[Illustration: "LOOK AT ME, MARGARET."]
REVELATIONS OF A WIFE
The Story of a Honeymoon
BY
ADELE GARRISON
1915, 1916, 1917
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. "I WILL BE HAPPY! I WILL! I WILL!"
II. THE FIRST QUARREL
III. KNOWN TO FAME AS LILLIAN GALE
IV. DIVIDED OPINIONS
V. "ALWAYS YOUR JACK"
VI. A MAID AND MODEL
VII. A FRIENDLY WARNING
VIII. A TRAGEDY AVERTED
IX. THE GIRL ON THE TRAIN
X. GRACE BY NAME AND GRACE BY NATURE
XI. "I OWE YOU TOO MUCH"
XII. LOST AND FOUND
XIII. "IF YOU AREN'T CROSS AND DISPLEASED"
XIV. A QUARREL AND A CRISIS
XV. "BUT I LOVE YOU"
XVI. INTERRUPTED SIGHT-SEEING
XVII. A DANGER AND A PROBLEM
XVIII. "CALL ME MOTHER--IF YOU CAN"
XIX. LILLIAN UNDERWOOD'S STORY
XX. LITTLE MISS SONNOT'S OPPORTUNITY
XXI. LIFE'S JOG-TROT AND A QUARREL
XXII. AN AMAZING DISCOVERY
XXIII. "BLUEBEARD'S CLOSET"
XXIV. A SUMMER OF HAPPINESS THAT ENDS IN FEAR
XXV. PLAYING THE GAME
XXVI. A VOICE THAT CARRIED FAR
XXVII. "HOW NEARLY I LOST YOU!"
XXVIII. A DARK NIGHT AND A TROUBLED DAWN
XXIX. "BUT YOU WILL NEVER KNOW--"
XXX. THE WEEKS THAT FOLLOWED
XXXI. A MYSTERIOUS STRANGER
XXXII. "THE DEAREST FRIEND I EVER HAD"
XXXIII. "MOTHER" GRAHAM HAS SOMETHING TO SAY
XXXIV. A MESSAGE FROM THE PAST
XXXV. THE WORD OF JACK
XXXVI. "AND YET--"
XXXVII. A CHANGE IN LILLIAN UNDERWOOD
XXXVIII. "NO--NURSE--JUST--LILLIAN"
XXXIX. HARRY CALLS TO SAY GOOD-BY
XL. MADGE FACES THE PAST AND HEARS A DOOR SOFTLY CLOSE
XLI. WHY DID DICKY GO?
XLII. DAYS THAT CREEP SLOWLY BY
XLIII. "TAKE ME HOME"
INTRODUCTION
Probably it is true that no two persons entertain precisely the same
view of marriage. If any two did, and one happened to be a man and the
other a woman, there would be many advantages in their exemplifying
the harmony by marrying each other--unless they had already married
some one else.
Sour-minded critics of life have said that the only persons who are
likely to understand what marriage ought to be are those who
have found it to be something else. Of course most of the foolish
criticisms of marriage are made by those who would find the same fault
with life itself. One man who was asked whether life was worth living,
answered that it depended on the liver. Thus, it has been pointed out
that marriage can be only as good as the persons who marry. This is
simply to say that a partnership is only as good as the partners.
"Revelations of a Wife" is a woman's confession. Marriage is so vital
a matter to a woman that when she writes about it she is always likely
to be in earnest. In this instance, the likelihood is borne out. Adele
Garrison has listened to the whisperings of her own heart. She has
done more. She has caught the wireless from a man's heart. And she has
poured the record into this story.
The woman of this story is only one kind of a woman, and the man
is only one kind of a man. But their experiences will touch the
consciousness--I was going to say the conscience--of every man or
woman who has either married or measured marriage, and we've all done
one or the other.
PIERRE RAVILLE.
Revelations of a Wife
I
"I WILL BE HAPPY! I WILL! I WILL!"
Today we were married.
I have said these words over and over to myself, and now I have
written them, and the written characters seem as strange to me as the
uttered words did. I cannot believe that I, Margaret Spencer, 27 years
old, I who laughed and sneered at marriage, justifying myself by the
tragedies and unhappiness of scores of my friends, I who have made for
myself a place in the world's work with an assured comfortable income,
have suddenly thrown all my theories to the winds and given myself
in marriage in as impetuous, unreasoning fashion as any foolish
schoolgirl.
I shall have to change a word in that last paragraph. I forgot that
I am no longer Margaret Spencer, but Margaret Graham, Mrs. Richard
Graham, or, more probably, Mrs. "Dicky" Graham. I don't believe
anybody in the world ever called Richard anything but "Dicky."
On the other hand, nobody but Richard ever called me anything shorter
than my own dignified name. I have been "Madge" to him almost ever
since I knew him.
Dear, dear Dicky! If I talked a hundred years I could not express the
difference between us in any better fashion. He is "Dicky" and I am
"Margaret."
He is downstairs now in the smoking room, impatiently humoring this
lifelong habit of mine to have one hour of the day all to myself.
My mother taught me this when I was a tiny girl. My "thinking hour,"
she called it, a time when I solved my small problems or pondered my
baby sins. All my life I have kept up the practice. And now I am going
to devote it to another request of the little mother who went away
from me forever last year.
"Margaret, darling," she said to me on the last day we ever talked
together, "some time you are going to marry--you do not think so now,
but you will--and how I wish I had time to warn you of all the hidden
rocks in your course! If I only had kept a record of those days of my
own unhappiness, you might learn to avoid the wretchedness that was
mine. Promise me that if you marry you will write down the problems
that confront you and your solution of them, so than when your own
baby girl comes to you and grows into womanhood she may be helped by
your experience."
