and love that dear little Nellie Mayo and those blessed babies. Ruth,
there is a Damocles sword hanging over that nest of birds, and it is
liable to fall at any moment. Oh, it has weighed on my heart like lead
ever since I discovered the secret. I know you don't like Frank Mayo, but
you will despise him when I tell you the mischief he is up to, and that
poor little wife of his trusting him as if he were an archangel. Oh, he
is common, Ruth, and horrid, and if it is ever found out it will kill
Nellie. But he is carrying on dreadfully with a soubrette in New York. He
is wasting his money on her--and you know he has none to spare--and seems
to be infatuated with her; while she, of course, is only using him to
advertise herself. In fact, that is how I found it out. Payson is in a
syndicate which is trying to buy one of those up-town theatres in New York
and turn it into something else; I forget just what they want to do with
it, but any way, he came in contact with the manager of the theatre where
this woman was playing. He gave them a dinner and afterwards they occupied
his box, and while this woman was on the stage her manager told how some
man was causing nightly sensations by the flowers he sent her, and he said
that he--her manager--thought he would have it written up for the papers
to advertise her before she started out on her tour. He said the man was
making a fool of himself, but the actress didn't care, and when he pointed
out the fellow to them, Payson saw to his horror that it was Frank Mayo.
He didn't say a word before the other gentlemen, but the next day he went
to the manager and begged him to advertise the woman in some other way. He
told him who Frank was and all about his poor little wife and the
children, and the manager, who seems to be a good hearted man, said it was
a shame and promised not to allow it. He even went so far as to offer to
speak to the actress herself and request her to refuse to be interviewed
on the subject. So Payson came home quite relieved. But the next time he
saw the manager Payson asked him how things were going, and he said worse
than ever as far as Frank himself was concerned, and he added that when he
mentioned the subject to the actress she tossed her head and said Mayo
must take care of himself.
"Then I thought I would do what I could to introduce him into society
here, for you know he is ambitious in that line, and perhaps I might get
him away from the creature. So I gave that whole thing yesterday for the
Mayo family, with what result you know, except that I haven't told you
that the presumptuous dolt made love mawkishly to me all the evening.
Yes, actually! Did you ever hear of such impertinence? Oh, the man is
simply insufferable, Ruth.
"Now, what I am constantly afraid of is that it will get into the papers
after all. I read them, I fairly study them, so that it shall not escape
me; but, if it does come out, what shall we do for Nellie? It will break
her heart."
I looked at Sallie with gnawing conscience that I had ever called her
lawn fête the climax of frivolity. The dear little soul! who would have
suspected that she had such a worthy motive for her ball? But, do you
know, sometimes in fashionable life we catch a glimpse of the
simple-minded, homely kindliness which we are taught to believe exists
only among horny-handed farmers, rough miners, and hardy mountaineers.
"Sallie, dear child," I said, "I beg your pardon for not knowing how noble
you are."
"Noble? I? Sallie Cox? Now, nobody except Payson ever hinted at such a
thing, and I hushed him up instantly. No, Ruth, it was nothing. I dare say
Rachel or you would have thought of some grand project which would have
been effectual, but _I_ couldn't think of anything to do but to tickle his
vanity by making him the guest of honor at the best affair of the season."
"Indeed, I think neither Rachel nor I could have thought of anything so
sure to captivate a shallow mortal like Frank Mayo."
"Set a thief to catch a thief," said Sallie merrily. "I'm shallow myself,
_I_ knew how it would feel to have such a fine thing given for me. My
dear, if the ball were only fine enough it would cure a broken heart."
"Not if the heart were really broken, Sallie."
"Well, you must admit that it would help _some_," she said whimsically.
And so she went away and left the burden upon me. Then I, too, fell to
devouring the papers, as I knew Sallie was doing with me. I went more than
ever to the little brown house which lay in such peril, and I never saw
Nellie with a paper in her hand that I did not shudder.
At last the thing we so dreaded came to pass. In the evening paper there
was quite a sensational account of it. Thank Heaven, no name was given;
but alas, the description of him, of his wife and five little children,
was unmistakable. I felt as though I had sat still and watched a cat kill
a bird. It was raining, not hard, but drearily, and the dead leaves
fluttered against the windows as the chill wind blew them from where they
clung. I was lonesome, and the autumn evening intensified my feelings. I
glanced over to where a red glow came from Nellie's windows. I fancied her
sitting there with the paper in her hand, as she always did in the one
spare moment of her busy day, with her heart crushed by the news. She
would be alone, too, for Frank was out of town. Poor child! Poor child! I
started up and decided to go and see her. If she didn't want me I could
come back, but what if she did want me and I was not there?
