SOMETHING NEW
If Mrs. Harmon's marriage was her most brilliant success, it was also
her greatest disappointment--as it was her husband's. At times when she
thought of her position, she was satisfied; when she realised its
restraints she rebelled. For she was robust, full-blooded, stirring, but
the Judge was "set in his ways." He was mental, she was physical; as a
result she completely misprized him.
He had brought her into a circle where she did not belong; it was as if
a gardener had set among roses some hardy, showy plant, a flaunting
weed. Pleased as Mrs. Harmon was, her position irked her to maintain;
respectability was often very wearisome, very flat. There was little
spice and go to life; too much restraint was required. Not entirely
vulgar, not exactly coarse, she fretted first, then yearned for other
things. Barbaric is the word that fits her best; she was like the
educated Indian who longs for his free dress and freer ways.
Liberty was out of the question, since she would never give up the
brilliance of her position. Personal freedom she had; for the Judge,
when he found that she could not be the companion that he hoped, gave
her all the money that he could, and let her (within bounds which she
understood very well and overstepped only in secret) do as she pleased.
But she had in her the craving for physical stimuli; earth was her
mother. A five-mile walk daily might have kept her mind clear, yet she
would have had to walk alone, and that was unbearable. Loving people,
she lacked companionship, for with women below her station she would not
chum, while with those in it she could not. We have seen how Judith
failed her; there remained only the men. Handsome and shrewd, Mrs.
Harmon had gained her position without yielding to their snares; but now
that the dangers which beset her single life were past, she began to
look back at them inquiringly. Her beauty was full-blown; soon it would
begin to fade, and her nature cried out against losing youth and all its
pleasures.
Her feelings were from instinct, not calculation; her actions were
impulsive. When she first met Ellis, quite unconsciously her thoughts
had dwelt on him. He was unresponsive; the two dropped into a habit of
semi-intimacy, but having thus begun to let her fancy roam, Mrs. Harmon
yearned for an Adonis until her dreams centered with some constancy upon
a vision which answered to the name of Jim.
Circumstances are everything; there is nothing human which does not
depend upon them absolutely, and Mrs. Harmon might have "sighed and
pined and ogled" forever, had not Wayne been thrown in her path at a
time when his mind was ready to welcome diversion.
It happened that he had planned to go to the theater with Beth. They
wanted to go alone, therefore they must go in the afternoon. He chose a
Wednesday, though only Saturday afternoons belonged to him. The play was
advertised in a manner to excite Jim's interest, and he assured Beth it
would be "bully." Coming up from Chebasset at eleven o'clock, he dressed
himself in his best and lunched at the Blanchard's. Then as the hour
approached he started with Beth for the temple of amusement.
She pressed his arm as they stood for a minute in the vestibule.
"Naughty boy!" she said, beaming on him. "Naughty to spend so much money
on me!"
"We mustn't dry up, Beth," he answered. "Life's too serious to have no
fun in it."
"But to take an afternoon from work!" she said, so prettily that only
conscience would have blinded him to the intended thanks. Jim's sense of
guilt, however, made him start.
"Confound it, Beth," he cried, stopping short and looking at her, "don't
you trust me to take an afternoon off without stealing it?"
"Oh, oh!" she exclaimed. "Jim, I didn't mean that!" She tried to soothe
his irritation away, but it was a bad beginning to their pleasure, and
they could not talk freely on the way to the theater. When they entered
the lobby she felt that he was still touchy, therefore she said nothing
of the flaming posters which she saw now for the first time. Women in
tights, drunken men--but Jim had said the play would be fine; these were
only to catch the passer's eye.
Jim unbent again when they were once seated: the curtain, the bustle,
the anticipation pleased him. "It's going to be great!" he said. "It's
fun to be together, isn't it, Beth?" He was as loving as before, and her
little heart was happy.
But when the curtain went up, and the play commenced, poor Beth began to
sicken. Women with tights appeared, and said unpleasant things; the
drunken man came on, and reeled about horribly. Besides these
attractions there were two people who gave a travesty of lovers, at
which Jim nudged her; there was a woman who drank beer, and a waiter who
spilled it down her neck. At this last whimsical situation the theater
rocked with laughter, so that Beth became aware that there were people
who liked that sort of thing; next she saw that Jim at her side was weak
with merriment at the exquisite foolery. The curtain went down to a song
which the audience regarded as deliciously droll, but at which Beth rose
from her seat, her cheeks flaming.
"What is it?" asked Jim, astonished.
"I must go home," she answered. "Come."