Poor little mother! Her marriage with my father had been one of those
wretched tragedies, the knowledge of which frightens so many people
away from the altar. I have no memory of my father. I do not know
today whether he be living or dead. When I was 4 years old he ran away
with the woman who had been my mother's most intimate friend. All my
life has been warped by the knowledge. Even now, worshipping Dicky as
I do, I am wondering as I sit here, obeying my mother's last request,
whether or not an experience like hers will come to me.
A fine augury for our happiness when such thoughts as this can come to
me on my wedding day!
Dicky is an artist, with all the faults and all the lovable virtues
of his kind. A week ago I was a teacher, holding one of the most
desirable positions in the city schools. We met just six months ago,
two of the most unsuited people who could be thrown together. And
now we are married! Next week we begin housekeeping in a dear little
apartment near Dicky's studio.
Dicky has insisted that I give up my work, and against all my
convictions I have yielded to his wishes. But on my part I have
stipulated that I must be permitted to do the housework of our nest,
with the occasional help of a laundress. I will be no parasite wife
who neither helps her husband in or out of the home. But the little
devils must be busy laughing just now. I, who have hardly hung up
my own nightgown for years, and whose knowledge of housekeeping is
mightily near zero, am to try to make home happy and comfortable for
an artist! Poor Dicky!
I don't know what has come to me. I worship Dicky. He sweeps me off
my feet with his love, his vivid personality overpowers my more
commonplace self, but through all the bewildering intoxication of
my engagement and marriage a little mocking devil, a cool, cynical,
little devil, is constantly whispering in my ear: "You fool, you fool,
to imagine you can escape unhappiness! There is no such thing as a
happy marriage!"
Dicky has just 'phoned up from the smoking room to ask me if my hour
isn't up. How his voice clears away all the miasma of my miserable
thoughts! Please God, Dicky, I am going to lock up all my old ideas in
the most unused closet of my brain, and try my best to be a good wife
to you! I will be happy! I will! I WILL!
II
THE FIRST QUARREL
"I'll give you three guesses, Madge." Dicky stood just inside the door
of the living room, holding an immense parcel carefully wrapped. His
hat was on the back of his head, his eyes shining, his whole face
aglow with boyish mischief.
"It's for you, my first housekeeping present, that is needed in every
well regulated family," he burlesqued boastfully, "but you are not to
see it until we have something to eat, and you have guessed what it
is."
"I know it is something lovely, dear," I replied sedately, "but come
to your dinner. It is getting cold."
Dicky looked a trifle hurt as he followed me to the dining room. I
knew what he expected--enthusiastic curiosity and a demand for the
immediate opening of the parcel, I can imagine the pretty enthusiasm,
the caresses with which almost any other woman would have greeted a
bridegroom of two weeks with his first present.
But it's simply impossible for me to gush. I cannot express emotion of
any kind with the facility of most women. I worshipped my mother, but
I rarely kissed her or expressed my love for her in words. My love for
Dicky terrifies me sometimes, it is so strong, but I cannot go up
to him and offer him an unsolicited kiss or caress. Respond to his
caresses, yes! but offer them of my own volition, never! There is
something inside me that makes it an absolute impossibility.
"What's the menu, Madge? The beef again?"
Dicky's tone was mildly quizzical, his smile mischievous, but I
flushed hotly. He had touched a sore spot. The butcher had brought
me a huge slab of meat for my first dinner when I had timidly ordered
"rib roast," and with the aid of my mother's cook book and my own
smattering of cooking, my sole housewifely accomplishment, I had been
trying to disguise it for subsequent meals.
"This is positively its last appearance on any stage," I assured him,
trying to be gay. "Besides, it's a casserole, with rice, and I defy
you to detect whether the chief ingredient be fish, flesh or fowl."
"Casserole is usually my pet aversion," Dicky said solemnly. Look not
on the casserole when it is table d'hote, is one of the pet little
proverbs in my immediate set. Too much like Spanish steak and the
other good chances for ptomaines. But if you made it I'll tackle
it--if you have to call the ambulance in the next half-hour."
"Dicky, you surely do not think I would use meat that was doubtful,
do you?" I asked, horror-stricken. "Don't eat it. Wait and I'll fix up
some eggs for you."
Dicky rose stiffly, walked slowly around to my side of the table, and
gravely tapped my head in imitation of a phrenologist.
"Absolute depression where the bump called 'sense of humor' ought to
be. Too bad! Pretty creature, too. Cause her lots of trouble, in the
days to come," he chanted solemnly.
Then he bent and kissed me. "Don't be a goose, Madge," he admonished,
"and never, never take me seriously. I don't know the meaning of the
word. Come on, let's eat the thing-um bob. I'll bet it's delicious."
He uncovered the casserole and regarded the steaming contents
critically. "Smells scrumptious," he announced. "What's in the other?
Potatoes au gratin?" as he took off the cover of the other serving
dish. "Good! One of my favorites."
He piled a liberal portion on any plate and helped himself as
generously. He ate heartily of both dishes, ignoring or not noticing
that I scarcely touched either dish.
For I was fast lapsing into one of the moods which my little mother
used to call my "morbid streaks" and which she had vainly tried to
cure ever since I was a tiny girl.
Dicky didn't like my cooking! He was only pretending! Dicky was
disappointed in the way I received the announcement of his present!
