cat! how clever she is," said some. The majority, however, murmured
feelingly, "So glad that sweet girl will have her reward."
"That sweet girl" had had her reward. All that she cared for in
life--money, social position, unlimited flattery and envy were hers
without stint. And, much as I hate to grieve the moralists, Estelle
Hadwell was a supremely happy and contented woman. If she had been
childless it is possible that her lot might, at times, have palled on
her: but two pretty, healthy children occupied what little heart she
had. Her husband, though in a vague way proud of his children's beauty
and brightness, cared little for them: what heart _he_ had was occupied
by his wife who played upon his affections with the hand of a practised
artist.
She let the cheque lie by her plate, now, as she rose and kissed her
better half, affectionately.
"What a delightful visit those dear twins will have, thanks to your
generosity," she said, smiling at him, affectionately.
Mr. Hadwell waved a patronizing disclaimer.
"Oh, I shall be glad to do what I can for Carl's children," he said,
magnificently.
"That is so like you, dear," returned his simple little wife, gently.
She was giggling softly to herself over this conversation in the
afternoon as she pinned an expensive little hat over her still more
expensive tresses. "I really do think I am cleverer than most women,"
she mused. "I get just what I want and I never hurt the dear old
thing's feelings." She was really fond of her husband whose absorption
in her satisfied her vanity and whose jealousy served to render life
interesting. When Lynn Thayer arrived she entered into a long and
detailed account of her morning's work, ending by triumphantly
displaying the cheque. Lynn laughed, unwillingly.
"I do hate that sort of thing, Estelle," she said. "I know you're
awfully clever at getting your own way, but I can never understand why
you don't get Mr. Hadwell to allow you a certain sum, monthly. Then you
wouldn't have to stoop to this sort of thing."
"Oh, but I like stooping," said Estelle, placidly. "And, besides, if I
knew just how much I was going to get every month it would be awfully
tame. You haven't a bit of the gambler in you, Lynn."
"Not a particle."
"Then there's another side to the question. If Henry had to make me an
allowance he would only allow for necessities. For instance, if I wanted
to run down to New York for a week or two it would have to come out of
my dress allowance. That would be horrid. Oh, I had such a time
getting a few hundred dollars out of him the last time I went. He
wrangled over every detail--actually wanted me to stay in the suburbs
because hotels were cheaper there, quite forgetting that my fare in and
out would amount to something. As I said to him, 'I suppose I could
walk to the ferry--it's only twenty miles or so each way and exercise is
good for one--but I really couldn't walk across the water; I'm not
_quite_ divine yet!'"
"You absurd child! What did he say to that?"
"Oh, he mumbled something to the effect that I ought to be a Christian
Scientist. That was meant as a joke. He always jokes when he feels
ashamed. So I said, 'Yes, if I were a Christian Scientist I could walk
over anything, yourself included; but because I am only your poor,
stupid, little wife, I must humbly beg you for money for this little
trip.' Then he tried to be pompous, the way he always does when I
pretend to knuckle down. He said, 'If I don't want you to go to New
York, that ought to be enough for any well-regulated wife.' And I said,
'You dear old stupid! I'm not a well-regulated wife. Don't be so
ridiculous. Anyone would think I was a watch to hear you talk!' Then I
looked cute and rolled my eyes at him and he caved right in. Dear me,
Lynn, what a pity it is I can't bestow some of my superfluous cleverness
on you. Your aunt tells me that you are positively discouraging Mr.
Lighton. You must be mad."
"I am mad--thoroughly mad about the whole business. Why in the world
should I marry this man simply because he asks me? Really, I have been
so advised and dictated to and badgered about him that now the very
thought of his face makes me feel angry."
"Then why do you think of his face?" inquired Mrs. Hadwell, opening her
grey eyes, innocently. "Why don't you forget about his face and think
about his figure at the bank? That is what any sensible girl would do."
Lynn groaned. "I'm not a sensible girl, unfortunately," she said.
"Now, Del, if you're going for a drive before dinner you had better
hurry."
