor for a while?" he asked.
"I've always been poor," she said, with something that approached her
old smile.
"Because," he said, "we are poor. I am going to earn about thirty
dollars a week. So, you see, we can't afford to live here. We've got to
find a little house or flat...."
"Let's begin," she cried. It was not the delight of a woman at the
thought of hunting for her first home, but the idea of having something
to do, of escaping from these rooms. "Let's go right out to look."
"First," he said, with pretended severity, "we eat."
So they went down to the dining room, and after they had eaten they
inaugurated their house hunting. Perhaps Providence intervened at this
difficult moment to give them occupation. If so, Providence acted with
amazing wisdom and kindness.
Ruth found an interest in the search. She forgot. Her mind was taken
from morbid breedings as they climbed stairs and explored rooms and
questioned agents. Bonbright was very happy--happier because he was
openly and without shame adapting his circumstances to his purse....
They found a tiny flat, to be had for a fourth of their income. Ruth
said that was the highest proportion of their earnings it was safe to
pay for rent, and Bonbright marveled at her wisdom in such matters. ...
Then there were the furnishings to select. Bonbright left the selection
and the chaffering wholly to Ruth--and she enjoyed it. The business
rested, refreshed, stimulated her. It pushed her fears into the dim
background and brought again to the light of day her old self that
Bonbright loved. More than once she turned the light of her famous grin
upon him or upon some thrice lucky salesman.
But the end was reached at last; everything was done that could be
done, and there was nothing to do but to return to the hotel. Ruth did
her best to keep up her spirits, but by every block that they
approached the hotel, by so much her lightness vanished, by so much her
apprehension, her heartache, the black disappointment of the failure of
her great plan, returned.
Bonbright saw the change and it grieved him--it strengthened the
determination he had made. When they reached their rooms he drew her
over to the sofa.
"Let's sit here together, dear," he said. "We haven't had a decent
talk, and there are a heap of things to talk about, aren't there?"
She forced herself to sit down close to him, and waited icily, steeling
herself to yield to his demonstrations of affection if he offered them,
but he did not.
"I've an idea," he said. "I--I hope you'll like it. It'll be sort
of--fun. Sort of a game, you know.... While I sat here this afternoon I
was thinking about us--and--how I want to make you happy....We were
married--suddenly. Most folks play along and get to know each other,
and grow to love each other gradually, I guess....I didn't grow to love
you gradually. I don't know how it was with you. But, anyhow, we missed
our courtship. We started right in by being husband and wife. Of course
I'm glad of that....Don't think I'm not. I wanted you--right away.
But--but my idea was that maybe we could--have our courtship now--after
we are married....Mayn't we?"
"What--what do you mean?" she asked, fearfully, hopefully.
"We'll pretend we aren't married at all," he said. "We'll make believe
we're at a house party or something, and I just met you. I'm no end
interested in you right off, of course. I haven't any idea how you feel
about me....We'll start off as if we just met, and it's up to me to
make you fall in love with me....I'll bring out the whole bag of
tricks. Flowers and candy and such like, and walks and rides. I'll get
right down and pursue you....After a while you'll--maybe--get so far as
to call me by my first name." He laughed like a small boy. "And some
day you'll let me hold your hand--pretending you don't know I'm holding
it at all....And I'll be making love to you to--to beat the band.
Regular crush I'll have on you....What do you think?"
"You mean REALLY?...You mean we'll LIVE like that? That we won't be
married, but do like you said?" She was staring at him with big,
unbelieving eyes.
"That's the idea exactly....We won't be married till I WIN you. That's
the game....And I'll try hard--you haven't any notion how hard I'll
try." There was something pleading, pathetic in his voice, that went to
her heart.
"Oh," she said, breathlessly, "that's DEAR of you.... You're good--so
GOOD.... I--I hate myself.... You'll do THAT?... I didn't--know
anybody--could be--so--so good." She swayed, swayed toward him in a
storm of tears, and he drew her face down on his shoulder while with
awkward hand he patted her shoulder.
"There.... There..." he said, clumsily, happily. She did not draw away
from him, but lay there wetting his coat with her tears, her heart
swelling with thanks-giving; fear vanished, and something was born in
her breast that would never die. The thing that was born was a perfect
trust in this man she had married, and a perfect trust is one of the
rarest and most wonderful things under the sun.
For so young a man, Bonbright felt singularly fatherly. He held his
wife gently, silently, willing that she should cry, with a song in his
heart because she nestled to him and wept on his shoulder. If he
deluded himself that she clung to him because of other, sweeter emotion
than grief, relief, it did not diminish his happiness. The moment was
the best he had known for months, perhaps the best he had ever known.
Ruth sat up and wiped her eyes. He looked into them, saw them cleared
now of dread, and it was a sufficient reward. For her part, in that
instant, Ruth almost loved Bonbright, not as lovers love, but as one
loves a benefactor, some one whose virtues have earned affection. But
it was not that sort that Bonbright asked of her, she knew full well.
"Now--er--Miss Frazer," he said, briskly, "I don't want to appear
forward for a new acquaintance, but if I suggested that there was a
bully play in town--sort of tentatively, you know--what would happen to
me?"
"Why, Mr. Foote," she replied, able to enter into the spirit of the
pretense, "I think you'd find yourself in the awkward position of a
young man compelled to buy two seats."
"No chaperons?"
"Where I come from," she said, "chaperons are not in style."
"And we'll go some place after the play....I want to make the most of
my opportunity, because I've got to work all day to-morrow. It's a
shame, too, because I have a feeling that I'd like to monopolize you."