Probably he soon would find me wanting in other things.
As I took our plates to the kitchen and brought on a lettuce and
tomato salad with a mayonnaise dressing over which I had toiled for an
hour, I was trying hard to choke back the tears.
When I brought on the baked apples which I had prepared with especial
care for dessert, Dick gave them one glance which to my oversensitive
mind looked disparaging. Then he pushed back his chair.
"Don't believe I want any dessert today. The rest of the dinner was so
good I ate too much of it. Eat yours and I'll undo your surprise."
"Whatever in the world?" I began as Dicky lifted the lid and revealed
a big Angora cat. Then my voice changed. "Why, Dicky, you don't
mean--" But Dicky was absorbed in lifting the cat out.
"Isn't she a beauty?" he said admiringly. But I was almost into the
dining room.
"I suppose she is," I replied faintly, "but surely you do not intend
her for me?"
"Why not?" Dicky's tone was sharper than I had ever heard it. He set
the cat down on the floor and she walked over to me. I pushed her away
gently with my foot as I replied:
"Because I dislike cats--intensely. Besides, you know cats are so
unsanitary, always carrying disease--"
"Oh, get out of it, Madge," Dicky interrupted. "Forget that scientific
foolishness you absorbed when you were school ma'aming. Besides, this
cat is a thoroughbred, never been outside the home where she was born
till now. Do you happen to know what this gift you are tossing aside
so nonchalantly would have cost if it hadn't been given me by a dear
friend? A cool two hundred, that's all. It seems to me you might try
to get over your prejudices, especially when I tell you that I am very
fond of cats and like to see them around."
Dicky's voice held a note of appeal, but I chose to ignore it. My
particular little devil must have sat at my elbow.
"I am sorry," I said coldly, "but really, I do not see why it is any
more incumbent on me to try to overcome my very real aversion to cats
than it is for you to try to do without their society."
"Very well," Dicky exclaimed angrily, turning toward the door. "If you
feel that way about it, there is nothing more to be said."
Then Dicky slammed the living room door behind him to emphasize his
words, went down the hall, slammed the apartment door and ran down the
steps.
Back in the living room, huddled up in the big chair which is the
chief pride of the woman who rents us the furnished apartment, I sat,
as angry as Dicky, and heartsick besides. Our first quarrel had come!
But the cat remained. What was I to do with her? There is no cure for
a quarrel like loneliness and reflection. Dicky had not been gone a
half-hour after our disagreement over the cat before I was wondering
how we both could have been so silly.
I thought it out carefully. I could see that Dicky was accustomed to
having his own way unquestioned. He had told me once that his mother
and sister had spoiled him, and I reflected that he evidently expected
me to go on in the same way.
On the other hand, I had been absolutely my own mistress for years,
the little mother in a way being more my child than I hers. Accustomed
to decide for myself every question of my life I had no desire,
neither had I intention of doing, any clinging vine act with Dicky
posing at the strong oak.
But I also had the common sense to see that there would be real issues
in our lives without wasting our ammunition over a cat. Then, too, the
remembrance of Dicky's happy face when he thought he was surprising me
tugged at my heart.
"If he wants a cat, a cat he shall have," I said to myself, and
calling my unwelcome guest to me with a resolute determination to do
my duty by the beast, no matter how distasteful the task, I was just
putting a saucer of milk in front of her when the door opened and
Dicky came in like a whirlwind.
"How do you wear sackcloth and ashes?" he cried, catching me in his
arms as he made the query. "If you've got any in the house bring 'em
along and I'll put them on. Seriously, girl, I'm awfully sorry I let
my temper out of its little cage. No nice thing getting angry at
your bride, because she doesn't like cats. I'll take the beast back
tomorrow."
"Indeed, you'll do no such thing," I protested. "You're not the only
one who is sorry, I made up my mind before you came back not only to
keep this cat, but to learn to like her."
Dicky kissed me. "You're a brick, sweetheart," he said heartily, "and
I've got a reward for you, a peace offering. Get on your frills, for
we're going to a first night. Sanders was called out of town, had the
tickets on his hands, and turned them over to me. Hurry up while I get
into my moonlights."
"Your what?" I was mystified.
"Evening clothes, goose." Dicky threw the words over his shoulder as
he took down the telephone receiver. "Can you dress in half an hour?
We have only that."
"I'll be ready."
As I closed the door of my room I heard Dicky ask for the number of
the taxicab company where he kept an account. Impulsively, I started
toward him to remonstrate against the extravagance, but stopped as I
heard the patter of rain against the windows.
"I'll leave this evening entirely in Dicky's hands," I resolved as I
began to dress.
III
KNOWN TO FAME AS LILLIAN GALE
Our taxi drew into the long line of motor cars before the theatre and
slowly crept up to the door. Dicky jumped out, raised his umbrella and
guided me into the lobby. It was filled with men and women, some in
elaborate evening dress, others in street garb. Some were going in
to their seats, others were gossiping with each other, still others
appeared to be waiting for friends.
The most conspicuous of all the women leaned against the wall and
gazed at others through a lorgnette which she handled as if she had
not long before been accustomed to its use. Her gown, a glaringly
cut one, was of scarlet chiffon over silk, and her brocaded cape was
half-slipping from her shoulder. Her hair was frankly dyed, and she
rouged outrageously.
I gazed at her fascinated. She typified to me everything that was
disagreeable. I have always disliked even being in the neighborhood
of her vulgar kind. What was my horror, then, to see her deliberately
smiling at me, then coming toward us with hand outstretched.
