Cicily Hamilton was inclined to be captious with her maid as she dressed
that evening. She was finical to the point of absurdity even, which is
often the fault of beauty, and perhaps a fault not altogether
unbecoming, since its aim is the last elaboration of loveliness. Indeed,
the fault becomes a virtue, when its motive lies in the desire to attain
supreme charm for the one beloved. It was so with the young wife
to-night. She was filled with anxious longing to display her beauty in
its full measure for the pleasuring of the man to whom she had given her
whole heart. For that fond purpose, she was curt with her maid, and
reproachful with herself. She was deeply troubled by the thought that a
darker shade to her brows might enhance the brilliance of her eyes. She
hesitated before, but finally resisted, a temptation to use a touch of
pencil to gain the effect. She was exceedingly querulous over the
coiling of her tresses into the crown that added so regally to the
dignity of her bearing. The selection of the gown was a matter for
profound deliberation, and ended in a mood of dubiety. That passed,
however, when at last she surveyed her length in the cheval glass. Then,
she became aware, beyond peradventure of doubt, that the white lacery of
silk, molded to her slender form and interwoven with heavy threads of
gold, was supremely becoming. The gleam of precious metal in the fabric
scorned to transmute the amber of her eyes into a glory of gold. The
pearls of her necklace harmonized with the warm pallor of her
complexion.
Despite the pains taken, there remained time to spare before the dinner
hour, when the toilette had been thus happily completed. As she was
about to dismiss the maid, Cicily bethought her to ask a question.
"Has Mr. Hamilton come in yet, Albine?"
"Yes, madam--a half-hour ago. He went to the study, with his secretary."
Left alone, Cicily mused on the maid's information, and bitterness again
swept over her. During the period of dressing, she had been so absorbed
in the attempt to make the most of her charms that, for the time being,
she had forgotten her apprehensions as to her husband's neglect. Now,
however, those apprehensions were recalled, and they became more
poignant. Only a stern regard for the appearance she must present anon
held her back from tears. It seemed to her longing a dreadful thing that
on this day of all others her husband must bring back to his home this
rival of whom she was so jealous. For it could mean nothing else, if he
were closeted with his secretary at this hour: he was dallying in the
embraces of business, with never a thought for the wife whom he had
sworn to love always. For all that she was beautiful, possessed of ample
fortune, married to the man of her choice and, by reason of her youth,
full of the joy of life, Cicily Hamilton was a very wretched woman, as
she strolled slowly down the broad, winding stair, and entered the
drawing-room, where already Mrs. Delancy was waiting.
[Illustration]
That good lady, in her turn, had found herself sorely perturbed. The
mood of revolt in which her niece was, caused a measure of alarm in the
bosom of the loving older woman. Her own course at this moment was not
clear to her. She had been aware that to-day was the first anniversary
of the marriage of the Hamiltons, and it was on this account that she
had prolonged her visit. Yet, she had meant to go away in time to
permit the young pair their particular fete in a _solitude a deux_. She,
too, however, had learned of the present absorption of Mr. Hamilton in
business affairs, and there at she became suspicious that her niece's
fears as to his forgetfulness might be realized. In the end, she had
determined to remain until immediately before the dinner hour, leaving
the going or staying to be ruled by the facts as they developed. Arrived
at this decision, she had telephoned to her own home as to the
uncertainty in regard to her movements, and thereafter had awaited the
issue of events with that simple placidity which is the boon sometimes
granted by much experience of the world.
Hardly a moment after the meeting of the two women in the drawing-room,
the master of the house entered hurriedly, bearing in his hand a sheaf
of papers. Charles Hamilton was a large, dark man, remarkably
good-looking in a boyish, clean-shaven, typically American, businesslike
fashion. Still short of the thirties, he had nevertheless formed those
habits of urgent industry that characterize the successful in the
metropolis. Already, he had become enslaved by the business man's worst
habit--that most dangerous to domestic happiness--the taking of mutual
love between him and his wife as something conceded once for all, not
requiring exhibition or culture or protection or nourishment of any
sort. In this mistake he was perhaps less blamable than are some,
inasmuch as he was fettered by a great ignorance of feminine nature.
