Ida Edgham was, in some respects, a peculiar personality. She was
as much stronger, in another way, than her husband, as her
predecessor had been. She was that anomaly: a creature of supreme
self-satisfaction, who is yet aware of its own limits. She was so
unemotional as to be almost abnormal, but she had head enough to
realize the fact that absolute unemotionlessness in a woman detracts
from her charm. She therefore simulated emotion. She had a spiritual
make-up, a panoply of paint and powder for the soul, as truly as any
actress has her array of cosmetics for her face. She made no effort
to really feel, she knew that was entirely useless, but she observed
all the outward signs and semblance of feeling more or less
successfully. She knew that to take up her position in Harry Edgham's
house like a marble bust of Diana, which had been one of her
wedding-presents, would not be to her credit. She therefore put
herself to the pace which she would naturally be expected to assume
in her position. She showed everybody who called her new possessions,
with a semblance of delight which was quite perfect. She was, in
reality, less deceptive in that respect than in others. She had a
degree of the joy of possession, or she would not have been a woman
at all, and, in fact, would not have married. She had wanted a home
and a husband; not as some women want them, for the legitimate desire
for love and protection, but because she felt a degree of
mortification on account of her single estate. She had had many
admirers, but, although no one ever knew it, not one offer of
marriage, the acceptance of which would not have been an absurdity,
before poor Harry Edgham. She was not quite contented to accept him.
She had hoped for something better; but he was good-looking, and
popular, and his social standing, in her small world, was good. He
was an electrical engineer, with an office in the city, and had a
tolerably good income, although his first wife's New England thrift
had compelled him to live parsimoniously.
Ida made up her mind from the first that thrift, after the plan of
the first woman, should not be observed in her household. Without
hinting to that effect, or without Harry's recognizing it, she so
managed that within a few weeks after her marriage he put an
insurance on his life, which would insure her comfort in case she
outlived him. He owned his house, and she had herself her little
savings, well invested. She then considered that they could live up
to Harry's income without much risk, and she proceeded to do so. It
was not long before the saturnine Hungarian, who could have provided
a regiment of her own countrymen with the coarse food of her race,
but seemed absolutely incapable of carrying out American ideas of
good cookery, was dismissed, and a good cook, at a price which at
first staggered Harry, installed in her place. Then a young girl was
found to take care of the bedrooms, and wait on table, attired in
white gowns and aprons and caps.
Ida had a reception two weeks after her return from her bridal trip,
and an elaborate menu was provided by a caterer from New York. Maria,
in a new white gown, with a white bow on her hair, sat at one end of
the dining-table, shining with cut-glass and softly lighted with
wax-candles under rose-colored shades in silver candlesticks, and
poured chocolate, while another young girl opposite dipped lemonade
from a great cut-glass punch-bowl, which had been one of the
wedding-presents. The table was strewn with pink-and-white
carnations. Maria caught a glimpse now and then of her new mother, in
a rose-colored gown, with a bunch of pink roses on her breast,
standing with her father receiving their guests, and she could
scarcely believe that she was awake and it was really happening. She
began to take a certain pleasure in the excitement. She heard one
woman say to another how pretty she was, "poor little thing," and her
heart throbbed with satisfaction. She felt at once beautiful and
appealing to other people, because of her misfortunes. She turned the
chocolate carefully, and put some whipped-cream on top of each dainty
cup; and, for the first time since her father's marriage, she was not
consciously unhappy. She glanced across the table at the other little
girl, Amy Long, who was dark, and wore a pink bow on her hair, and
she was sure that she herself was much prettier. Then, too, Amy had
not the sad distinction of having lost her mother, and having a
step-mother thrust upon her in a year's time. It is true that once
when Amy's mother, large and portly in a blue satin which gave out
pale white lights on the curves of her great arms and back, and whose
roseate face looked forth from a fichu of real lace pinned with a
great pearl brooch, came up behind her little daughter and
straightened the pink bow on her hair, Maria felt a cruel little
pang. There was something about the look of loving admiration which
Mrs. Long gave her daughter that stung Maria's heart with a sense of
loss. She felt that if her new mother should straighten out her white
bow and regard her with admiration, it would be because of her own
self, and the credit which she, Maria, reflected upon her. Still, she
reflected how charming she looked. Self-love is much better than
nothing for a lonely soul.
