A trivial circumstance finally enlightened her as to the length and
breadth of the distance between them.
One morning at the breakfast table Cutter looked at his wife
appraisingly. They had been married eleven years. She was still pretty,
but it was a beauty maturing into a sort of serenity, no vivacity. She
had, in fact, a noble look. Stupid women do frequently get it. He had
long since made up his mind that Helen was, to say the least of it,
mentally prismatic. She had no elasticity of charm. Still he resolved
to risk her.
“Helen, Shippen gets in from New York this afternoon. I want to bring
him out here for dinner. Do you think you can manage it?” he asked.
“The dinner? Why, yes, of course, George,” she replied, having no
doubt about being able to manage a dinner. This Mr. Shippen could not
possibly be more exacting than George was himself.
“He is coming down to look at that pyrites mine I want to sell. We
are going to get into this war, and the Government is bound to need
pyrites. Shippen is tremendously rich, something of a sport, I imagine.
He was rather nice to me when I was in New York last month, introduced
me to a lot of men I need to know,” he explained. “So you must help me
out by doing your best,” he added significantly.
“I will, dear,” she assured him, still unperturbed.
This serene confidence disturbed him. He doubted if she could put
across the simplest meal in a correct manner. During the lifetime of
his mother, his father had entertained such out-of-town guests; but
these excellent parents had been dead for years. He was obliged to fall
back on Helen.
“You must do your best and look your best. You are lovely, you know.”
“Am I?” she asked, not coquettishly, but as if this was an opportunity
to assure herself about something which was causing her anxiety.
“Yes, of course, you are,” he returned in a matter-of-fact tone.
This was no time to get personal with his wife. He wanted her to do
something and do it well.
“Wear that gown I bought you from Madame Lily’s,” he suggested.
“Oh! must I?” she exclaimed as if she asked, Would it be as bad as that?
“The very thing, and wear the necklace.”
She said she would, but what she thought was that if she must dress
like this she could not stay in the kitchen and help Maria with the
dinner, and Maria was not to be trusted. She was “heavy handed” when it
came to salt, for example. Her chief concern was for the dinner, not
herself. She always missed her cue.
Nevertheless, Shippen had the shock of his swift life when he was
presented to Mrs. Cutter that evening.
The weather was very cold. A bright fire burned in the grate. A
chandelier of four lights overhead left scarcely a shadow in this
cheap little parlor. Everything in it glared. The white walls stared
you out of countenance. The golden-oak piano turned a broadside of
yellow brilliance across the flowered rug. The whatnot showed off.
The spindle-back sofa fairly twinkled varnish. Inanimate things can
sometimes produce the impression of tittering excitement. The furniture
in this pop-eyed room seemed to be expecting company. Only the two
mahogany armchairs on either side of the fireplace preserved their
gravity and indifference, as if they had been born and bred to be sat
in by the best people.
Shippen saw all this at a glance; at least he felt it without knowing
what ailed him. Later he was to quail in a sort of artistic anguish
beneath the cold, calm, crayon gaze of that excellent carpenter, the
late Sam Adams, whose portrait still hung above the mantel. And he was
to feel the colder, grimmer crayon eyes of the late Mrs. Mary Adams
piercing him between the shoulder blades from the opposite wall. But
that which riveted his attention this first moment when he entered the
room with Cutter was Mrs. Cutter.
She stood on the rug before the fire, a slim figure, but not tall. She
was wearing a cloth gown of the palest rose lavender, the bodice cut
low, fitting close to her white shoulders, lace on it somewhere like a
mist, a wildly disheveled bow of twisted black velvet that seemed to
strike at him, it was so vivid by contrast with all this gem paleness
of color. A necklace of opals, very small and bound together by the
thinnest thread of gold, with a pendant lay upon her breast. Her pale
blond hair was dressed simply, bound about her head like piety, not
a crown. No color in her skin, only the soft pink lips, sweetened
somehow by that pointed flute in the upper lip, long sweeping brows,
darker than her hair, spread like slender wings above the wide open
blue eyes, seeing all things gravely, neither asking nor giving
confidences.
“This is Mr. Shippen, Helen. My wife, Shippen,” George finished
cheerfully.
He had made a hasty survey of Helen. She would do, he decided, if only
she would go, move off, say the right thing.
Helen offered her hand. She was glad to meet Mr. Shippen.
He bowed over this hand, very glad, and so forth and so on.
She said something about the weather; he did not notice what she said
nor what he answered; something about the same weather of course. But
whatever he said had not released him from her gaze. She kept him
covered. Cutter had joined in with his feelings and opinion on the
weather. What was said made no difference. Shippen had to keep his eyes
down or running along the floor, not on Mrs. Cutter. Men do that when
they are startled or ill at ease with a woman, if they are uncertain
about where to place her in the category of her sex. Shippen was very
uncertain on this point. He had seen many a woman better gowned, more
beautiful, but never had he seen one with this winged look.
“Are we late?” Cutter asked, addressing his wife.