I found her sitting, as I had expected, alone. The paper, with the fatal
page uppermost, lay in her lap, as if she had read it and laid it down.
There was only the firelight in the room.
"Come in, dear," she said gladly. "I was just thinking of you and
wondering if such weather did not make you blue. Sit down here by the
fire. It was sweet of you to come in the rain."
She searched my distressed face anxiously as she spoke. I made no reply.
My heart was too full at being comforted when I had come to comfort. As I
sat on a low stool at her side she seemed to divine my mood, for she drew
my head against her knee with a mother touch, and threaded my hair with a
mother hand, and pressed down my eyelids as I have seen her do when she
puts her baby to sleep. And though she must have felt the tears come, she
did not appear to know.
"Dear Ruth," she said, "I have been sitting here thinking about you, and
wondering if you were satisfied, such a loving heart as you have, to face
the rest of your life without the love you deserve. You won't be vexed
with me for speaking of it to you, for you know I am so old-fashioned that
I think love is the only thing in this world worth having. It is all that
I live for. Of course my children love me, but, until they grow older,
theirs is only an instinctive love. It isn't like the love of a husband,
which singles you out of all the other countless women in the world to be
his and only his forever. There is power enough in that thought to nerve
the weakest woman to do a giant's task. The mere fact that you are all in
all, the _only_ woman, to the man you so dearly love, the one person who
can make his world; when you think that your being away from one meal or
out of the house when he comes in will make him miss you till his heart
aches--this will keep down a moan of pain when it is almost beyond
bearing, for fear it might cause him to suffer with you; it will nerve
you to stand up and smile into his eyes when you are ready to drop with
exhaustion. Love, such as a husband's love for his wife, is the most
precious, the most supporting thing a woman can have. You never hear me
talk much about my husband, but he is all this and more to me. I cannot
begin to tell you about it. I read about unhappy marriages--why, I read
a dreadful thing to-night in the paper, which set me to thinking how safe
and happy I am, and how thankful I ought to be that I can trust my
husband so. It was about a man who was unfaithful to his wife, and they
had five children just as we have. I know such things do occur, but how or
why is a mystery to me. I hope I am not too hard when I say that in such a
case it must be the wife's fault. Surely if she had been a good wife, an
unselfish and loving wife, he could not have been enticed away. Poor
thing! I wonder how she felt when she heard it. Probably she wouldn't
believe it. Probably she had too much faith in him. You shake your head.
Why, Ruth, you dear thing, you don't know anything about it. A wife
_couldn't_ believe such a thing. Why, I wouldn't believe it if told by an
angel from heaven. But then my husband is so dear to me. I do sometimes
wonder if all women care as much for their husbands as I do for mine. Do
you know, dear, I think about you so much. I know that there have been
several hearts in which you have reigned, and yet you have not cared. But
the true love, the right lover, has not come, or you could not have passed
him by. He is waiting for you; somewhere, somehow, he will come to you, I
am sure, and you will know then that you have belonged to each other all
this time; that this love has been coming down the ages from eternity for
just you two. You will not refuse it then. Why, I could never have refused
to marry Frank when I found that I was as much to him as he was to me! He
is so handsome, so good. I shall never cease to thank God that He made him
turn aside into the quiet places to find me. But, in spite of all this,
you know I don't think he is perfect. He doesn't care for books as much
as I wish he did. He has no ear for music, and he cannot tell a story
straight to save his life, the dear boy! Love does not blind my eyes, but
this is what it does do. It makes me overlook in him what would annoy me
in others. When, at that beautiful dinner of Mrs. Osborne's, Frank told
those stories of his that I've heard for years, I don't think any one
cared to hear them except Mr. Beck and me. I knew they were not well told,
but it was my husband who was telling them, and I could listen to his
voice, even if I couldn't sit next him.
"How the wind blows. Don't you think it has a lonesome sound to-night?
