_Dear Father_:
You want to know who's Helen Heath and what's what about her. Well, sir,
I can tell you right off the reel that she's the dearest girl on earth,
and that she has promised to be my life antidote against the hog trade.
She's the daughter of old General Heath, who hasn't a red cent to his
name, and she hasn't a prospect in the world other than that of being
your daughter-in-law, which is about as near to a settled fact as
anything this side of heaven. That's who she is and that's what's what.
But _what_ she is, I can't begin to tell you, and I don't believe you'd
care to read it if I did. I find that a year and a half in Graham & Co.
has sadly dulled my once radiant and classic vocabulary, and that the
things I want to say about Helen keep getting tainted with the aroma of
the trying-out vats and the smell of gloomy, gray sausages. It's no use,
father, love and pork packing never did go together and never will. And
you probably know without my telling you one article of food that will
never appear on my Helen's table.
But of course you do not need any rhapsody from me, for you know Helen
already, and you admit that she's a peach, which is a pretty extreme
thing for a man of your strength of mind to do. You say she treated you
like a father on the voyage home. She had her cue, and I'm glad to find
that our little game worked. Of course I wrote to London, where she has
been staying for a month or two, giving her a tip on the steamer you
were to take. I knew that if I broached the subject of Helen to you in
the regular, orthodox way, you would fly into a tantrum and swear that
no son of yours should ever marry the daughter of a penniless old lush
like the general, no matter how sweet and worthy she herself might be.
So I told Helen to get next you in a casual way, sparing no sugar in
the process. From what you say, I should think she had used molasses
instead, and if a man could reasonably be jealous of his own father,
you'd certainly be the Cassio of our little play.
Your observation that love in a flat with fifty a week isn't very bad,
is interesting and no doubt true, but it's open to correction. Suppose
we amend it by substituting the words "seventy-five" for "fifty," and
then pass it without a dissenting vote. And the house gives notice that
the governor need not object, because we shall certainly pass the bill
over his head if he does.
Of course, as you say, a wife doubles a man's expenses, but she doesn't
begin to increase them as a "best girl" does. I think that's why a good
many men marry young, especially those with a provident streak in them.
They want to get to saving money as soon as possible; flowers and candy
and books and theatres and carriages and suppers are pretty apt to
average more than rent, frugal board and modest clothes. Of course, my
wife is going to look decent, but there are a few things around which I
am going to draw a good strong line. I shall lay down the proposition
that a woman's hat ought not to cost more than four times what I pay for
mine, which lasts a good deal longer. However, I believe Helen has a
knack toward millinery which it will be well to encourage. If you tell
your wife she's artistic, she'll work her fingers off to prove it to
you.
I have some very decided ideas on the conduct of the matrimonial
partnership, and I propose to see that they are carried into effect. I
do not mean to be a martinet, but I've kept my eyes open at home and
abroad--especially at home--and I think I can say without egotism that I
know a thing or two about married life. There is always an easy way for
a man to be master in his own house. Although Dame Nature has not given
me the same physical handicap as Homer Aristotle Eaton, the stockbroker,
I fancy there is a good tip in his methods of home rule. Eaton, as you
know, is a very little man, and, by one of the freaks of Cupid, he is
married to a particularly fine specimen of the genus Amazon. Indeed,
when they go out driving together, their outfit looks like one of those
newspaper puzzle pictures: "find the missing man," you know.
But although Mrs. E. is a masterful sort of woman, whose look would seem
enough to annihilate the remaining sixteenth of their domestic unit, it
is common knowledge that Homer Aristotle Eaton is the boss of his family
ward. I used to think that this might be awe of the portentous name with
which his parents cursed him, but his junior partner, Giles Corey, let
the Angora out of the suit case the other night at a heart party--one of
those affairs where hearts are the souvenirs and the play is to get as
few of them as possible.
"Yes," said Giles, in a pause for refreshments, "Eaton's high card in
_his_ deck. He's pretty fussy and wants things his own way. And he's had
them so for his eleven years of married life."
"With that queenly woman!" cried one of the party.
"She could annihilate him with a look," said another.
"Ah, that's just it," was Giles' reply. "He don't give her a chance. You
see, fellows, it's this way. The first time, years ago, that there was a
difference between them, Eaton dropped the subject and came down town.
Two or three hours later he called Mrs. E. on the 'phone. He was in the
booth fully three-quarters of an hour and when he came out his face was
as red as a boiled lobster. But, as I happen to know, he won his point.
It was about inviting a certain man and his wife to dinner. Mrs. Eaton
objected because they were not in her set. Eaton wanted them because the
man was nibbling at his bait in a big deal. They went to the dinner."
As there were several married men in the gathering, Corey was bombarded
with questions as to his partner's secret. At last he said: "Well, I'll
tell you, if you'll never quote me as your authority."
As you, father, can be depended upon for secrecy, I am not violating
confidence.
"You see," said Corey, "Homer has a big bass voice and he could argue
the Sphynx out of the sand or a New Yorker out of his conceit. The
combination of voice and argument is irresistible--through the
telephone--and Mrs. Eaton always wilts when he's held the line for a few
minutes. Meek as Moses at home, he's a tyrant over his private wire. I
honestly think that he has Mrs. E. hypnotized and that the sound of his
ring puts her in a receptive mood. Homer confessed as much to me one day
when he said, 'Giles, my boy, the puny little man with a bass voice
finds his best friend in the telephone.'"