“No,” she answered briefly, as if words were an item with her.
“Well, anyhow we are hungry,” he laughed. “Took Shippen out for a
little winter golf. Links rotten after all this rain. No game. All we
got was an appetite.”
Shippen glanced at Cutter. For the first time he recognized Cutter.
Smart fellow, pipping his village shell. But, good heaven, this room!
Might have got further than this in his scenery.
He went on catching impressions. He felt very keen. It occurred to
him suddenly that Cutter’s wife was responsible for the room. This
fellow who could fly like a kite in the markets couldn’t fly here
or move or change anything. Odd situation. If this was her taste in
house furnishing, who chose her frock for her? She was dressed like a
fashionable woman, and she looked like a madonna; not virginal, but
awfully still like the image of something immortally removed. She gave
him a queer feeling. Still it was distinctly a sensation; he handed it
to her for that.
All this time Cutter was talking like a man covering some kind of
breach, laughing at the end of every sentence. He heard himself making
replies, also laughing. Nothing from Mrs. Cutter. He looked across at
her seated in the other mahogany chair, and dropped his eyes. Her gaze
was still fixed on him, no shadow of a smile on her face. He understood
why instantly. This was not mirth, this was laughter he and Cutter
were executing as people do when they make conversation. He was amazed
at this woman’s independence. She had nothing to say and said it in
silence. She heard nothing amusing, therefore she was not smiling. She
was not even embarrassed.
It all depends upon your experience and angle of vision what you see in
another person. This is why your husband may discover that some other
woman understands him better than you do. She knows him better than
you do because she knows more about men than you do. And if there is
anything that weakens the moral knees of a man quicker even than strong
drink, it is to feel the soothing flattery of being better understood
by another woman.
Precisely in this way Shippen understood Helen, and knew perfectly
that Cutter was not the man who could do it. She was invincible, he
saw that; stupid, he saw that. And he was enough of a connoisseur
in this matter to realize that intelligence would sully this lovely
thing. Merriment would be a facial transgression. She was that rare
and most mysterious of all creatures, a simply good woman without the
self-consciousness they usually feel in their virtues.
He kept on with these reflections during dinner, which was served
presently. He had no idea what kind of dinner it was. He was assembling
plans for a speculation. He had been successful in many lines besides
those involving money.
“You come to New York occasionally, don’t you, Mrs. Cutter?” he asked,
endeavoring to engage her in conversation.
“Not that often. I have been there only once,” she told him with a
faint smile. She had referred to her wedding journey without naming it.
At that time she and George had spent a week in New York.
“You liked it, of course?” Shippen went on.
“It is like a book with too many pages, too many illustrations, too
many quotations, isn’t it?” she evaded.
Shippen threw back his handsome black head and laughed.
Cutter shot a bright glance at his wife and joined in this applause.
He had no idea she could think anything as good as that to say. And she
could not have done so if he had asked the question.
“What I mean is that one must live there a long time before he could
know whether he liked it or not,” she explained.
“Well, I think you would,” he answered, meaning some flattery which she
did not get.
Having said so much, she had nothing else to say. The two men went on
with this discussion of New York life. Cutter was determined to let
Shippen know that he was no stranger to it--old stuff, such as brokers
and buyers get, under the impression that they are bounding up the
social ladder of the great metropolis. Shippen heard him give quite
frankly his café experiences, not omitting soubrettes. No harm in what
he was telling, of course, but as a rule men didn’t do it at home.
Once or twice he glanced at Mrs. Cutter, ready to come to heel, change
the subject if he saw the faintest shade of annoyance on her face.
There was no shade there at all, only a calm, clear look. And this look
was fixed on him as if he were a page she read out of the book of this
city. Apparently she was indifferent to what Cutter was saying. He
decided that she was not jealous of her husband.
He wondered if Cutter had the least conception of the kind of woman his
wife was. He thought not. Some day she would stand immovable in the
way of his ambitions, he decided. In that case what would Cutter do?
This was--well, it might prove very interesting. He went on speculating
personally along this line.
The reason why so many men try to climb Mount Everest is because they
cannot do it. Let even one reach the summit, and that exalted peak
has fallen into the hands of the tame geographers and scientists. It
becomes a business then, not an adventure, to chart those terrific
altitudes. For the same reason the most attractive woman to men is
the unattainable woman. Shippen found Mrs. Cutter attractive. He did
not analyze the reason why. It was not her beauty. He had had success
with far more beautiful women. He doubted his success here. Heavens!
To find a woman who could not be won! What an adventure. That steady,
unrevealing gaze in her blue eyes--what did it conceal? What did she
know? He doubted if she knew anything. That was it; she was something
real, not built up out of little knowledges, little virtues, spiced
with little vices, and finished like her furniture with the varnish of
feminine charms. What a noble change from the skittish kittens and the
secret viragoes and the mercenary starlings he had known.