I realized the truth even before she spoke. It was not I at whom she
was smiling, but Dicky. She was Dicky's friend!
"Why, bless my soul, if it isn't the Dicky-bird," she cried so loudly
that everybody turned to look at us. She took my hand. "I suppose you
are the bride Dicky's been hiding away so jealously." She looked me up
and down as if I were on exhibition and turning to Dicky said. "Pretty
good taste, Dicky, but I don't imagine that your old friends will see
much of you from now on."
"That's where you're wrong, Lil," returned Dicky easily. "We're going
to have you all up some night soon."
"See that you do," she returned, tweaking his ear as we passed on to
our seats.
I had not spoken during the conversation. I had shaken the hand of the
woman and smiled at her.
But over and over again in my brain this question was revolving:
"Who is this unpleasant woman who calls my husband 'Dicky-bird,' and
who is called 'Lil' by him?"
But I love the very air of the theatre, so as Dicky and I sank into
the old-fashioned brocaded seats I resolutely put away from my mind
all disturbing thoughts of the woman in the lobby who appeared on such
good terms with my husband, and prepared to enjoy every moment of the
evening.
"Well done, Madge," Dicky whispered mischievously, as, after we had
been seated, I let my cloak drop from my shoulders without arising.
"You wriggled that off in the most approved manner."
"I ought to," I whispered back. "I've watched other women with envious
attention during all the lean years, when I wore tailor-mades to mill
and to meeting."
Dicky squeezed my hand under cover of the cloak. "No more lean years
for my girl if I can help it." he murmured earnestly.
Dicky appeared to know a number of people in the audience. A
half-dozen men and two or three women bowed to him. He told me about
each one. Two were dramatic critics, others artist and actor friends.
Each one's name was familiar to me through the newspapers.
"You'll know them all later, Madge," he said, and I felt a glow of
pleasure in the anticipation of meeting such interesting people.
Dicky opened his program, and I idly watched the people between me and
the stage. A few seats in front of us to the left I caught sight of
the woman who had claimed Dicky's acquaintance in the lobby. She
was signaling greetings to a number of acquaintances in a flamboyant
fashion. She would bow elaborately, then lift her hands together as if
shaking hands with the person she greeted.
"Who is she, Dicky?" I tried to make my voice careless. "I did not
catch her name when you introduced us."
"You'll probably see enough of her so you won't forget it," returned
Dicky, grinning. "She's one of the busiest little members of the
'Welcome to Our City Committee' in the set I train most with. She
won't rest till you've met all the boys and girls and been properly
lionized. She's one of the best little scouts going, and, if she'd cut
out the war paint and modulate that Comanche yell she calls her voice
there would be few women to equal her for brains or looks."
"But you haven't told me yet what her name is," I persisted.
"Well, in private life she's Mrs. Harry Underwood--that's Harry with
her--but she's better known all over the country as the cleverest
producer of illustrated jingles for advertising we have. Remember that
Simple Simon parody for the mincemeat advertisement we laughed over
some time ago, and I told you I knew the woman who did it? There she
is before you," and Dicky waved his hand grandiloquently.
"Lillian Gale!" I almost gasped the name.
"The same," rejoined Dicky, and turned again to his program, while I
sat in amazed horror, with all my oldtime theories crumbling around
me.
For I had read of Lillian Gale and her married troubles. I knew that
Harry Underwood was her second husband and that she had been divorced
from her first spouse after a scandal which has been aired quite fully
in the newspapers. She had not been proved guilty, but her skirts
certainly had been smirched by rumor. According to the ideas which had
been mine, Dicky should have shrunk from having me ever meet such a
woman, let alone planning to have me on terms of intimacy with her.
What should I do?
When the curtain went down on the first act I turned to Dicky happily,
eager to hear his comments and filled with a throng of thoughts to
wipe away any remembrance from his mind of the unhappiness that had
promised to mar my evening, and which I feared he had read in my
eyes. But just as I opened my lips to speak, he interrupted me with a
startled exclamation:
"Sit down, Lil. Hello, Harry."
Dicky was on his feet in an instant and Lillian Gale was seated next
to me with Dicky and her husband leaning over us before I had fully
realized that the woman, the thought of whom had so disturbed my
evening, was so close to me.
"I want you to know Mrs. Graham, Harry," Dicky said.
I glowed inwardly at the note of pride in his voice and looked up to
meet a pair of brilliant black eyes looking at me with an appraising
approval that grated. He was a tall, good looking chap, with an air of
ennui that sat oddly on his powerful frame. I felt sure that I would
like Lillian Gale's husband as little as I did the woman herself.
I was glad when the lights dimmed slowly, that the second act
was about to begin. Mrs. Underwood rose with a noisy rustling of
draperies. She evidently was one of those women who can do nothing
quietly, and turning to me said, cordially:
"Be sure to wait for us in the lobby when this is over. We have a
plan," and before I had time to reply she had rustled away to her own
seat, her tall husband following at some little distance behind her,
but apparently oblivious of her presence as if she were a stranger.
I didn't much enjoy the second act, even though I realized that it was
one of the best comedy scenes I had ever seen, both in its lines and
its acting; but I had a problem to settle, and I longed for the quiet
hour in my own room which my mother had trained me to take every day
since childhood.
Of course, I realized that Lillian Gale meant to have us join them for
a supper party after the theatre. The invitation would be given to
us in the lobby after the last act. Upon the way that I received that
invitation must depend my future conduct toward this woman. I could
not make one of the proposed party and afterward decline to know her.