While the curtain was going up again that the singer might be
complimented, Beth and Jim made their way out of the theater. He cast
glances behind at the prima donna; Beth looked neither right nor left.
But when they were free of the place, he came to her side with anxiety
in his face.
"Are you ill?" he asked.
"No," she said.
"Then what is it?"
"That play, Jim."
"What?" he cried, thunderstruck.
"It was dreadful," she said, "I couldn't bear it."
He could say nothing at first, but at length he tried to speak. "Then
the money I've spent--and my time?"
"Don't, Jim!" she pleaded. "Not here in the street."
"Very well," he answered stiffly, and was silent until he reached her
house. But when she started up the steps he stood still and raised his
hat.
"Jim!" she exclaimed, halting. "Aren't you coming in?"
He backed away and would not look at her. "Later," he said.
"Jim!" she cried appealingly.
He turned and went away without another word, doing what he knew he
should repent, for she was very sweet, very piteous. She would have run
after him to draw him back but--some one was coming. She went into the
house and sat in tears, waiting for him to return, but he did not come.
Now the person who was coming was Mrs. Harmon, and she saw it all. She
perceived the scowl on Jim's face; she almost heard Beth's pleading. On
impulse she turned back as if she had forgotten something, and allowed
Jim to overtake her.
"Why, Mr. Wayne!" she said, and Jim could not pass without speaking.
"Good-afternoon," he said.
"A very beautiful afternoon," she responded, so that however reluctant,
he had to delay. And now is seen the beginning of the afternoon's
development, for when she next spoke she had no thought beyond what was
expressed by her words. "An afternoon for a walk, Mr. Wayne." She had
the very faintest hope that he might offer to walk with her.
"An afternoon for the theater," answered Jim bitterly, as he remembered
the delights he had lost. Mrs. Harmon's disappointment was far greater
than her expectations.
"Are you going?" she asked him. "What, you have been, Mr. Wayne? But how
are you out so early?"
"Some people," answered Jim, "don't care for the theater."
Mrs. Harmon, recalling what she had just seen, did some swift guessing.
"My husband, for instance," she said lightly.
"And Miss Blanchard," added Jim gloomily.
She thought she guessed why Jim would not walk with her. "You are going
back to see the rest of the performance alone?"
But the idea came to him as new. He took from his pocket two slips of
blue cardboard and regarded them resentfully. "I could go back," he
said. "The man gave me these at the door. I've half a mind to."
_Two_ slips of cardboard! A thought came to her, of such weight that she
needed time to consider it; therefore she changed the subject. "How do
you like your new business?" she asked. "It must be very interesting."
Thus she opened new fields of discontent. "Interesting enough," answered
Jim. "But a fellow that has had freedom finds it very confining."
"I can imagine it," she murmured. "And it is a different line of work."
"Quite different," agreed Jim. "Compared with brokering, it's dull, Mrs.
Harmon. I miss the excitement; it's awful humdrum at the mill. There's
such lots of stupid detail."
"Then Chebasset is so far from the city," she supplemented.
"It is difficult to get any time here," he said, "unless you take an
early train, you know." Recollection came to him again, and he added:
"And when a fellow makes a special effort to give another person
pleasure, and she--well, never mind!" Jim sighed heavily.
Mrs. Harmon made a sympathetic pause. Motives were balanced in Jim's
brain just then, resentment and desire for pleasure driving him away
from Beth, affection and remorse drawing him back. Had Mrs. Harmon been
the deepest of schemers, she could not have thrown her weight more
cleverly against Beth's. Seeing that they were approaching a corner,
which might separate her from Jim, she thought only to continue the
conversation; but behold, she augmented the current of his discontent.
"How do you enjoy working under Mr. Mather?" she asked.
The gloom deepened on Jim's face. "Mather's kind of--oh, well, he
expects every one to see things the way he does."
"I can imagine he's strict," she said.
"He's arbitrary!" answered Jim emphatically.
"It's too bad!" she responded with sympathy. But they were at the
corner, and she stopped. One way led down town, one to quieter
neighbourhoods--and this in morals as well as in geography. She meant
not to separate from Jim, and yet how to keep him, or go with him? Mere
instinct guided her again, and this time she gave herself to it and
followed without further thought.
"Well?" she asked, as they stood still.
"Well?" echoed Jim, quite blank, yet seeing she expected him to say
something.
"Shall I go one way, or the other?" she demanded.
"One way, or the other?" he repeated stupidly.