From earliest boyhood, he had been Cicily's abject worshiper. That
devotion had held him aloof from other women. In consequence, he had
missed the variety of experiences through which many men pass, from
which, perforce, they garner stores of wisdom, to be used for good or
ill as may be. Hamilton, unfortunately, knew nothing concerning woman's
foibles. He had no least suspicion as to her constant craving for the
expression of affection, her heart-hunger for the murmured words of
endearment, her poignant yearning for gentle, tender caresses day by
day. They loved; they were safely married: those blessed facts to him
were sufficient. There was no need to talk about it. In fact, in his
estimation, there was not time. There was business to be managed--no
dillydallying in this day and generation, unless one would join the
down-and-out club! Such was the point of view from which this bridegroom
of a year surveyed his domestic life. It was a point of view
established almost of necessity from the environment in which he found
himself established. He was in no wise unique: he was typical of his
class. He was clean and wholesome, industrious, energetic, clever--but
he knew nothing of woman.... So, now, he immediately rushed up to Mrs.
Delancy, without so much as a glance toward the wife who had studied
long and anxiously to make the delight of his eyes.
"Hello, Aunt Emma!" he exclaimed gaily, and kissed her. "I am glad you
stayed over to cheer up the little girl, while husband was away grubbing
the money for her."
"Oh, do you think, then, that she needs cheering?" There was a world of
significance in the manner with which the old lady put the pertinent
question; but the absorbed business man was deaf to the implication.
Cicily, however, spared him the pains of any disclaimer by uttering one
for herself.
"Need cheering!--I! What an absurd idea!"
Hamilton smiled gladly as he heard his wife speak thus bravely in
assurance of her entire contentment. Now, for the first time, he turned
toward her. But it was plain that he failed to note her appearance with
any degree of particularity. He had no phrase of appreciation for the
exquisite woman, in the exquisite gown. He spoke with a certain tone of
fondness; yet it was the fondness of habit.
"That's right," he said heartily, as he crossed the room to her side,
and bestowed a perfunctory marital peck on the oval cheek. "I'm mighty
glad you haven't been lonesome, sweetheart."
"You were thinking that I might be lonesome?" There was a note of
wistfulness in the musical voice as she asked the question. The glow in
the golden eyes uplifted to his held a shy hint of hope.
Manlike, he failed to understand the subtle appeal.
"Of course, I didn't," he replied. "If I thought about it at all--which
I greatly doubt, we've been so rushed at the office--I probably thought
how glad you must be not having a man under foot around the house when
your friends called for gossip. Oh, I understand the sex; I know how you
women sit about and talk scandal."
An indignant humph! from Mrs. Delancy was ignored by Hamilton, but he
could not escape feeling a suggestion of sarcasm in his wife's
deliberately uttered comment:
"Yes, Charles, you do know an awful lot about women!"
"I knew enough to get you," he riposted, neatly. Then, he had an
inspiration that he believed to be his duty as a host: as a matter of
fact, it was rudeness in a husband toward his wife on the first
anniversary of their marriage. He turned suavely to Mrs. Delancy.
"You'll stay to dinner, of course, Aunt Emma." And he added, fatuously:
"You and Cicily can chat together afterward, you know.... I've a
horrible pile of work to get through to-night."
At her husband's unconscious betrayal of her dearest hopes, Cicily
started as if she had been struck. As he ceased speaking, she nerved
herself to the ordeal, and made her statement with an air as casual as
she could muster, while secretly a-quiver with anxiety.
"Why, Charles, we are going to the theater to-night, you know."
"To-night?" Hamilton spoke the single word with an air of blank
astonishment. It needed no more to make clear the fact that he had no
guess as to the importance of this especial day in the calendar of their
wedded lives.