My instincts all cried out to me to avoid Lillian Gale. She outraged
all my canons of good taste, although even through my prejudices I had
to admit there was something oddly attractive about her in spite of
her atrocious make-up.
But, on the other hand, she and her husband appeared to be on most
intimate terms with Dicky. Would I seriously offend him if I refused
to treat his friends with friendliness equal to that which they seemed
ready to shower upon me?
"Would you like to walk a bit, Madge?" Dicky's voice started me into a
recollection of my surroundings. I had been so absorbed in the problem
of whether I should or should not accept Lillian Gale as an intimate
friend that I did not know that the curtain had fallen on the second
act, nor did I know how the act had ended. My problem was still
unsolved. I welcomed the diversion of a turn in the fresher aid of the
lobby.
As we passed up the aisle I felt a sudden tug, then an ominous
ripping. The floating chiffon overdrapery of my gown had caught in
a seat. As Dicky bent to release me his face showed consternation.
Almost a length of the dainty fabric trailed on the floor.
I have schooled my self-repression for many a weary year. I feared my
gown, in which I had taken such pride, was ruined, but I would not let
any one know I cared about it. I gathered it up and smiled at Dicky.
"It really doesn't matter," I said. "If you'll leave me at the woman's
dressing room I think I can fix it up all right."
Dicky drew a relieved breath. His heartily murmured, "You're a
thoroughbred for sure, Madge," rewarded me for my composure. I was
just woman enough also to be comforted by the whispered comments of
two women who sat just behind the seat which caused the mischief.
"Isn't that a shame--that exquisite gown?" and the rejoinder. "But
isn't she game? I couldn't smile like that--I'd be crying my eyes out"
Dicky left me at the door of the dressing room, pressing a coin slyly
into my hand. "You'll tip the maid," he explained, and I blessed him
for his thoughtfulness. I had been too absorbed in my gown to think of
anything else.
An obsequious maid provided me with needle, thimble and thread. She
offered to mend the tear for me, but I had a horror of being made
conspicuous by her ministrations.
"If you'll let me have a chair in a corner I shall do very nicely,"
I told her, and was at once snugly ensconced near one of her mirrors
behind the very comfortable rampart of an enormously fat woman in an
exaggerated evening gown, who was devoting much pains and cosmetics
to her complexion. She looked as if she intended to remain at the
particular mirror all the intermission. I hoped she would stay there,
in spite the dagger's looks she was receiving from other complexion
repairers who coveted her place, for she was an effectual shield from
curious eyes.
To my joy I found that the gown was not ruined, and that it could be
repaired without much expense or trouble. Even the temporary mending I
was doing disguised the break. I was so interested in the mending that
I was completely lost to my surroundings, but the sound of a familiar
name brought me to with a jerk.
"Did you see the Dicky-bird and his marble bride?" A high-pitched yet
rather sweet voice asked the question, and a deep contralto answered
it.
"Yes, indeed, and I saw the way Lillian Gale was rushing them. For
my part I don't think that's quite clubby of Lil. Of course she's got
into the way of thinking she has a first mortgage on the Dicky-bird,
but she might give that beautiful bride a chance for her life before
she forecloses."
"What's the secret of Lil's attraction for Dicky Graham, anyway?" the
soprano voice queried. "She's a good seven years older than he is, and
both her past and her youth are rather frayed at the edges, you know."
"Oh! love's young dream, and the habit of long association," returned
the contralto. I've heard that Lil was Dicky's first love. She was a
stunner for looks 19 years ago, and Dicky was just young enough to be
swept off his feet."
"That must have been before Lil married that unspeakable Morten, the
fellow she divorced, wasn't it?" interrupted the soprano.
"Yes, it was," the contralto answered. "I don't know whether Dicky has
been half in love with Lil all these years or not, but he certainly
has been her best friend. And now comes the news of his marriage to
somebody the crowd never heard of."
"Well, I think Lil may say good-by to her Dicky-bird now," returned
the first speaker. "That bride is quite the prettiest piece of flesh
and blood I've seen for many days."
"She is all of that," agreed the other, "She holds all the best cards,
but you'll find she is too statuesque and dignified to play them.
I saw her face tonight when Lil was talking to her. She is not
accustomed to Lil's kind, and she does not like her friendship with
Dicky."
"You can't blame her for that," interrupted the soprano. "I am sure I
would not like to see my husband dancing attendance on Lillian Gale."
"No, of course not," the contralto replied; "but she will be just
fool enough to show Dicky her feelings, and Dicky, who is the soul of
loyalty to his friends, will resent her attitude and try to make it up
to Lil and Harry by being extra nice to them. It's too bad. But then,
these marble statue sort of women always sacrifice their love for
their pride or their fool notions or propriety."
"It will be as good as a play to watch the developments," the soprano
commented. "Come on, we'll be too late for the curtain."
I felt suddenly faint, and the room appeared to whirl around me. The
maid touched me on the arm.
"Are you ill, madame? Here!" and she held a glass of water to my lips.
I drank it and motioned her away.
"I'll be all right in a moment," I murmured. "Thank you, but I am
quite well."
So this was what marriage would mean to me, a contest with another
woman for my husband's love! A fierce anger took possession of me.