"Very well. I'm ready. Dear me! I must just see Mrs. Waite before we
go and tell her to have dinner at seven. Oh, Lynn! that woman is such a
comfort to me. She's a regular automaton, knows how everything in the
house should be done--and does it! Of course she is absolutely
heartless, but--what are you giggling at? Oh, my dear, I may not be
particularly intense or passionate, but I assure you I am a volcano
beside Mrs. Waite. She doesn't care for the children, she doesn't even
care for me. Now you know there must be something radically wrong with
any one who doesn't care for me--I may have my faults, but no one can
deny that I am the most fascinating person!--and in her case it is the
stranger as she is a decayed gentlewoman and I have gone out of my way
to show her kindness. Why, I even asked her to dine with Henry and me
once when we had people who knew her coming to dinner: and she looked at
me with her Medusa-like countenance and refused. But as a housekeeper
she is a jewel and, as long as she runs my house like clockwork, I can
excuse her lack of geniality. Here she is. Oh, Mrs. Waite, will you
tell Sarah to put off dinner till eight. I am going out with Miss
Thayer. By the way, you don't know Miss Thayer, do you? Miss Thayer,
Mrs. Waite. Don't forget about dinner.
"There, isn't she a Gorgon, Lynn? She is always just like that--neat,
accurate, frigid, freezing. Ugh! What a lovely day for a drive, isn't
it? I'm going to Mr. Amherst's to take a look at my portrait. It is
going to be so nice and I want you to see it. I am sure it will be hung
in the Art Gallery at the Spring Exhibition. What a nice man he is,
isn't he? By the way, speaking of Mrs. Waite, I am going to tell you
why I always make a point of introducing her to all my friends and
having things just as pleasant for her as possible. It's because she's
like that much-talked-of 'skeleton at the feast'; she's a perpetual
reminder to me of how lucky I am. I wish you would compare us and take
a lesson, my friend. I'm the bright example, she's the awful warning.
I might have been just where she is to-day if I hadn't had my wits about
me. She might be where I am if she had made the most of her
opportunities. Don't waste time telling me that she's plain and
uninteresting. I would be plain if I didn't dress properly and eat good
food and take good care of myself; and, as for 'interesting,' _every_
woman is interesting to a man if she impresses him as being sensible and
womanly--that is, if she enjoys his conversation and tells him that she
likes dusting. Every man likes a woman who is fond of dusting. I don't
know why. And, as for sweeping, there is no surer passport to a man's
affections than to tell him that you sweep out your own room every
morning. It never fails to have the desired effect. It doesn't matter
if the man is a multi-millionaire with an army of housemaids and
footmen; he still thinks it is womanly and domestic to sweep. If I ever
found my hold on Henry's affections becoming a trifle slack, I should
immediately start sweeping."
"Del, I don't think I ever met anyone who could talk more nonsense than
you, in a given space of time."
"Nonsense! Oh, Lynn, if I could only get you to understand that what I
am saying, although delivered as if it were the merest airy persiflage,
is the soundest common sense. If you want to be admired and respected
by the male sex--sweep! Or, if you don't like sweeping, don't sweep;
but talk about sweeping as if it were the one thing that you doted on;
convey the impression that you would rather sweep than go motoring any
day. The man in question may have thought you a charming girl before,
but, after that, his feelings will take a deeper tinge; you will advance
in his mind to the status of a womanly woman. Delicious! Instead of
these lectures girls are always attending at Y.W.C.A.'s and colleges,
about Browning and the Pyramids and the condition of the poor and the
prevalence of frivolity, what a pity it is they can't attend lectures
given by some past-master in the art of flirting--such as I, for
instance! Wouldn't those lectures be crowded, though; that is, if girls
knew what was good for them. And here you have all the advantages of a
private course of instruction and you won't take the trouble to learn
the first rules of the game. Ah, the golden words of wisdom wasted! the
opportunities lost. Ah me!"
"Del, I strongly object to your speaking as though I had no
opportunities. Haven't I always at least one person who wants to marry
me? even though I do tell the truth occasionally?"
"You have. But that's by good luck, not by management. You might have
twenty if you exerted yourself properly."
"You make me feel as though I were a sort of derelict. It's a horrid
feeling."
"If I succeed in making you feel a derelict I have succeeded beyond my
wildest expectations. Don't you know, my dear child, that you are
experiencing in a faint degree what you will experience all your life if
you don't hurry up and settle yourself. Don't you know that for the
next fifty years you will, not only feel, but be a derelict if you don't
accept Lighton and marry him before he changes his mind."
"Thank goodness, this drive can't last forever," exclaimed Lynn,
laughing. "Otherwise I should be compelled to get out and walk. You are
perfectly unendurable sometimes, Del, and this is certainly one of the
times."