There isn't a glimmer of light from any of your windows yet, and see what
a lovely glow this fire casts all through the room. It makes the cold
walls look warm, and if it makes shadows, it chases them away when it
blazes its brightest. It is your fault that there is no light in your
windows, and your fault that you have closed your heart against love. You
could have the glow that lights my house and my heart if you only would.
You know, dear, I am not talking to you as a neighbor now or even as a
friend, but as a woman talks to a woman out of her inmost heart. It is
only because I love you so and because I have seen you with my babies that
I know what a home-maker you are. You seem so sad sometimes, and I know
your heart is wistful if your eyes are not. How can you have the courage
to shut out love? How can you see the happiness of all your friends and
not want a share of it yourself? Why do you cry so, my dear? Is there some
one you love? Has any trouble come between you? No? No? Well, there,
there! It was selfish of me to show you the way I look at things and to
try to make you dissatisfied. Never mind. You are stronger than I. I could
not live without love; I should die. But if you can, it may be that you
are fulfilling your destiny more nobly than many another who has more of
what I should choose.
"Oh, must you go? Forgive me if I have said what I should not. Good-night,
and God bless you, my dear."
XI
THE HAZARD OF A HUMAN DIE
"The tallest trees are most in the power of the wind."
Last night at the theatre there were theatricals all over the house. My
eyes followed the play on the stage, but my mind was filled with the farce
in the next box and with the tragedy in the one opposite.
I was with the Ford-Burkes, and, hearing familiar voices, I pulled aside
the curtain, and in the next box were the Payson Osbornes, Pet
Winterbotham, and Jack Whitehouse. Pet thrust her hand over the railing
and whispered,
"I'm engaged. Put your hand here and feel the size of my ring. You can get
an idea of it through my glove. I'd take it off and show it to you, only I
think it would look rather pronounced, don't you?"
"Rather," I assented faintly.
I glanced beyond her into the fresh blue eyes of young Jack Whitehouse,
and I wondered if the alert, manly young fellow, with his untried but
inherited capabilities, knew that he had been accepted as a husband
because his hair curled and he looked "chappie."
"I suppose you have heard the news, haven't you?" she went on.
"Nothing in particular. What news?"
"Look across the house and you will see."
Just entering their box opposite were Louise King and Norris Whitehouse,
Jack's uncle.
"What do you mean?" I asked, with a wrench at Pet's little hand which made
her wince.
"It's an engagement. Uncle and nephew engaged the same season. Isn't it
rich? Think of Louise King being my aunt. She is only twenty-three."
Then they saw us and bowed. I felt faint as my mind adjusted itself to
this new arrangement. I levelled my glass at them.
Louise, magnificently tall and handsome, looked quite self-contained. She
is one of the best-bred girls I know, but it required a stronger
imagination than mine to fathom what mysterious change had transformed
her from the impulsive, loving creature of Charlie Hardy's story to this
serene-eyed woman, who had deliberately elected to marry at the funeral
of her own heart.
As I looked across at her during that long evening, I felt that it was
impertinent to probe her heart with my wonderings and surmises. I knew
instinctively just how carefully she was hiding her hurt from all human
eyes. I knew how her fierce pride was bearing up under the cruelty of it.
I felt how she had rushed from the humiliation one man had brought her to
the waiting love of the one who should have been her first choice by the
divine right of natural selection. This strong man had loved her for
years, but he would never allow her to imperil either his dignity or her
own. He was just the man her impulsive, high-strung nature could accept as
a refuge, beat against and buffet if need be, then learn to appreciate and
cling to.
I had an impression that he was not totally ignorant of the state of
affairs. He was older and wiser than she, and capable of the bravery of
this venture. No, he was not being deceived. I was sure of it. Louise was
too high minded to attempt it. She would be scornfully honest with him.
Her scorn would be for herself, not for him, and he had accepted her
joyfully on these terms. His daring was tempered with prudence, and his
clear vision doubtless forecast the end. His insight must have shown him
that, with a girl like Louise, the rebound from the self-disdain to which
Charlie Hardy's confession must have reduced her would be as intense as
her humiliation had been, and that her passionate gratitude to the man who
restored her self-respect would be boundless. Not every man--not even
every man who loved her--could do this. He must possess strong nerves who
descends into a volcano. He must have a more unbending will who tames any
wild thing; but what an intoxicating thrill of pride must come to him who,
having confidence in his own powers, makes the attempt and succeeds.