That night Maria realized that she was in the second place, so far as
her father was concerned. Ida, in her rose-colored robes, dispensing
hospitality in his home, took up his whole attention. She was really
radiant. She sang and played twice for the company, and her perfectly
true high soprano filled the whole house. To Maria it sounded as
meaningless as the trill of a canary-bird. In fact, when it came to
music, Ida, although she had a good voice, had the mortification of
realizing that her simulation of emotion failed her. Harry did not
like his wife's singing. He felt like a traitor, but he could not
help realizing that he did not like it. But the moment Ida stopped
singing, he looked at her, and fairly wondered that he had married
such a beautiful creature. He felt humble before her. Humility was
not a salutary condition of mind for him, but this woman inspired it
now, and would still more in the future. In spite of his first wife's
scolding, her quick temper, he had always felt himself as good as she
was. The mere fact of the temper itself had served to give him a
sense of equality and, perhaps, superiority, but this woman never
showed temper. She never failed to respond with her stereotyped smile
to everything that was said. She seemed to have no faults at all, to
realize none in herself, and not to admit the possibility of any one
else doing so.
Harry felt himself distinctly in the wrong beside such unquestionable
right. He even did not think himself so good-looking as he had
formerly done. It seemed to him that he looked much older than Ida.
When they went out together he felt like a lackey in attendance on an
empress. In his own home, it came to pass that he seldom made a
remark when guests were present without a covert glance at his wife
to see what she thought of it. He could always tell what she thought,
even if her face did not change and she made no comment neither then
nor afterwards, and she always made him know, in some subtle fashion,
when he had said anything wrong.
Maria felt very much in the same way at first, but she fought
involuntarily against it. She had a good deal of her mother in her.
Finally, she never looked at Ida when she said anything. She was full
of rebellion although she was quiet and obedient, and very
unobtrusive, in the new state of things.
Ida entertained every Tuesday evening. There was not a caterer as at
the first reception, but Ida herself cooked dainty messes in a silver
chafing-dish, and Maria and the white-capped little maid passed
things. It was not especially expensive, but people in Edgham began
to talk. They said Harry was living beyond his means; but Ida kept
within his income. She had too good a head for reckless extravagance,
although she loved admiration and show. When there were no guests in
the house, Maria used to go to her own room early of an evening, and
read until it was time to go to bed. She realized that her father and
Ida found her somewhat superfluous, although Ida never made any
especial effort to entertain her father that Maria could see. She was
fond of fancy-work, and was embroidering a silk gown for herself. She
embroidered while Harry read the paper. She did not talk much. Maria
used to wonder that her father did not find it dull when he and She
were alone together of an evening. She looked at him reading his
paper, with frequent glances of admiration over it at his beautiful
wife, and thought that in his place, she should much prefer a woman
like her mother, who had kept things lively, even without company,
and even in a somewhat questionable fashion. However, Harry and Ida
themselves went out a good deal. People in Edgham aped city society,
they even talked about the "four hundred." The newly wedded pair were
frequent guests of honor at dinners and receptions, and Ida herself
was a member of the Edgham's Woman's Club, and that took her out a
good deal. Maria was rather lonely. Finally the added state and
luxury of her life, which had at first pleased her, failed to do so.
She felt that she hated all the new order of things, and her heart
yearned for the old. She began to grow thin; she did not sleep much
nor sleep well. She felt tired all the time. One day her father
noticed her changed looks.
"Why, Maria is getting thin!" said he.
"I think it is because she is growing tall," said Ida. "Everybody
seems thin when they are growing tall. I did myself. I was much
thinner than Maria at her age." She looked at Maria with her
invariable smile as she spoke.
"She looks very thin to me," Harry said, anxiously.
He himself looked thin and older. An anxious wrinkle had deepened
between his eyes. It was June, and the days were getting warm. He was
anxious about Ida's health also. Ida was not at all anxious. She was
perfectly placid. It did not seem to her that an overruling
Providence could possibly treat her unkindly. She was rather annoyed
at times, but still never anxious, and utterly satisfied with herself
to that extent that it precluded any doubt as to the final outcome of
everything.
Maria continued to lose flesh. A sentimental interest in herself and
her delicacy possessed her. She used to look at her face, which
seemed to her more charming than ever, although so thin, in the
glass, and reflect, with a pleasant acquiescence, on an early death.
She even spent some time in composing her own epitaph, and kept it
carefully hidden away in a drawer of her dresser, under some linen.
Maria felt a gloomy pride when the doctor, who came frequently to see
Ida, was asked to look at her; she felt still more triumphant when he
expressed it as his opinion that she ought to have a change of air
the moment school closed. The doctor said Maria was running down,
which seemed to her a very interesting state of things, and one which
ought to impress people. She told Gladys Mann the next day at school.