"Aren't you going a bit fast for a comparative stranger?" she asked,
merrily.
He pretended to look crestfallen. "You sha'n't have to put me in my
place again," he promised; "but wait--wait till we've known each other
a week!...Do you know, Miss Frazer, you have a mighty charming smile!"
"It has been remarked before," she said.
"We mustn't keep our hostess waiting. I'm afraid we'll be late for
dinner, now." He chuckled at the idea.
"I never have eaten dinner with a man in evening dress," she said, with
a touch of seriousness. "In the country I come from the men don't wear
them." How true that was--in the country she came from, the country of
widows who kept boarding houses, of laborers, of Dulac and their sort!
She was in another land now, a land she had been educated to look upon
with enmity; the land of the oppressor. Little revolutionist--she was
to learn much of that country in the days to come and to know that in
it bad men and good men, worthy women and trifling women, existed in
about the same ratio as in her own familiar land....Bonbright insisted
upon buying her violets--the first costly flowers she had ever worn.
They occupied desirable seats--and the few plays Ruth had seen she had
seen from gallery heights! Fortunately it was a bright play, brimming
with laughter and gayety, presenting no squalid problems, holding up to
the shrinking eyes of the audience no far-fetched, impossible tangles
of sex. They enjoyed it. Ruth enjoyed it. That she could do so is
wonderful, perhaps, but then, so many human capabilities are wonderful!
Men about to be hanged eat a hearty meal with relish.... How much more
might Ruth find pleasure since she had been granted a reprieve!
When the curtain descended they moved toward the exits, waiting for the
crowd to clear the way. Bonbright's attention was all for Ruth, but her
eyes glanced curiously about, observing the well-fed, well-kept,
brilliantly dressed men and women--men and women of the world to which
she belonged now. As one approached them and saw them, they were
singularly human. Their faces were not different from faces she was
accustomed to. Cleaner they were, perhaps, with something more of
refinement. They were better dressed, but there she saw the same
smiles, the same weariness, the same charm, the same faces that told
their tales of hard work and weary bodies.... They were just human
beings, all of them, HER sort and these....
Suddenly her fingers tightened on her husband's arm. He heard her draw
a quick, startled little breath, and looked up to see his father and
mother approaching them, from the opposite direction. Bonbright had not
expected this. It was the last place in the world he had thought to
encounter his parents--but there they were, not to be avoided. He
stopped, stiffened. Ruth stole a glance at his face and saw it suddenly
older, tenser.
Mr. and Mrs. Foote approached slowly. Ruth knew the moment Mrs. Foote
saw her husband, for the stately woman bit her lip and spoke hurriedly
to Bonbright's father, who glanced at Bonbright and then at her
uncertainly. Ruth saw that Mrs. Foote held her husband's arm, did not
allow him to turn aside, but led him straight toward them.... Bonbright
stood stiff, expectant. On came his father and mother, with no
quickening of pace. Bonbright's eyes moved from one face to the other
as they approached. Now they were face to face. Mrs. Foote's eyes
encountered Ruth's, moved away from the girl to her son, moved
on--giving no sign of recognition. Mr. Foote looked stonily before
him....And so they passed, refusing even a bow to their son, the only
child that had been given them....That others had seen the episode Ruth
knew, for she saw astonished glances, saw quick whisperings.
Then she looked up at her husband. He had not turned to look after his
parents, but was staring before him, his face white, his eyes burning,
little knots of muscle gathered at the points of his jaw. She pressed
his arm gently and heard his quick intake of breath--so like a sob.
"Come," he said, harshly. "Come."
"It was cruel--heartless," she said, fiercely, quickly partisan, making
his quarrel her own, with no thought that the slight had been for her
as well as for him.
"Come," he repeated.
They went out into the street, Bonbright quivering with shame and
anger, Ruth not daring to speak, so white, so hurt was his face, so
fierce the smolder in his eyes.
"You see..." he said, presently. "You see...."
"I've cost you THAT," she said.
"That," he said, slowly, as if he could not believe his words, "that
was my father and--my mother."
Ruth was frightened. Not until this moment did she realize what she had
done; not until now did the teeth of remorse clench upon her. To marry
her--because he loved her--this boy at her side must suffer THIS. It
was her doing....She had cheated him into it. She had cost him this and
was giving nothing to pay for it. He had foreseen it. Last night he had
cut adrift from his parents because of her--willingly. She knew he
would have made, would make, any sacrifice for her....And she had
married him with no love in her heart, married him to use him for her
own ends!
She dared not doubt that what she had done was right. She dared not
question her act, nor that the end justified the means she had used.
...But the end was not to be attained. By the act of marrying Bonbright
she had made it impossible for herself to further the Cause....It was a
vicious circle of events.
As she watched his face she became all woman; revolutionist and martyr
disappeared. Her heart ached for him, her sympathy went out to him.
"Poor boy!..." she said, and pressed his arm again.
"It was to--be expected," he said, slowly. "I'm glad it's over....I
knew what would happen, so why should the happening of it trouble
me?...There have been six generations in my family that would do that
thing.... Ruth, the Foote Tradition is ended. It ended with me. Such
things have no right to exist.... Six generations of it...."
She did not speak, but she was resolving silently: "I'll be good to
him. I'll make him happy. I'll make up to him for this...."
He shook himself. "It doesn't matter," he said. "We sha'n't let it
interfere with our evening....Come, Miss Frazer, where shall we lunch?"