Perhaps if Louise had been strong enough to fight this cruel battle out
with herself as Rachel would have done, and win as Rachel would have won,
she might have been able to choose differently. She might then, strong in
her own strength, marry a man of lesser personality, a younger man, and
they two could have adjusted their lives to each other gradually. Now it
must be Louise who would be adjusted, and Norris Whitehouse was just the
man to know the curious fact that the more fiery and impetuous a woman
is, the more easily, if she is in love, will she mould herself to
circumstances. The more untamed and unbending she seems, the more helpless
will she be under the strong excitement of love or grief.
A strong-minded woman is easier to persuade than a weak one. The grander
the nature the greater its pliability towards truth. The longer I sat and
gazed into the opposite box the clearer it grew in my mind that the
suddenness of this venture did not imply rashness, but serene-eyed faith
only, and such faith would captivate Louise King more than would love. The
only impossible thing about it to a sceptical Old Maid was that it was
the man who was proving himself such a hero, and who was upsetting my
favorite theory that men never understand emotional women. Still, it was
not difficult to except as unusual a man like Norris Whitehouse, and yet
have my theory hold good. In imagination I leaped forward to the peaceful
outcome of this turbulent beginning, and overlooked the way which led to
it. I found myself hoping, with painful intensity, that this venture in
which Norris Whitehouse and I had embarked would prove successful. I had
known and loved Louise King all her life. I had loved her dear mother
before her, and the beautiful daughterhood of this girl had always touched
me as the highest and sweetest type I ever had known. I did not want to be
the one to bring her face to face with her first great sorrow, although I
dared not interfere to less purpose. For
"'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls,
And matter enough to save one's own.
Yet think of my friend and the burning coals
We played with for bits of stone."
They could not know that I had had anything to do with it; yet, if ill
came of it, I should blame myself all the rest of my life.
Not long afterwards they were married very quietly and went away for a few
weeks. When they returned I sought Louise with eagerness, and found that
my fears were not groundless. I tried to think what to do. If it would
have eased matters, I would willingly have gone to her and confessed that
I instigated Charlie Hardy's confession. But I felt that the root of the
matter lay deeper than that, so I said nothing that could be construed
into an unwelcome knowledge of her affairs.
In the short time which elapsed between their return and the date set for
their departure for Europe, where they were to stay a year, I saw Louise
continually. She sought me as if she liked to be with me, although her
eyes never lost the anxious, hunted expression which you sometimes see in
the eyes of some trapped wild creature.
It was a raw morning, with a chill wind blowing, when their steamer was to
sail. Mr. Whitehouse, thinking I might have some last private word to say
to Louise, skilfully detached everybody else and strolled with them beyond
earshot, but where his eyes could continually rest upon his wife's face.
As Louise and I walked up and down I took in mine the small hand which
emerged from the great fur cuff of her boat cloak, and gradually its
rigidity relaxed under my friendly pressure. I remembered, as I
occasionally tightened my grasp upon it, that my dear little baby sister
Lois, who was taken away from us before she outgrew her babyhood, used to
squeeze my hand in this fashion, and when I asked her what it meant, she
invariably said, "It means dat it loves you." I wondered if the same
inarticulate language could be conveyed to poor, suffering Louise.
Suddenly she turned to me and said,
"You have thrown something gentle, a softness around me this morning. I
can feel it. What is it, Ruth?"
"I don't know, dear, unless it is my love for you."
"It is something more. Your eyes look into mine as if you knew all about
it and wished to comfort me."
As I made no answer, she turned and looked down at me from her superb
height.
"Tell me," she said quite gently; "I shall not be angry. Tell me, _do_ you
know?"
"Yes, Louise, I know."
She hesitated a moment as if she really had not believed it. Then she said
slowly,
"If any other person on earth except you had told me that, I should die. I
could not live in the knowledge. But you--well, your pity is not an insult
somehow."
"Because it is not pity, Louise," I said steadily. "There is a difference
between pity and sympathy. One is thrown at you--the other walks with
you."
She only pressed my hand gratefully. Suddenly she turned and said
impulsively,
"Then you must know how utterly wretched I am."
Glancing over her shoulder I could see the eyes of her husband fastened
upon her with an expression which stirred me to put forth my best
efforts.
Then it came over me how pent-up all this intensity of feeling must be. I
realized how impossible it would seem to her to speak of it. Taking my
life in my hand--for I was mortally afraid--I rushed in, after the manner
of my kind, where angels fear to tread.