Although I am not in the light-weight class, and favor in voice Jean
rather than Edouard de Reszke, I think I can see a valuable suggestion
in the Homer-Aristotle-Eaton method. An argument conducted from a
distance certainly cannot end in woman's last resource and most potent
argument--tears. I trust you will not fancy that I anticipate any
domestic infelicity. I am only following your rule of being well
prepared for all emergencies. I certainly intend to be a kind, loving,
and--within my rights--pliable husband. Helen is a sweet-natured girl,
but I don't expect her to be all sugar-cane and molasses. She'll
scarcely equal in complacence the wife of a few very unhappy years, who,
when her friends advised her to leave the husband who neglected and
abused her, stood up in his defence and insisted that he was far kinder
than they thought.
"Why," she said, "it was only a few months ago that he celebrated the
anniversary of our marriage--our wooden wedding."
This was too much for her sister, who had spent several weeks with her
at the time, to stand. "Wooden wedding, indeed!" she cried; "the only
wooden wedding you had was when your brute of a husband came home and
knocked you down with a chair!"
It is surprising what a different thing the world becomes when a fellow
is in love. I don't want to be a silly ass just because the prettiest,
dearest girl on the footstool said "yes" instead of the "no" I really
deserved, but I must tell somebody how happy I am. If I had money enough
and was a sort of czar at whom people couldn't laugh without arrest for
_lese majeste_, I'd have all the church bells rung, fire salutes on the
lake front and send up balloons with Helen's name on 'em in twenty-seven
foot letters. Until I met Helen Heath I thought I should never marry; in
fact, I considered myself immune. But I hadn't seen her three times
before she had me under her thumb, and the minute a girl has a fellow
there, he, strangely enough, wants her hand. And I'm to have it and her
heart with it, and she--well, she's to have me and the fifty per that
you dole out to me. Occasionally I have the blues, declare that I'm not
fit for her and feel as I felt on the road when I finally buncoed some
confiding grocer to order a bill of our goods.
I'm in a pretty tough dilemma, anyway, and unless you help me out I'll
have difficulty in keeping my footing. When a fellow's head over heels
in love and up to his ears in debt, it's certainly time for somebody to
throw him a life-preserver. You, my dear father, can knock the cork
jackets off all the coastguards in the service in this particular branch
of the life-saving business, by just getting your fountain pen busy over
a check-book. And how you would be repaid! We--and ours--would bless you
far down the thundering ages. Think it over and cut your Boston visit
short. I'm afraid for you in the Hub, anyway. You are very likely to get
into trouble. Do you know, for instance, that it is believed by the best
Boston families that capital punishment is a very light penalty for
committing a solecism? Pray be careful. I do not wish to inherit through
a tragedy.
You will find me more serious than I used to be. Perhaps this is due in
part to my realization of the responsibility that I am about to assume
in the way of a father-in-law. General Heath is very friendly--indeed, I
may say that we are on a very intimate understanding. I have already
grown to know him so well that I am usually able to anticipate his
wishes--that is, when I have the price. I confess it _is_ hard work to
affect an interest in the story of the only battle in which he appears
to have participated, on hearing it for the fourteenth time. But every
rose has its thorn, and Helen Heath has the General. I have a friend or
two at Washington, and, as you have several more, perhaps between us we
shall be able to prove to him that republics are not always ungrateful.
I think a South American or Pacific Island consulate would express the
nation's gratitude with agreeable significance.
When I put a plain gold ring under the diamond that I gave Helen--and
which, I regret to say, is not yet paid for--I do not propose to marry
her distinguished but slightly disheveled pater. The constant recital of
that battle story might not destroy domestic felicity, but it would
certainly give it an unsettled feeling. You might send him on the road
if the government proves unmindful of its debt to him. He is fond of
travelling, and he could scarcely sell less goods than I did.
Of course, I'm glad you think Helen pretty and nice, but now that you
know my intentions I shall rely upon your sense of good taste and the
fitness of things to moderate your raptures. I agree with you that there
is nothing in the theory that two can live cheaper than one. I wouldn't
have one--that is, _the_ one--live on what I have been receiving since I
accepted a position with your house. I intend that my wife shall feel
that she is the real thing. While there are many signs to prove that
Helen is not extravagant--thanks to the General, she's had no
practice--she must not be pointed out on the street as your
daughter-in-law and comments made in this vein: "How can that rich John
Graham let her dress like that or live so!"
You will not allow that, I know, for, with all your abstruse theories
about economy and self-help, you'll appreciate that it is due to you to
see to it that your only daughter is a credit to you. It would be a
pretty bad advertisement for the business to have a dowdy
daughter-in-law living in a dowdy neighborhood, now wouldn't it? And if
we must be identified with the pork industry, there should be
compensation. But we can discuss these things better when we are face to
face.
Your enamoured son,
Pierrepont.
P.S. I'm so happy and at peace with all the world that if I thought it
would please him I'd invite Milligan to be my best man.
LETTER No. XX.
_Pierrepont's philosophy on matrimony is somewhat colored by the fact
that he is a Benedict and it is evident that henceforth he will be too
busy to write letters._