THE HOUSE WONDERFUL.
And the bear's skin was tanned with the glossy black fur still upon it,
the head with the white-fanged jaws still attached and made natural
with all the skill of an artist in such things, and it lay, a great,
soft, black rug, upon a couch in the House Wonderful, or, at least, the
house to which Harlson gave that name. It seemed to him the House
Wonderful, indeed.
Therein was held all there was in the world for him, and he was
satisfied with it all, and content, save that he felt, at seasons, how
little man is worthy of the happiness which may come to him sometimes,
even in this world. Yet it was not all poetry in the House Wonderful;
there were many practical happenings, and many droll ones.
The House Wonderful, it is needless to say, was in the city. The
bear-skin was but one of many such soft trophies of the chase which
were spread upon the floors or upon soft lounges and divans. Over this
particular skin there was much said, at times, when there were guests.
Jean would explain to some curious person, that she herself had shot
the original wearer of the skin, and that her husband was up a tree at
the time, and there would be odd looks, and he would explain nothing,
and then she, woman-like, must needs spoil the mystery by telling all
about it, as if any one would not comprehend some jest in the matter!
It was a home of rugs and books, and very restful. I liked to go
there, where they both spoiled me, and where the softness and the
perfume of it all made me useless and dissatisfied after I had come
away. There is no reason in the average man. But in the Eden was one
great serpent--not a real serpent, but a glittering one, like the toy
snakes sold at Christmas time.
There is some weakness in our American training of girls. Visibly and
certainly the woman who marries a man engages herself to conduct his
household--to relieve him of all troubles there--because he is the
bread-winner. But very few girls seem trained with such idea, though
all girls look forward to a marriage and such mutually helpful compact
between two human beings. It is, of course, the fault of a social
growth, the fault of mothers, the fault of many conditions. And Jean
did not know how to cook! She was a woman of keen intelligence, of all
sweetness and all faithfulness, yet she found herself almost helpless
when she became the chatelaine of the castle where Grant was to come to
dinner.
It is needless to tell of all that happened. The woman was adroit in
the engagement of domestics, and there were dinners certainly, and,
possibly, good ones, but the knowingness of it all was wanting. He
felt it, and wondered a little, but did not fret. He knew the woman.
One evening they were together, after dinner again, just as they had
been when he told her he would take her to the woods, and she lay
coiled up upon a divan, while he sat beside her. It was their
after-dinner way. She spoke up abruptly and very bravely:
"Grant, I'm a humbug."
"Certainly, dear; what of it?"
"I mean--and it's something serious--I really am, you know, and I want
to tell you."
"Go ahead, midget."
She did not seem altogether reassured, but plunged in gallantly:
"You thought I would be a good wife to you. You thought I knew
everything a woman should know who agreed to live together with the man
she loved, and make the most of life. But, Grant, I was and am really
a humbug! I don't know how to manage a house; I have to leave it to
the servants, and I can see enough, at least, to know that it isn't
what it should be. There are a thousand little fancies of yours I
don't know how to gratify, and I want to do it so, Grant! What shall I
do?"
He responded by saying that he was very fond of his little Dora
Copperfield and that he would buy her a poodle dog. He added, though,
that she mustn't die--he needed her!
There was a laugh in his eyes, and he was but the tyrant man enjoying
the discomfort of the one being to him; but when she curled a little
closer and looked up in earnestness, he relented.
"That is nothing, dear," he said, "save that I'm afraid you have a
little work ahead. Yes, it is right that you should know what you do
not. You must learn. It is nothing for a clever woman, such as the
one I have gained. I look to you, love, for the home and all the
sweetness of it, and I wouldn't do that if I did not think that in the
end there would be all pride and comfort for you. Down East they call
this or that woman 'house-proud.' I want you to be 'house-proud.' No
wife who is that but is doing very much for all about her, and I won't
say any more, except that you must let me help you."
And thenceforth ensued strange things. There were experiments, and
there was even a cooking-school episode, Harlson, at this period,
professing great weariness, and sometimes, after meals, simulating
pains which required much attention, though drugs were vigorously
refused. All he wanted was strictly personal care. It is to be feared
that he was not honest as to details, though honest as a whole. And he
would go marketing with the brown woman, who had become so practical,
and they became critical together, and the gourmands, wise old men
about town, whom he brought, occasionally, to dine with him, began to
wonder how it was that they found such perfection at a private table.