"I meant to make calls," she said, accenting the preterit, "but if you
should ask me" (accenting the auxiliary) "to go with you to see the rest
of that play----" She made no finish, but cocked her head and looked
past him, sidewise.
"Gad!" cried Jim, staring.
"Ah, well!" she sighed, turning away.
"Come on!" he exclaimed. "Come along, Mrs. Harmon. Jove, it will be
great fun!"
"Why, I didn't really mean it," she replied, but smiling gaily.
She was everything that Beth was not: pronounced, vivacious,
multi-coloured. She was handsome, red-cheeked, bright of eye, and if she
was a little hard of glance, Jim did not perceive it. She pleased him;
he urged her again.
"Well, I can do some shopping," she said with a teasing accent of
reflection, and went down town by his side. The theater was not far;
when they reached it, she made as if to pass on. "Good-bye," she said.
"Oh, Mrs. Harmon!" cried he.
"You really mean you want me to come in?" she asked.
"Of course!" insisted Jim, and lied manfully. "I wanted it all the
time."
"I haven't seen this play," she said, reflecting. "My husband never
takes me to the theater."
"Then let me," he urged. A strain of music was wafted out as she
hesitated. "See, we're losing some."
"How funny," she said, looking at him and smiling, "to go in this way.
But it's a lark, isn't it, Mr. Wayne. Come on, then!" She stepped before
him to the door, and in a moment they were in the theater together.
There were again the dusk, the rustle, and the music. Some voice beyond
the footlights called "_Zwei bier!_" and a laugh followed from the
audience. A noiseless usher led the two to their seats, which they took
while watching the woman on the stage doubtfully circling away from the
waiter who had spilt beer on her before. The second act was not yet
finished; there were ten minutes more before the curtain went down,
which it did just as the actress turned a somersault, quite modestly.
The third act was even more capriciously humorous than the other two.
Mrs. Harmon and Jim enjoyed themselves keenly, the thrill of the unusual
companionship adding excitement to the pleasure. At last she was with
him; for the first time he was with some one else than Beth. He still
had enough resentment against Beth to feel that he was serving her
right; he compared her with Mrs. Harmon; he wished Beth were more--well,
sensible. Mrs. Harmon displayed an abundance of sense; she saw the good
points; jokes that Beth would have missed entirely were not lost on
Mrs. Harmon. When they walked to her house together she spoke most
appreciatively of the extravaganza. If Beth could but be thus!
But most of all Jim felt that he pleased a woman. Mrs. Harmon leaned to
him at times, put her face near his; he felt her breath; once in the
theater her hair touched him. She was sympathetic and confidential; they
reached the "you-and-I" stage very quickly. Thus:
"If the Judge were only a little more like you, Mr. Wayne!" This at
beginning; then, "I had thought you so stately, Mr. Wayne, but we seem
to have just the same tastes." Those tastes were discussed next, putting
all the rest of the world on a lower plane, so that "how amusing others
are" was a natural conclusion, and Jim realised that he and she were
looking upon life as on a spectacle.
In this there was flattery beyond his power to resist; there was,
besides, a suggestion too subtle for him to perceive at first. She made
it plain that because her husband and she were not congenial, she went
with Jim; but for a time the corollary escaped him--that because he had
gone with her, therefore he and Beth were not at one. He saw only that
he was taking a vacant place, and that she was grateful to him.
At her door Mrs. Harmon looked at him, smiling doubtfully. "I would ask
you in, only----"
Jim had grown bold. "Well, why?"
"No, no! It would never do--not after what we have already done. And you
will of course not say anything about this, Mr. Wayne?" she added
seriously.
Thus the final idea came to him that they two had been near, very near,
the border-line of convention. "Not really?" he asked.
"Of course Miss Blanchard, if you wish," she answered.
"Shall I even tell her?" he said, trying to look knowing.
"You bad man!" she murmured, bending to him. "But it has been great
fun!" Then she ran up the steps. As Jim walked away he suppressed his
gratification, and endeavoured to estimate her character. She was quite
different from what people thought her.
That evening he dined with his mother; afterwards he went to the club.
But the sense of guilt grew on him, and drove him at last to the
Blanchards'. There Beth was still watching for him, so unhappy! She
sobbed in his arms, begging his pardon--yes, the poor little thing
begged his pardon, and Jim forgave her.
He did not tell her of Mrs. Harmon, nor did he stay late, for he had to
travel to Chebasset. It was not of Beth that he thought most in the
train. Beth had only called him a naughty boy; Mrs. Harmon said he was a
bad man. He felt as if he had been pleasantly wicked, like the fellows
in New York or Paris, going about with married women.