"The doctor says I'm running down," said she.
"You do look awful bad," replied Gladys.
After recess Maria saw Gladys with her face down on her desk,
weeping. She knew that she was weeping because she looked so badly
and was running down. She glanced across at Wollaston Lee, and
wondered if he had noticed how badly she looked, and yet how
charming. All at once the boy shot a glance at her in return; then he
blushed and scowled and took up his book. It all comforted Maria in
the midst of her langour and her illness, which was negative and
unattended by any pain. If she felt any appetite she restrained it,
she became so vain of having lost it.
It was decided that Maria should go and visit her aunt Maria, in New
England, and remain there all summer. Her father would pay her board
in order that she should not be any restraint on her aunt, with her
scant income. Just before Maria went, and just before her school
closed, the broad gossip of the school came to her ears. She
ascertained something which filled her at once with awe, and shame,
and jealousy, and indignation. If one of the girls began to speak to
her about it, she turned angrily away. She fairly pushed Gladys Mann
one day. Gladys turned and looked at her with loving reproach, like a
chidden dog. "What did you expect?" said she. Maria ran away, her
face burning.
After she reached her aunt Maria's nothing was said to her about it.
Aunt Maria was too prudish and too indignant. Uncle Henry's wife,
Aunt Eunice, was away all summer, taking care of a sister who was ill
with consumption in New Hampshire; so Aunt Maria kept the whole
house, and she and Maria and Uncle Henry had their meals together.
Maria loved her uncle Henry. He was a patient man, with a patience
which at times turns to fierceness, of a man with a brain above his
sphere, who has had to stand and toil in a shoe-factory for his bread
and butter all his life. He was non-complainant because of a sort of
stern pride, and a sense of a just cause against Providence, but he
was very kind to Maria; he petted her as if she had been his own
child. Every pleasant night Uncle Henry took Maria for a
trolley-ride, or a walk, and he treated her to ice-cream soda and
candy. Aunt Maria also took good care of the child. She showed a sort
of vicious curiosity with regard to Maria's step-mother and all the
new household arrangements, which Maria did not gratify. She had too
much loyalty, although she longed to say all that she thought to her
aunt, being sure of a violent sympathizer.
"Well, I'll say one thing, she has fixed your clothes nice," said
Aunt Maria.
"She didn't do it, it was Miss Barnes," replied Maria. She could not
help saying that much. She did not want Aunt Maria to think her
step-mother took better care of her wardrobe than her own mother had
done.
"Good land! She didn't hire all these things made?" said Aunt Maria.
"Yes'm."
"Good land! I don't see how your father is going to stand it. I'd
like to know what your poor mother would have said?" said Aunt Maria.
Then Maria's loyalty came to the front. After all, she was her
father's wife, and to be defended.
"I guess maybe father is making more money now," said she.
"Well, I hope to the land he is," said Aunt Maria. "I guess if She
(Aunt Maria also treated Ida like a pronoun) had just one hundred
dollars and no more to get along with, she'd have to do different."
Maria regained her strength rapidly. When she went home, a few days
before her school begun, in September, she was quite rosy and
blooming. She had also fallen in love with a boy who lived next to
Aunt Maria, and who asked her, over the garden fence, to correspond
with him, the week before she left.
It was that very night that Aunt Maria had the telegram. She paid the
boy, then she opened it with trembling fingers. Her brother Henry and
Maria were with her on the porch. It was a warm night, and Aunt Maria
wore an ancient muslin. The south wind fluttered the ruffles on that
and the yellow telegram as she read. She was silent a moment, with
mouth compressed.
"Well," said her brother Henry, inquiringly.
Aunt Maria's face flushed and paled. She turned to Maria.
"Well," she said, "you've got a little sister."
"Good!" said Uncle Henry. "Ever so much more company for you than a
little brother would have been, Maria."
Maria was silent. She trembled and felt cold, although the night was
so warm.
"Weighs seven pounds," said Aunt Maria, in a hard voice.
Maria returned home a week from that day. She travelled alone from
Boston, and her father met her in New York. He looked strange to her.
He was jubilant, and yet the marks of anxiety were deep. He seemed
very glad to see Maria, and talked to her about her little sister in
an odd, hesitating way.
"Her name is Evelyn," said Harry.
Maria said nothing. She and her father were crossing the city to the
ferry in a cab.