Cicily's spirits sank to the lowest deeps of discouragement before this
confession of her husband's inadvertence to that which she regarded as
of vital import in the scheme of happiness.
"Yes," she answered dully, "to-night. I have the the tickets. Don't you
remember what day this is?" She strove to make her tone one of the most
casual inquiry, but the attempt was miserably futile before the urge of
her emotion.
"Why, to-day is Thursday, of course," Hamilton declared, with an
ingenuous nonchalance that was maddening to the distraught wife.
"Yes, it is Thursday," she rejoined; and now there was no mistaking the
bitter feeling that welled in the words. "It is the anniversary of our
wedding day."
Hamilton caught his unhappy bride in his arms. He was all contrition in
this first moment when his delinquency was brought home to
consciousness. He kissed her tenderly on the brow.
"By Jove, I'm awfully sorry, dear." There was genuine regret for such
culpable carelessness in his voice. "How ever did I forget it?" He drew
her closer in his embrace for a brief caress. Then, after a little, his
natural buoyancy reasserted itself, and he spoke with a mischievousness
that would, he hoped, serve to stimulate the neglected bride toward
cheerfulness. "I say," he demanded, "did you remember it all by
yourself, sweetheart, or did Aunt Emma remind you? I know she's a great
sharp on all the family dates."
The badinage seemed in the worst possible taste to the watching Mrs.
Delancy, but she forbore comment, although she saw her niece wince
visibly. Cicily's pride, however, came to her rescue, and she contrived
to restrain herself from any revelation of her hurt that could make
itself perceptible to Hamilton, who now released her from his arms.
"Oh," she said with an assumption of lightness, "Aunt Emma told me, of
course. How in the world could you suppose that I, in my busy life,
could possibly remember a little thing like the anniversary of our
wedding?"
"No, naturally you wouldn't," the husband agreed, in all seriousness.
"Gad! If you hadn't been so engrossed with that wonderful club and all
your busy society doings, you probably would have remembered, and then
you would have told me."
The young wife perceived that it would be impossible to arouse him to
any just realization of the flagrancy of his fault. Yet, she dared
venture a forlorn hope that all was not yet lost.
"Well, anyhow, Charles," she said, very gently, "I have got the tickets,
and it is our anniversary."
"Even if I had remembered about it," was the answer, spoken with a
quickly assumed air of abstraction, as business returned to his
thoughts, "I couldn't have gone to-night. You see, I have a conference
on--very important. It means a great deal. Morton and Carrington are
coming around to see me.... I can't bother you with details, but you
know it must be important. I can't get out of it, anyhow."
"But, Charles--" The voice was very tender, very persuasive. It moved
Hamilton to contrition. The pleading accents could never have been
resisted by any lover; but by a husband--ah, there is a tremendous
difference, as most wives learn. Hamilton merely elaborated his defense
against yielding to his wife's wishes.
"I tell you, Cicily, it's a matter of business--business of the biggest
importance to me. You're my wife, dear: you don't want to interfere with
my business, do you? Why, I'll leave it to Aunt Emma here, if I'm not
right." He faced about toward Mrs. Delancy, with an air of triumphant
appeal. "Come, Aunt Emma, what would you and Uncle Jim do in such a
case?"
"I think Cicily already knows the answer to that question," was the
neutral reply, with which Hamilton was wholly satisfied.
Now, indeed, the girl abandoned her last faint hope. The magnitude of
the failure shook her to the deeps of her being. She felt her muscles
relax, even as her spirit seemed to grow limp within her. She was in an
agony of fear lest she collapse there under the eyes of the man who had
so spurned her adoration. Under the spur of that fear, she moved forward
a little way toward the window, the while Hamilton chatted on amiably
with Mrs. Delancy, continuing to justify the position he had taken. As
he paused finally, Cicily had regained sufficient self-control to speak
in a voice that told him nothing beyond the bare significance of the
words themselves.
"Oh, of course, you're right, Charles. Don't bother any more about it.
Attend to your conference, and be happy. There will be plenty more
anniversaries!"