"Did you love him then so much?"
The pupils of her eyes enlarged until they were all black with excitement.
She caught both my hands in hers.
"Only God Himself knows how I loved him," she whispered.
I knew then that all Charlie had said was true, and, weak coward that I
was, if I could have undone the past, I would have given him back to her.
I was borne away by a glimpse of such love. O Charlie Hardy! And you cast
this from you for a pair of blue eyes!
"How came you to love such a weak man?" I asked tremblingly.
"That is what I want to know. How could I? How can girls of my sort love
so hopelessly beneath us? I've thought and wondered over that question
until my brain has almost turned, and the only consolation I find is that
I am not the only one. Other women, cleverer than I, have loved the most
contemptible of men and have been deceived just as I was. Oh, if he or I
had only died before I discovered the truth! If I could have mourned him
honorably and felt that my grief was dignified! But I won't allow myself
to grieve over him. I tell myself that I am well out of it and that I
ought to be glad. But instead of gladness there is a dull, miserable ache
in my heart, which I feel even in my sleep. Not for him; I don't mourn for
him, but for myself--for my fallen idols and my shattered ideals. What
will such men have to answer for? I doubt if I ever can believe in
anything human again."
"Anything _human_," I repeated gladly.
Louise looked down.
"He was not omnipotent," she said huskily. "He ruled my heart only, not
my soul."
"I suppose you have tried to love your husband?" I said.
"Tried? Oh, Ruth, I have tried so hard! He is so good to me. He knows
everything. Of course I told him. That was why we were married so
suddenly. He wished it and urged such excellent reasons, and I had so much
respect for him and his wisdom in what is best, that I married him. I
thought I could love him. I always thought that if I didn't love--the
other one--I should love Norris; but I can't. I believe my power of love
is gone forever. I feel sometimes as if the best part of me had been
killed--not died of its own accord, but as if it had been murdered."
"Poor child!" I said. "Why don't you talk this over with your husband?"
"Oh, Ruth, how could I?"
"Well, may I talk to you? Will it hurt you?"
"Nothing that you would say can hurt me, dear."
"Then let me say just this. You have been trying to do in weeks what
nature would take years to do. In real life you cannot lose your love and
heal your worse than widowed heart and love anew as you would in private
theatricals. You have outraged your own delicate sensibilities, but not
with your husband's consent. He does not want you to try to love him. No
good man does. He wants you to love him because you can't help
yourself--because it seems to your heart to be the only natural thing to
do. 'When the song's gone out of your life, you can't start another while
it's a-ringing in your ears. It's best to have a bit o' silence, and out
of that maybe a psalm'll come by and by.'"
"Oh, Ruth, dear Ruth, say that again," she cried, turning towards me with
tears in her lovely eyes. I repeated it.
"How restful to dare to take 'a bit o' silence'!"
"No one can prevent you doing so but yourself. Mr. Whitehouse married you
to give you just that, confident that he loved you so much that the psalm
would come by and by."
"I believe he did," said Louise gently, with color rising in her cheeks.
"Another thing. Don't try not to grieve. Don't repress yourself. It is
right that you should mourn over your lost ideals. Nothing on earth
brings more poignant grief than that. You will never get them back. Do not
expect what is impossible. They were false ideals, none the less beautiful
and dear to you for being that, but truly they were distorted. You will
see this some time. You have begun to see it now. You realize that this
man was in no way what you thought him. You had idealized him, had almost
crowned him. Now you can't help trying to invest Mr. Whitehouse with the
same unnamable, invisible qualities. But no man has them. Your husband is
a thousand times more worthy than the other, yet even he does not deserve
worship. Let the man do the crowning if you can, although a woman of your
temperament would find even that difficult--that which the most inane of
women could accept with calmness and a smile. You have the magnificent
humility of the truly great. Still it is not appreciated in this world.
Try resting for a while and let your husband love you."
I knew that I was saying, though perhaps in a different way, things which
Norris Whitehouse had urged upon her. Not that she said so. She would
have regarded that as sacrilege. But it was a look, a little trembling
smile, which betrayed the ingenuous young creature to me. I felt that I
was in the presence of a nature very fair and exquisitely pure. It was a
sacred feeling. I almost felt as if I ought not to read the signs in her
face, because she had no idea that they were there.