"Don't you think that is a pretty name, dear?" asked Harry, with a
queer, apologetic wistfulness.
"No, father, I think it is a very silly name," replied Maria.
"Why, your mother and I thought it a very pretty name, dear."
"I always thought it was the silliest name in the world," said Maria,
firmly. However, she sat close to her father, and realized that it
was something to have him to herself without Her, while crossing the
city. "I don't know as I think Evelyn is such a very silly name,
father," she said, presently, just before they reached the ferry.
Harry bent down and kissed her. "Father's own little girl," he said.
Maria felt that she had been magnanimous, for she had in reality
never liked Evelyn, and would not have named a doll that.
"You will be a great deal happier with a little sister. It will turn
out for the best," said Harry, as the cab stopped. Harry always put a
colon of optimism to all his happenings of life.
The next morning, when Ida was arrayed in a silk negligee, and the
baby was washed and dressed, Maria was bidden to enter the room which
had been her mother's. The first thing which she noticed was a faint
perfume of violet-scented toilet-powder. Then she saw Ida leaning
back gracefully in a reclining-chair, with her hair carefully
dressed. The nurse held the baby: a squirming little bundle of soft,
embroidered flannel. The nurse was French, and she awed Maria, for
she spoke no English, and nobody except Ida could understand her. She
was elderly, small, and of a damaged blond type. Maria approached Ida
and kissed her. Ida looked at her, smiling. Then she asked if she had
had a pleasant summer. She told the nurse, in French, to show the
baby to her. Maria approached the nurse timidly. The flannel was
carefully laid aside, and the small, piteously inquiring and puzzled
face, the inquiry and the bewilderment expressed by a thousand
wrinkles, was exposed. Maria looked at it with a sort of shiver. The
nurse laid the flannel apart and disclosed the tiny feet seeming
already to kick feebly at existence. The nurse said something in
French which Maria could not understand. Ida answered also in French.
Then the baby seemed to experience a convulsion; its whole face
seemed to open into one gape of expostulation at fate. Then its
feeble, futile wail filled the whole room.
"Isn't she a little darling?" asked Ida, of Maria.
"Yes'm," replied Maria.
There was a curious air of aloofness about Ida with regard to her
baby, and something which gave the impression of wistfulness. It is
possible that she was capable of wishing that she had not that
aloofness. It did not in the least seem to Maria as if it were Ida's
baby. She had a vague impression, derived she could not tell in what
manner, of a rosebud laid on a gatepost. Ida did not seem conscious
of her baby with the woodeny consciousness of an apple-tree of a
blossom. When she gazed at it, it was with the same set smile with
which she had always viewed all creation. That smile which came from
without, not within, but now it was fairly tragic.
"Her name is Evelyn. Don't you think it is a pretty name?" asked Ida.
"Yes'm," replied Maria. She edged towards the door. The nurse,
tossing the wailing baby, rose and got a bottle of milk. Maria went
out.
Maria went to school the next Monday, and all the girls asked her if
the baby was pretty.
"It looks like all the babies I ever saw," replied Maria guardedly.
She did not wish to descry the baby which was, after all, her sister,
but she privately thought it was a terrible sight.
Gladys Mann supported her. "Babies do all look alike," said she.
"We've had nine to our house, and I had ought to know."
At first Maria used to dread to go home from school, on account of
the baby. She had a feeling of repulsion because of it, but gradually
that feeling disappeared and an odd sort of fascination possessed her
instead. She thought a great deal about the baby. When she heard it
cry in the night, she thought that her father and Ida might have
sense enough to stop it. She thought that she could stop its crying
herself, by carrying it very gently around the room. Still she did
not love the baby. It only appealed, in a general way, to her
instincts. But one day, when the baby was some six weeks old, and Ida
had gone to New York, she came home from school, and she went up to
her own room, and she heard the baby crying in the room opposite. It
cried and cried, with the insistent cry of a neglected child. Maria
said to herself that she did not believe but the French nurse had
taken advantage of Her absence, and had slipped out on some errand
and left the baby alone.
The baby continued to wail, and a note of despair crept into the
wail. Maria could endure it no longer. She ran across the hall and
flung open the door. The baby lay crying in a little pink-lined
basket. Maria bent over it, and the baby at once stopped crying. She
opened her mouth in a toothless smile, and she held up little, waving
pink hands to Maria. Maria lifted the baby out of her basket and
pressed her softly, with infinite care, as one does something very
precious, to her childish bosom, and at once something strange seemed
to happen to her. She became, as it were, illuminated by love.