"I'm going to be unendurable again and to better purpose, I hope, a
little later on," said Mrs. Hadwell, darkly. "But now I suppose we'll
have to descend--or ascend, if you like it better--from practical life
to pictures. Mr. Amherst paints well, doesn't he? And what a nice man
he is. I don't know anyone who doesn't like him, do you?"
"No, I don't think I do. He's nice and very popular."
"And a great friend of yours too, isn't he? I haven't heard you speak
of him, lately. I thought at one time"--
"Oh, Del, do think of something else!" exclaimed Lynn a little crossly.
"Men, men, men--and marriage, marriage, marriage! _Do_ let us think and
talk of something else."
"Very well, my dear, we'll talk of myself. I wanted to get up a
flirtation with Mr. Amherst this winter and he didn't seem to respond at
all. So I immediately thought that he must be interested in someone
else and, as he was always calling on you, naturally I thought"--
"Men again!"
"Not men but a man. Don't you perceive the delicate distinction? Well,
as I was saying, Mr. Amherst didn't seem a bit interested in me,
charming though I am and was--what a mercy old Tom is stone deaf!--and I
was extremely puzzled. I didn't like to be too pointed in my
attentions"--
"I do wish, Del, that you wouldn't talk in that way. It sets my teeth
on edge to hear a married woman speak in the way you do. Why don't
you"--
"Stay at home and attend to my house and children? So I do; but not
being altogether a fossil yet I want to do something else at times.
Isn't that natural at my age?"
"Quite natural at your age, and there is just the weak point of a
marriage like yours. If you had married somebody you really cared
about, other men wouldn't interest you."
"Not for the first year or so, no. After that, they would. I might not
like them so well as I did my husband, but I should like them and want
them to like me. Yes, and I should want them to fall in love with me,
too, so long as they didn't tell me about it and insist on making
unpleasant scenes. Of course, in that case, they would go, just as they
do, now. You know that, Lynn."
"Yes, I know that. You are very careful, Del. I suppose it is all
right and quite harmless in its way, but I can't say that I approve of
it. What is the sense of having two or three men always sighing around
because they can't marry you?"
"What's the sense of music or flowers or strawberry tarts? I like them
and they agree with me. You know there is a lot of misconception with
regard to the real tastes of a young woman after she marries. If she is
a person who grows and develops she must, of necessity, like many things
besides her husband and children. Now here is a case in point. Because
I am devoted to my own children is that any reason why I should not be
fond of other people's children? As a matter of fact, I don't care much
for any children but my own; but, if I did, wouldn't that be blameless
and even praiseworthy? So with men. I should always like them all even
if I were eighty and had been married all my life."
"It's a funny thing, Del, but some way you never seem married, to me."
"I was married, I assure you. I remember it very distinctly. White is
not becoming to me, so I wore a dark blue cashmere dress and a stunning
black toque with little feathers--you remember? And Henry thought I was
so sensible and so above feminine frivolities."
"It is awfully hard to know what is right and wrong, I must say. You
certainly make Mr. Hadwell perfectly happy and you are an ideal mother.
Perhaps you are more in the right than I think."
"My dear, I have read somewhere that there are certain plants which die
just as soon as they have propagated. That is all they exist for; just
to reproduce their own life and then die. Now there are a good many
women in the world who are like these plants. They are not half as good
mothers, not half as satisfactory wives as I am; but they are devoid of
all possibility of offending because, to all intents and purposes, they
died with the birth of their first child. Henceforth they exist in a
modified form. They are no longer individuals but vegetables. All the
young plant needs is air and light; but, as the young human needs food,
clothes, exercise and various other things, they exist solely for the
purpose of furnishing it with those things. They are incapable of
holding an opinion or formulating a thought; they all think exactly
alike on all subjects--which means, practically, that they do not think
at all--their education, intellectually, stopped when they graduated
from school, their education, emotionally, when they married. Are they
more commendable than I? What do they do that I don't? Only I do other
things in addition. I am a living woman, not a maternal cipher. I have
a heart and a mind and a life of my own and these develop side by side
with the development of my children. Of course the mere fact of life
existing means that there are possibilities of mistakes being made,
faults being committed; but isn't it better to live than to die? Lynn,
I didn't know I was so clever! Aren't you proud of me?"