And, as for the woman, well, she passed so far beyond her clumsy Mentor
that he became but as the babe which doesn't know, and had nothing to
say in her august presence. He might talk about a cheese or a wine or
some such trifle, but how small a portion of living are cheese and wine!
The first year of wedded life is experimental, though it be with the
pair best mated since the world began. There is an unconscious
dropping of all surface traits and all disguises, and a showing of
heart and brain to the one other. Never lived the woman so
self-contained and tactful that, at the end of a year, her husband, if
he were a man of ordinary intelligence, did not know her for what she
was worth; never the man so thoughtful and discreet that he was not
estimated at his value by the one so near him. This I have been told
by men and women who should know. I lack the trial which should give
wisdom to myself, but I am inclined to accept the dictum of these
others. It must be so, from force of circumstances.
It was pleasant to me to watch this man and woman. It seemed to me
that the hard lines in Grant Harlson's face became, week by week and
month by month, less harshly and clearly defined, while upon the face
of his wife grew that new look of a content and ownership which marks
the woman who sleeps in some man's arms, the one who owns her--the same
look which Grant, with his broader experience and keener insight, used
to recognize when he puzzled me so in telling whimsically, in the
street cars, who were wedded, without looking at their rings. It may
have been a fancy, but it seemed to me the two grew very much to look
alike. It was in no feature, in nothing I can describe, but in
something beyond words, in a certain way which cannot be defined. It
may have been but the unconscious imitation by each of some trick of
the other's speech, or manner, but it appeared a deeper thing. I
cannot explain it.
They were not much apart, those two. Sometimes Harlson would be called
away by some business or political emergency, and then would occur what
impressed me as a silly thing, deeply as I cared, for each. He would
get railroad tickets for two, and they would go riotously across the
country, playing at keeping house in a state-room, and enjoying
themselves beyond all reason. I explained often to each of them that
it wasn't fair to the other; that he could attend to business better in
some distant city without having to report to her at a hotel, and that
it would be more comfortable for her in her own fair home; and the two
idiots would but laugh at me.
The library was their fad together, for Jean was as much of a
bibliomaniac, almost, as was her husband, and I confess I enjoyed
myself amid the rich collection, made without precedent or reason, but,
somehow, wonderfully attractive. They were whimsical, the pair, with
books as with regard to other things, but the few who might invade
their library were inclined to linger there. I always found a mingled
odor there of cigar-smoke and of some perfume which Jean preferred, and
I learned to like the combination. Maybe that was a perverted
taste,--cigar-smoke and delicate perfumes are not consorted in the code
of odor-lovers,--but, as I say, I learned to like it.
I have but little more to tell of this first wedded year of my dear
friends. One incident I may relate. It occurred less than a year from
the date of the outing in the woods. There were relations each of the
two should meet, and he was very busy with many things, and it was,
finally, after much thought, decided that Jean should go her way and he
his for two long weeks; so they bade good-by to each other and left the
city, in different directions, the same day.
It was just four days later when I got a note asking me to call at the
house. It was from Jean, and she was a little shame-faced when she met
me. Certain business complications had arisen in Grant's absence to
which I might attend, and it was for this that she had summoned me; but
she had an explanation to make. She did it, blushing.
"I went to my people, Alf," she said, "but it palled in a couple of
days. That is all. I'd rather be here alone, where he has been, and
await him here, than be anywhere else. It's foolish, of course, but
you, who know us both so well, may possibly understand." And she
blushed more than ever.
The next day there stalked into my office a man who asked me to lunch.
It was Grant Harlson. There was a quizzical look on his face, and a
rather happy one.
"I won't tell you anything, old man," he said. "I was only a few hours
behind the girl. That's all. I suppose we might as well keep up the
fool record we have begun. It suits me, anyhow."
And a single man, knowing nothing about such things, could give no
opinion. I was abusive and sarcastic, but he insisted on buying a
great luncheon.