It is astonishing what terrible things a man can be thinking, while he
looks at you frankly and laughs honestly and takes your food like a
brother. Certainly Cutter would have been astonished if he had known
what was passing through the mind of his guest as they talked and
laughed together at this table. But it is a question if Helen would
have been moved. She did not know this man, but she felt him like a
darkness, in no way personal to her, but there, with George frisking
around like an ambitious spark in this blackness. She was thinking of
George chiefly, interpreting him according to Shippen. It was a fearful
experience, and no one suspected her pain, because a woman can dig her
own grave and step down into it behind the look and the smile and the
duty she gives you, and it may be years before you discover that she is
gone.
All this is put in for the emotional reader who knows it is the truth,
and has probably felt the sod above herself, even while she is sadly
dressing beautifully for an evening’s pleasure with a husband who
has slain her or a lover whose perfidy has brought on these private
obsequies. But all such truth is unhealthy, like the failure of courage
in invalids. And in this particular I warn you that the fate of Helen
differs from your own. She died a few times, as the most valorous women
do; but she had a sublime instinct for surviving these incidental
passings.
Shortly after dinner Cutter took Shippen back to his hotel. They had
some affairs to discuss further before he should leave on the early
morning train. Cutter explained to Helen, because this was unusual. It
was his invariable habit to spend his evenings at home. He was a good
husband, according to the strictest law of the scribes and Pharisees,
so to speak. What I mean is that he was literally faithful to his wife,
though you may have suspected to the contrary. This is not the author’s
fault, but due to the evil culturing of your own mind. A man may be
faithful to his wife, and at the same time frisk through the night life
of a place like New York. He may be doing nothing worse than taking a
whiff and an eyeful of the naughty world, getting something to talk
about to the other fellows when he comes home. It is silly, but not
wicked, as you are inclined to believe. I do not know why it is that so
many respectable women are disposed to suspect the worst where men are
concerned; but it is a fact which even their pastors will not deny.
When Cutter came in that night Helen had retired. He turned on the
light. “Asleep, my dear?” he asked.
“No,” she replied in that tone a woman has when her voice sounds like
the nice, small voice of your conscience.
He came and sat down on the side of the bed, regarded her cheerfully,
like the messenger of good tidings. She lay very flat, hands folded
across her breast, face in repose, no expression, eyes wide open, a
state of self-consciousness bordering onto unconsciousness which women
sometimes sink into as a sort of last ditch.
Cutter was so elated about something he did not observe that his wife
was dying momentarily. He wanted to talk. He had something to tell her.
“You were splendid to-night, Helen,” he began.
She revived sufficiently to ask him if the dinner was “all right.”
“Dinner!” he exclaimed. “I scarcely noticed what we had to eat. You
took the shine off the dinner. You were stunning. Means a lot to a man
for his wife to--make good; sets him up. Shippen was impressed, I can
tell you that.”
Shippen! She did not speak the name, but her glance, slowly turned on
him, meant it.
“How did you like him?” he wanted to know.
“I did not like him,” she answered distinctly.
He stared at her. Her respiration was the same; her eyes coldly
impersonal. He sprang to his feet, kicked off his shoes, flung off his
clothes, snapped off the light and retired to the bitter frost of that
bed. He lay flat, clinched his hands across his breast and worked his
toes as if these toes were the claws of a particularly savage beast.
His chest rose and fell like bellows. His red brown eyes snapped in the
dark.
Helen was the antidote for success, he reflected furiously. She was the
medicine he had to take, a depressant that kept him down when he might
have been up. Just let him get the wind in his sails, and she reefed
him every time. He had been patient, leaving her to have her own way
when it was not his way. Hadn’t he lived in his own house with those
blamed Adams pictures glaring at him for nine years? Yet he had endured
them for Helen’s sake. And the druggets, and the very cast-off teacups
of Helen’s family.
Right now he was lying in old Mrs. Adams’ bed and had done so for nine
years, when he much preferred his own bed. He had tried to bring Helen
out, and she would not be moved. He had tried to dress her according
to her station in life, and she would not be dressed. He had humored
her in everything. But now when he had an opportunity, a big chance
which he could not take without her, she planted her feet as usual.
She obstructed him at every turn. She didn’t like Shippen. That showed
which way the wind would blow when he told her. And he had to tell her.
He could not move hand or foot without her. But, by heaven! if she
didn’t come across this time--
“George,” came a voice from the adjacent pillow.
“Umph!” he answered, startled out of finishing that threat he was about
to think.
“You asked me, or I should not have told you what I think of Mr.
Shippen. But since you want to know--”
“I don’t want to know. I am trying to get a little sleep. I’m tired,”
he interrupted.
“But since you ask,” she went on, “I think he is horrible. He reminds
me of the powers and principalities of darkness. He made my flesh
creep--”
“For the love of peace, Helen, stop. You know absolutely nothing about
him.”
“Yes, I do.”
“What?”
“I know that he is wicked.”
“How do you know?”
“I feel it.”
He snorted and turned over. He slept that night with his back to this
slanderer, who did not sleep at all.