One moment I regretted my marriage to Dicky, the next I was fiercely
primitive as any savage woman in my desire to crush my rival. I could
have strangled Lillian Gale in that moment. Then common sense came
back to me. What was it that woman had said? I had all the best cards
in my hand? Well! I would play them. I felt sure that Dicky loved
me. I would not jeopardize that love for a temporary pride. I would
eliminate Lillian Gale from Dicky's life, but I would bide my time to
do it.
IV
DIVIDED OPINIONS
If anybody wishes an infallible recipe for taking the romance out
of life, I can recommend washing a pile of dishes which have been left
over from the day before, especially if there be among them a number
of greasy pots and pans. Restoring order to a badly cluttered room is
another glamour destroyer, but the first prize, I stoutly affirm, goes
to the dishes.
An especially aggravating collection of romance shatterers awaited
me the morning after our visit to the theatre, and my first encounter
with Lillian Gale.
Dicky took a hurried breakfast and rushed off to the studio, while I
spent a dreary forenoon washing the dishes and putting the apartment
to rights. I dreaded the discussion with Dicky at luncheon. I
had insisted before my marriage that I must either do most of the
housework, or keep up some of my old work to add to our income. To
have a maid, while I did nothing to justify my existence save keep
myself pretty and entertain Dicky, savored too much to me of the harem
favorite.
A mother of small children, a woman with a large house, one who had
old people to care for, or whose health was not good, was justified in
having help. But for me, well, strong, with a tiny apartment, and just
Dicky, to employ a maid without myself earning at least enough to pay
for the extra expense of having her--it was simply impossible. I had
been independent too long. The situation was galling.
The postman's ring interrupted my thoughts. I went to the door,
receiving a number of advertisements, a letter or two for Dicky, and
one, addressed in an unfamiliar handwriting, to myself. I opened it
and read it wonderingly.
"My dear Mrs. Graham:
"Our club is planning a course in history for the coming year. We need
an experienced conductor for the class, which will meet once a week.
Your name has been suggested to us as that of one who might be willing
to take up the work. The compensation will not be as large as that given
by the larger clubs for lectures, as we are a small organization, but I
do not think you will have to devote much of your time to the work
outside of the weekly meeting.
"Will you kindly let me know when I can meet you and talk this over with
you, if you decide to consider it?
"Yours very truly,
"HELEN BRAINERD SMITH,
"Secretary Lotus Study Club,
"215 West Washington Avenue."
Had the solution to my problem come? Armed with this I could talk to
Dicky at luncheon without any fears.
The receipt of the letter put me in a royal good humor. I did not care
how little the compensation was, although I knew it would be far more
than enough to pay the extra expense of having a maid, an expense
which I was determined to defray.
Teaching or lecturing upon historical subjects was child's play to
me. I had specialized in it, and had been counted one of the most
successful instructors in that branch in the city. Woman's club work
was new to me, but the husband of one of my friends had once conducted
such a course, and I knew I could get all the information I needed
from him.
I thought of Dicky's possible objections, but brushed the thought
aside. He had objected to my going on with my regular school work and
I realized that the hours which I would have been compelled to give to
that work would have conflicted seriously with our home life. But here
was something that would take me away from home so little.
* * * * *
"About that servant question," I began, after Dicky was comfortably
settled and smiling over his cigar. "I will employ one, a first-class,
really competent housekeeper, if you will make no objection to this."
I opened the letter and handed it to him. He read it through, his face
growing angrier at every line. When he had finished he threw it on the
floor.
"Well, I guess not," he exclaimed. "I know that club game; it's the
limit. There's nothing in it. They'll pay only a beggarly sum, and
you'll be tied to that same afternoon once a week for a year. Suppose
we had something we wanted to do on that day? We would have to let it
go hang."
"I suppose if we had something we wanted to do on a day when you had
a commission to execute you would leave your work and go," I answered
quietly.
"That's entirely different," returned Dicky. "I'm responsible for the
support of this family. You are not. All you have to do is to enjoy
yourself and make home comfortable for me."
We were interrupted by the door bell. Dicky went to the door while I
hastily dropped the portiers between the living room and the dining
room. I heard Dicky's deep voice in greeting.
"This is good of you, Lil," and Lillian Gale came into the room with
outstretched hand.
"Perhaps I shouldn't have come so soon," she said, "but you see I am
bound to know you, even if Dicky does spirit you away when we want you
to join us."
She threw him a laughing glance as she clasped my hand.
"I am so glad you have come," I said cordially, but inwardly I
fiercely resented her intrusion, as I deemed it.
But what was my horror to hear Dicky say casually:
"You've come at a most opportune time, Lil. Madge has had an offer
from some woman's club to do a lecturing stunt on history, her
specialty, you know, and she wants to take it. I wish you'd help me
persuade her out of it."
"I cannot imagine why we should trouble Mrs. Underwood with so
personal a matter," I heard myself saying faintly.
Mrs. Underwood laughed boisterously. "Why, I'm one of the family, my
dear child," she said heartily. Then she looked at me keenly.
"I might have known that one man would have no chance with two women,"
Dicky growled. His tone held capitulation. I knew I had won my battle.
But was it my victory or this woman's I so detested?
"Don't let this man bully you," she advised half-laughingly. "He's
perfectly capable of it. I know him. By all means accept the offer if
you think it's worth while. All these husbands are a bit archaic yet,
you know. They don't realize that women have joined the human race."
"Come, Dicky-bird," she rattled on as she saw his darkening face.
"Don't be silly. You'll have to give in. You're just 50 years behind
the times, you know."
During the remainder of Mrs. Underwood's brief call she ignored Dicky,
and devoted herself to me. There is no denying the fact that she has
great charm when she chooses to exercise it. Dicky, however, appeared
entirely oblivious of it, sitting in moody silence until she rose to
go.
