“A man’s reach should exceed his grasp.”
—ROBERT BROWNING.
GLADYS was desperately unhappy. She had got what she wanted, and that,
unfortunately, is frequently what follows. The unscrupulous get much,
but they lose more; and Gladys, who had won her heart’s desire, sitting
in a beautifully furnished room before the photograph of the husband she
adored, was weeping bitterly. From the first day of their marriage jars
had arisen. He was hopelessly selfish about his personal comforts, but
he had a certain tremendous code of honor of the sort that abhors a lie
and connives at a betrayal. Gladys was given to frequent fibbing. He had
been disgusted, and had not hidden it; she had been spiteful and
pointedly malicious. Little bitter unspoken things rose up as their eyes
met. Their honeymoon had not been a success. (An exacting woman and a
selfish man should avoid honeymoons.)
Their home-coming was scarcely more so. They were both very extravagant
in different directions, and they had no patience for each other’s
extravagances and no self-denial for their own; they were weak and
obstinate over trifles. Gladys was extremely demonstrative and fond of
talking; Jack cared very little for outward expressions of feeling, and
preferred women who could hold their tongues. He was perfectly frank,
and paid all his compliments to other women. Gladys lived on admiration,
and if she could not get it from the man who ought to give it to her,
she would try to draw it from the man who would. She found this very
easy. A good many of her husband’s brother officers admired her, and one
of them, a Major Kennedy, frequently told her so.
She was crying bitterly now over a note that lay on her lap. It was an
invitation to a dinner from Edith le Mentier to meet Major Kennedy. It
mentioned her husband in a way that brought the angry color to her
cheeks. She was beginning to understand, and the tears dried. She
thought of what Major Kennedy had said of the way to treat husbands:
“Give ’em a little wholesome indifference, and look round you; that’s
the way to whistle ’em back!”
After all, a woman might have a good deal of fun without any harm coming
from it. Lots of married women did. Look at Edith le Mentier for
instance—hateful thing! Yet no one could doubt that her husband was
devoted to her—and other women’s husbands too! Her eyes flashed as she
thought of Jack. She stamped her foot. “I’ll pay them both out!” she
cried, and she accepted Edith le Mentier’s “delightful invitation.”
Muriel called on Mrs. Hurstly later in the season. There was a moment’s
silence as the two women met. The room so daintily and beautifully
furnished seemed filled with memories. Their eyes were drawn together to
the photograph of Jack Hurstly in uniform. It was a curious coincidence
that he had given to his wife the very photograph Muriel had returned to
him. It was the only copy. Muriel withdrew her hand and sat down with
her back to the photograph.
“And are you going to live in London?” she asked Gladys, studying the
girl’s face, the defiant sad eyes and peevish mouth, the fretful
restlessness of the dainty figure. Pity was killing the last traces of
her disappointment in her. Gladys returned her gaze curiously; she was
thinking how becoming black was to Muriel.
“Oh, yes!” she said; “I suppose we shall practically live here. I hate
the country, you know, except for house-parties, and Jack’s estate is
particularly dreary, I think. I hate ‘estates,’ they’re like
appropriated pews, one always wants to sit somewhere else! Have you
given up your club craze yet? Your uncle’s death must have made a lot of
difference to you?” Muriel smiled.
“If you mean am I horribly rich? I’ll admit it, but it will make the
‘club craze’ flourish more than ever, I expect. I have bought up three
houses in Stepney and turned them into one for a settlement of workers.
I am making arrangements now to enlarge the club, and in two or three
weeks I shall go back to it.” There was a slight pause. Gladys played
with some violets in a stand. “Are you quite happy?” said Muriel at last
very gently. “I hope, dear, you are quite happy?” It appeared to Gladys
absurd to suppose she could possibly mean it, yet the tone sounded
sincere.
“Happy?—of course we are! Why we have only been married a few months,
and Jack has discovered I wear my own hair and keep my own complexion,
and I am reassured as to the harmlessness of his habits and the extent
of his income. What more can one ask?”
“Those in themselves might add to your unhappiness if you were so
already, but they could scarcely succeed in _making_ you happy, I am
afraid,” said Muriel quietly.
“Wouldn’t _you_ be happy with—Jack?” questioned Gladys. Sorrow, if it
doesn’t increase tenderness, tends to brutality. Muriel met her eyes
calmly.
“No,” she said slowly, “I do not think I should be quite happy—with
Jack.” She did not refer to their broken engagement. Gladys expected her
to, and was touched.
“It was horrid of me to say that,” she said, “if you still care for him,
and rude of me if you don’t.”
“I don’t think you either rude or horrid,” said Muriel quietly, “only
not quite happy. I am very sorry for you, dear, because, though I don’t
care for Jack as I did, he made me very miserable once.” Gladys pulled
two violets to pieces on her lap. Muriel shivered; she hated wanton
destruction of anything, and she loved flowers.
“I have behaved very badly to you,” said Gladys at last in a low voice.
“It was I that helped Edith le Mentier make trouble between you and
Jack.”
“You loved him so?” asked Muriel gently. Gladys burst into tears.
“I don’t know why you should treat me like this,” she sobbed, “for I did
my best to ruin your life, and I would again to get—Jack!” Muriel took
her in her arms; all her old love and pity returned to her.
“It would make no difference to me if you did,” said Muriel; “I should
only be sorry for you. Tell me what’s the matter?”
“He doesn’t care! he doesn’t care!” she wailed. “I don’t believe he ever
did, and now he’s gone back to that hateful woman again. Why shouldn’t
_I_ amuse myself if I want to? He doesn’t love me, and—and other people
do!” Muriel’s face grew stern with pain. If she had wished for revenge
it was at her feet, but with all her soul she sorrowed for the wreckage
of two lives.
“I don’t think you are quite yourself,” she said. “If you love Jack, you
know he is the only other person there is. He must have cared for you as
well, or he wouldn’t have married you, dear. So put the other people
quite away, and smile, and wear your prettiest clothes. You will find
Mrs. le Mentier quite a secondary consideration. Why, she isn’t even
pretty! Jack only goes to see her because you won’t be nice to him. Now
have you been quite nice to him? Given up yourself in all the little
ways, that he might give himself up to you in the great ways? Remember
men are like children: you must put their toys away, and bring them out
again at the right times, and not fret them about unnecessary things.
Now, put on some of the dear violets and come home to tea with me!”
Gladys looked at her suspiciously. Muriel laughed. “There’s nothing I
want to get out of you!” she cried; “and you are no use to me whatever.
_Now_, will you come?” Gladys had the grace to blush; an impulse to
trust the girl she had wronged moved her. She gave her a letter to read
and went out of the room to get her things on. Muriel read the letter
standing, then she went to the window and sat down.
She felt very tired. It is not so much of a surprise to find the
outwardly barbarous with angel hearts, as to see the delicate and
finished products of a noble civilization inwardly corrupt. The letter
was from Major Kennedy. There are times when conditional immortality
seems the only safeguard of heaven. Muriel felt too miserable almost to
breathe. There come moments in the brightest lives of blank depression.
The greatest effort she ever made was to take Gladys back to tea with
her. That evening Jack Hurstly dined at home, and his wife burned an
unanswered letter.