"Proud of you, all round, Del, except that I still wish you didn't
flirt. Even if you are not in love with your husband it is bad form to
publish the fact. And the very fact that you are still alive--very much
alive--and capable of leading a life apart from your children makes your
way of acting dangerous. I am always afraid that some day you will"--
"That some day I shall fall in love and make a fool of myself? Don't
worry. Some women are dominated by one of the great primal instincts,
some by another. I am a mother, first and last and always. Men are only
things to play with, but my children are necessities. I could never do
anything that would cause them a moment's anxiety or difficulty in the
future. No, my dear! When little Aileen is enjoying her first season
her mother will be the same irreproachable, if frivolous, matron that
she is at present. What a serious conversation we have drifted into,
haven't we? I don't like it--seriousness! Dear me, Lynn, what in the
world should I do if anything were to happen to you? You're the only
person whom I dare to be myself with. Catch me trusting another woman.
What makes you so unlike other women, Lynn?"
"Possibly the lack of sense for which you were upbraiding me so heartily
a little while ago," said Lynn, slyly. "By the way, Del, that name,
'Waite,' is strangely familiar to me. Oh, of course! I know, now. I
had a little pupil, once"--
"Oh, Lynn, please don't start to talk about those ragamuffins of yours.
I should think you would be glad to put them out of your mind for a few
hours."
"He was a most unfortunate child," pursued Lynn, unheeding. "He was
plain and stupid and he knew it: and he came from a different social
class from most of the others, which seemed to put the final touch to
his isolation. I was glad when he died, poor little chap! He was
devoted to me and I made a great pet of him because he seemed so lonely.
I wonder if"--
"Oh, a Gorgon-faced, icebergy automaton like Mrs. Waite never had a
child in her life, I'm sure. Here we are at last."
*CHAPTER XI*
*VISITORS AND DISCLOSURES*
"Knowledge comes but wisdom lingers."--_Tennyson_.
"I would that you were all to me.
You that are just so much, no more,
Nor yours, nor mine, not slave nor free!
Where does the fault lie? What the core
O' the wound, since wound must be."
--_Browning_.
"I love studios," announced Mrs. Hadwell with effusion, "and I love
artists. Not you, only, Mr. Amherst, but all artists. They're so
interesting."
"Don't, please don't, Mrs. Hadwell," implored Amherst, laughing. "I
have always hoped that my habit of keeping my head closely cropped and
my face carefully shaved would save me from being thought 'interesting.'
You have no idea what visions that word 'interesting' conjures up in the
mind of the average man. Dinky velvet coats, unkempt beards, dirty
hands, soulful eyes--don't, whatever else you do, call me 'interesting.'
You might as well call a spoilt beauty a 'nice, sensible girl.'"
"That is something that no one ever called me," said Mrs. Hadwell
thoughtfully, tugging at her gloves. "You needn't look at me, Mr.
Amherst; I feel like staying here a while and I'm going to stay, no
matter how busy you are--there, don't apologize or waste time in saying
you'll be glad to see me and have me stay. Of course you will--a
sensible man like you! What were we saying when you interrupted me--I
mean, when I interrupted myself? Oh, yes! I was saying that no one had
ever called me a 'nice, sensible girl.'"
"The reason is obvious," declared Amherst, laughing.
"Why--oh, I see! Thank you. You mean that I don't look sensible. No,
I should hope I didn't. I should hate to!"
"I don't know whether I look sensible," said Lynn, wheeling suddenly
round from the contemplation of a picture, "but people must think I do,
for I so often hear myself referred to as 'that nice, sensible girl.'
Is it an insult? I never thought of it in that light."
"Not an insult, dear," said Mrs. Hadwell, composedly, "but an undoubted
lie. Of all people who lack the first elements of sense you certainly
head the list. Doesn't she, Mr. Amherst? But no, of course, you
wouldn't think so, naturally. You're a man, and anyway, you don't know
her."
"I should have said I knew Miss Thayer pretty well," said Amherst,
looking surprised, "and I should certainly have thought that she was
very sensible. I don't see what you mean."
"Of course you don't. As I previously remarked, you're a man. You
think she's sensible and I have little doubt but that, in your heart of
hearts, you think I'm a foolish little thing. Yet there's more sense in
my little finger than there is in all of Lynn's tall body. _I_ know."
"What you call sense I call lying and cheating," returned Lynn,
composedly.
Amherst burst out laughing.
"You and Miss Thayer are certainly the most candid pair I have ever run
across," he cried. "Do you always give and return these insults in
perfect good faith? or does one or the other sometimes get annoyed?"