"You ought to preserve that grouch," she carelessly advised, as he
stood holding the door open for her. "Carefully corked in a glass
jar, it ought to keep to be given to your grandchildren as a horrible
example."
Dicky grinned reluctantly and bowed low as she passed out of the room
with a cordial adieu to me, but no sooner had the door closed behind
her than he turned to me angrily.
"Look here, Madge," he exclaimed, "are you really in earnest about
taking that blasted position?"
"Why! of course I am," I answered. "It seems providential, coming
just as you insist upon having the maid. I can engage one with a clear
conscience now."
Dicky sprang to his feet with a muttered word that sounded
suspiciously like an oath, and began to walk rapidly up and down the
room, his hands behind his back, and his face dark with anger. Up
and down, up and down he paced, while I, sitting quietly in my chair,
waited, nerving myself for the scene I anticipated.
When it came, however, it surprised me with the turn it took. Dicky
stopped suddenly in his pacing, and coming swiftly over to me, dropped
on one knee beside my chair and put his arms around me.
"Sweetheart," he said softly, "I don't want to quarrel about this, nor
do I wish to be unreasonable about it. But, really, it means an awful lot
to me. I don't want you to do it. Won't you give it up for me?"
I returned Dicky's kiss, and held him tightly as I answered:
"Dear boy, I'll think it over very carefully. If I possibly can, I
will do as you wish. But, remember, I say if I can. I haven't made you
a definite promise yet."
"But you will, I know; that's my own dear girl. Good-by. I'll have to
rush back to the studio now."
Dicky's tone was light and confident as he rose. Life always has been
easy for Dicky. I heard him say once he never could remember the time
when he didn't get his own way.
V
"ALWAYS YOUR JACK"
As soon as Dicky had left the house I cleared away the dishes and
washed them and prepared a dessert for dinner. Then, finding the want
advertisements of the Sunday papers, I looked carefully through the
columns headed "Situations Wanted, Female."
I clipped the advertisements and fastened each neatly to a sheet of
notepaper. Then I wrote beneath each one: "Please call Thursday or
Friday. Ask for Mrs. Richard Graham, Apartment 4, 46 East Twenty-ninth
street."
I addressed the envelopes properly, inserted the answers in the
envelopes, sealed and stamped them, then ran out to the post box on
the corner with them. I walked back very slowly, for there was
nothing more that needed to be done, and I could put off no longer the
settling of my problem.
I locked the door of my room, pulled down the shade and, exchanging my
house dress for a comfortable negligee, lay down upon my bed to think
things out.
I tried to put myself in Dicky's place, and to understand his reasons
for objecting to my earning any money of my own. I sat upright in bed
as a thought flashed across my brain. Was that the reason? Were his
objections to this plan of mine what he pretended they were? Did he
really fear that I might have unpleasant publicity thrust upon me, and
that some of our pleasure plans might be spoiled by the weekly lecture
engagement? Or was he the type of man who could not bear his wife to
have money or plans or even thoughts which did not originate with him?
I resolved to find out just what motive was behind his objections. If
he were willing that I should try to earn money in some other way
I would gladly refuse this offer. But if he were opposed to my ever
having any income of my own the issue might as well come now as later.
A loud ringing at the doorbell awakened me.
For a moment I could not understand how I came to be in bed. Then
I remembered and throwing off my negligee and putting on a little
afternoon gown, I twisted up my hair into a careless knot and hurried
to the door. The ring had been the postman's. The afternoon newspapers
lay upon the floor. With them was a letter with my former name upon
it in a handwriting that I knew. It had been forwarded from my old
boarding house. The superscription looked queer to me, as if it were
the name of some one I had known long ago.
"Miss Margaret Spencer," and then, in the crabbed handwriting of my
dear old landlady, "care of Mrs. Richard Graham."
I opened the letter slowly. It bore a New Orleans heading, and a date
three days before.
"Dear little girl:
"A year is a long time between letters, isn't it? But you know I told
you when I left that the chances were Slim for getting a letter back
from the wild territory where I was going, and I found when I reached
there that 'slim' was hardly the word. I wrote you twice, but have
no hope that the letters ever reached you. But now I am back in God's
country, or shall be when I get North, and of course, my first line
is to you. I am writing this to the old place, knowing it will be
forwarded if you have left there.
"I shall be in New York two weeks from today, the 24th. Of course I
shall go to my old diggings. Telephone me there, so that I can see you
as soon as possible. I am looking forward to a real dinner, at a real
restaurant, with the realest girl in the world opposite me the first
day I strike New York, so get ready for me. I do hope you have been
well and as cheerful as possible. I know what a struggle this year
must have been for you.
"Till I see you, dear, always your
"JACK."
I finished the reading of the letter with mingled feelings of joy and
dismay. Joy was the stronger, however. Dear old Jack was safe at home.
But there were adjustments which I must make. I had my marriage to
explain to Jack, and Jack to explain to Dicky. Nothing but this letter
could have so revealed to me the strength of the infatuation for Dicky
which had swept me off my feet and resulted in my marriage after only
a six months' acquaintance. Reading it I realized that the memory of
Jack had been so pushed into the background during the past six months
that I never had thought to tell Dicky about him.
"You've made a great conquest," said Dicky that evening when we were
finishing dinner, "Lil thinks you're about the nicest little piece of
calico she has ever measured--those were her own words. She's planning
a frolic for the crowd some night at your convenience."
"That is awfully kind of her. Where did you see her." I prided myself
on my careless tone, but Dicky gave me a shrewd glance.
"Why, at the studio, of course. Her studio is on the same floor as
mine, you know. Atwood and Barker and she and I are all on one floor,
and we often have a dish of tea together when we are not rushed."
I busied myself with the coffee machine until I could control my
voice. How I hated these glimpses of the intimate friendship which
must exist between my husband and this woman!
"I suppose we ought to have them all over some night," I said at last,
"but I'll have to add a few things to our equipment, and wait until I
get a maid."
"That will be fine," Dicky assented cordially, pushing back his chair.
"Did the papers come? I'll look them over for a little. Whistle when
you're ready and I'll wipe the dishes for you."
He strolled into the living room, and I suddenly remembered that I
had laid my letter from Jack on the table, with its pages scattered so
that any one picking them up could not help seeing them.
I had forgotten all about the letter. I had meant to show it to Dicky
after I had explained about Jack. It was not quite the letter for a
bridegroom to find without expectation. I realized that.
I could not get the letter without attracting his attention. I waited,
every nerve tense, listening to the sounds in the next room. I heard
the rustling of the newspaper; then a sudden silence told me his
attention had been arrested by something. Would he read the letter? I
did not think so. I knew his sense of honor was too keen for that, but
I remembered that the last page with its signature was at the top of
the sheets as I laid them down. That was enough to make any loving
husband reflect a bit.
How would Dicky take it? I wondered. I was soon to know. I Heard
him crush the paper in his hand, then come quickly to the kitchen. I
pretended to be busy with the dishes, but he strode over to me, and
clutching me by the shoulder with a grip that hurt, thrust the letter
before my face, and said hoarsely:
"What does this mean?"
The last words of Jack's letter danced before my eyes, Dicky's hand
was shaking so.
"Till I see you, dear. Always Jack."
Dicky's face was not a pleasant sight. It repulsed and disgusted me.
Subconsciously I was contrasting the way in which he calmly expected
me to accept his friendship for Lillian Gale, and his behavior over
this letter. Five minutes earlier I would have explained to him fully.
I resolved now to put my friendship for Jack upon the same basis as
his for Mrs. Underwood.
So I looked at him coolly. "Have you read the letter?" I asked
quietly.
"You know I have not read the letter." he snarled. "It lay on the
papers. I could not help but see this--this--whatever it is," he
finished lamely, "and I have come straight to you for an explanation."
"Better read the letter," I advised quietly. "I give you full
permission."
I could have laughed at Dicky, if I had been less angry. He was so
like an angry, curious child in his eagerness to know everything about
Jack.
"You have no brother. Is this man a relative?"
"No," I returned demurely.
"An old lover then, I suppose a confident one, I should judge by the
tone of the letter. Won't it be too cruel a blow to him when he finds
his dear little girl is married?"
Dicky's tone fairly dripped with irony. "He will be surprised
certainly," I answered, "but as he never was my lover, I don't think
it will be any blow to him."
"Who is he, anyway? Why have you never told me about him? What does he
look like?"
Dicky fairly shot the questions at me. I turned and went into my room.
There I rummaged in a box of old photographs until I found two fairly
good likenesses of Jack. I carried them to the kitchen and put them in
Dicky's hands. He glared at them, then threw them on the table.
"Humph! Looks like a gorilla with the mumps," he growled. "Who is this
precious party, then, if he is not a lover or a relative?"
"He is an old and dear friend. His friendship means as much to me
as--well--say Lillian Gale's means to you."
Dicky stared at me a long, long look as if he had just discovered me.
Then he turned on his heel.
"Well, I'll be--" I did not find out what he would be, for he went out
and slammed the door.
I sat down to a humiliating half-hour's thought. It isn't a bad idea
at times to "loaf and invite your soul," and then cast up account with
it. My account looked pretty discouraging.
Dicky and I had been married a little over two weeks. Two weeks
of idiotically happy honeymooning, and then the last three days of
quarrels, reconciliations, jealousies, petty bickerings and the shadow
of real issues between us.
Was this marriage--heights of happiness, depths of despair, with the
humdrum of petty differences between?
VI
A MAID AND MODEL
The chiming of the clock an hour after Dicky had gone to the studio
after our little noon dinner next day warned me that I was not dressed
and that the cooks whose advertisements I had answered might call at
any minute. I dressed and arranged my hair. Just as I put in the last
hairpin the bell rang.
Two women, covertly eyeing each other with suspicion, stood in the
hallway when I opened the door. To my invitation to come in each
responded "Thank you," and the entrance of both was quiet. When they
sat down in the chairs I drew forward for them I mentally appraised
them for a moment.
One was a middle-aged woman of the strongly marked German type. Clean,
trig, grim, she spelled efficiency in every line of her body. The
other, a tall Polish girl, of perhaps 22, was also extremely neat, but
her pretty brown hair was blown around her face and her blue eyes were
fairly dancing with eagerness, in contrast to the stolid expression of
the other woman. As I faced them, the older woman compressed her lips
in a thin line, while the girl smiled at me in friendly fashion.
"You came in answer to the advertisements?" I queried.
The older woman silently held forth my letter and two or three other
papers pinned together. I saw that they were references written in
varying feminine chirography. Her silence was almost uncanny.
"Oh, yes, Misses," the Polish girl exclaimed. "I put my--what do you
call it? My--"
"Advertisement," I suggested, smiling. Her good-nature was infectious.