"Never," replied Lynn. "I can't imagine anything happening to make Del
and me quarrel. In fact, I don't believe we could quarrel. I don't
know what other people fight about, anyway. Do you, Del?"
"Why, yes," said Mrs. Hadwell. "They fight because one has a better hat
than the other or because one likes red and the other likes blue, but,
generally, because they both want the same man. Isn't that so, Mr.
Amherst? But, you see, in this case, Lynn and I never like the same man,
so we don't clash."
"But even if we did," said Lynn, emphatically, "I can't imagine either
of us doing anything so vulgar as to quarrel, Del. I'm sure if the man
preferred you, you could have him; and, if he preferred me, I'd give him
up to you without a moment's hesitation."
"I wonder!" said her friend, teasingly. "Suppose I had taken a fancy to
that absurd boy with the black eyes and the unpronounceable Italian
name--would you have given him up to me, Lynn? I doubt it. Do you
remember him, Mr. Amherst? Wasn't it funny, the way our dear sensible
Lynn bowed down before him? I think it must have been her attentions
that drove him to drink, don't you? he probably thought that he was in
imminent danger of being dragged to the altar."
Lynn smiled a little but stirred restlessly and did not make any comment
on this.
"What has become of that boy?" cried Mrs. Hadwell, suddenly. "There,
now! I'm so glad I thought to ask you. You ought to know if anyone
would; you were quite pals, weren't you, Mr. Amherst? Is the boy dead?"
"Unfortunately, no," returned Amherst, dryly.
"Then what's become of him?"
"Are you, too, interested in his fate, Miss Thayer?" asked Amherst,
turning to where she stood looking intently at him, as though something
hung on his answer. "You used to be very good to him, as Mrs. Hadwell
says. Would you like to know where he is, now?"
"Yes--no--yes, I should like to very much," said Lynn in a low voice.
"Well, he is within a few minutes' walk of this place."
"You don't say so! And what is he doing?" asked Mrs. Hadwell with much
excitement.
"Going to the devil as fast as he possibly can."
"How? Why? Wherefore? Lynn, I shall shake you in another minute if
you don't show a little more interest. This is positively the most
exciting thing. Think of it! Ricossia!--going to the Devil with a big
D!--within a few minutes' walk of this place. What's his address, Mr.
Amherst?"
"I--I don't feel at liberty to tell you that," responded Amherst, after
a slight hesitation. "I don't think he would like to have it known."
"Oh, he must be a terribly shady character," said Mrs. Hadwell with a
delighted chuckle. "I think all this is thrilling. Do tell me his
address. I won't hurt him. I only want to see for myself what he is
doing and how he is. I'll--I'd like to take him a glass of jelly and
some grapes. What's the matter, Mr. Amherst?"
"Excuse me. The idea of Ricossia in conjunction with the glass of jelly
and the grapes upset me for the moment, that is all."
"I'd take him some champagne if Lynn wasn't with me. In my most
abandoned moments I never forget that I am a chaperon so I'm afraid the
champagne will have to be left behind. But I will go and see him--Mr.
Amherst, do tell me."
Amherst smilingly shook his head.
"He wouldn't like it, I know."
"You're quite right," said Lynn, regarding the speaker, gratefully.
"I'm sure he wouldn't like it. I wouldn't, in his place. Do--do you
ever see him, Mr. Amherst?"
"Often. I frequently run over and just have an eye to him. I always
expect to find him frozen or burnt to death or something of that sort.
But Providence always looks after people of that kind. He'll die in his
bed, no fear--the little brute!"
Lynn started and flushed.
"I thought you liked him," she said with involuntary reproach in her
tone.
"Well--fact is, I don't. What's more, I don't know anyone who does.
The boy's unfit to live and about equally unfit to die--poor little
chap! It's wonderful, though, the way he lasts. He's a living example
of a theory I've always held, namely, that consumption doesn't really
kill, no matter what the hardships may be, until the consumptive loses
interest in life and living. Then, he goes very quickly."
"You may be right," said Lynn, tonelessly.
"Now, while Mrs. Hadwell is absorbed in the bald man with the red nose
who is hanging at the other end of the room," said Amherst, hastily, "I
want to ask you something. How is it that I never see you, now? It
must be a month since I last had a real talk with you. What's the
matter?"
"The matter? Why, nothing."
"You're not offended with me about anything?"
"Why, no."