The week that followed was to Cicily the most strenuous and the most
exciting that she had ever experienced in the brief span of her years.
She steadfastly maintained her pose as a woman who had renounced her
husband; yet, she remained in that husband's house, with a sublime
disregard for the inconsistency of her conduct. She studiously avoided
any discussion, of the status she had established. What her future
course would be was left wholly to conjecture. She presided at the table
with inimitable grace and self-possession, taking care to treat her
husband with every consideration, but always with a trace of formality
that was significant of the changed relation. Hamilton, on his part, was
inclined to regard his wife's dramatic renunciation of him as a passing
whim, which it were wiser to ignore until such time as it should have
worn itself out. In the meantime, he was so much absorbed by the
struggle over his business difficulties that, he had little time or
disposition to make researches into feminine psychology, even that of
his wife. He had an optimistic theory that, in the end, his domestic
troubles would adjust themselves by some process of natural evolution.
He was confident, too, that his assertion of mastery must eventually be
accepted by his wife. So, he smiled pleasantly on Cicily, when he was
not too busy to notice her presence, and betimes he felt the little
packet that he carried in the inner pocket of his waistcoat, and was
fondly content, wondering when the dear girl would again slip the bond
of servitude willingly on the finger whence she had removed it with such
magnificent disdain.
It was that wedding-ring, thus cherished by Hamilton, which caused the
wife more concern than aught else in her domestic entanglement. She had
regarded the symbol as something splendidly sacred, and she now bitterly
regretted the impulse that had led her to discard it so needlessly.
Indeed, the very night on which she defied her husband, she had crept
down to the library when all the house was quiet, and had there made
sure that it was not still lying disregarded on the table where she had
cast it down in resentment. Now, she hoped and believed that her husband
had locked it away in some drawer where at least it would be safe.
Only, she wished that she had saved it as a souvenir of mingled
happiness and sorrow.
Apart from this matter of the ring, Cicily had no remorse. She regretted
the course of action thrust on her by malign fate, but her conscience
was clear of reproach. Perhaps, in some subtle, unconfessed recess of
her heart, she nourished a hope that ultimately joy would return to her
life. But her openly expressed conviction to herself was that she was
done with the life of love. Yet, a curious personal ambition urged her
on to make good the declaration to her husband that she would save him
in spite of himself. To this end, she bent all her energies. As she
reflected on the circumstances under which she had so ignominiously
failed, she decided that she must have recourse again to the means by
which she had so nearly attained success in her plans for her husband's
welfare, only to fail miserably on account of the obstinacy of the
Civitas Society. So, she sought out the women whom she had unhappily
offered as candidates to the club, and set herself with all the art that
was in her to win back their favor. She was sure that by alliance with
them she could mold circumstance to her will, and ultimately triumph
gloriously over the erring man who had flouted her ambition to help in a
business struggle.
Cicily made a full confession of her marital disaster to Mrs. Delancy,
who by turns scolded and cried over the wilful girl. The old lady
disapproved strongly of her niece's conduct, which was without any
excuse whatsoever according to her own notions of conventional
requirements. But, since she loved this child whom she had mothered, she
forgave her, and by degrees came to feel a certain sympathy for her,
which reacted mildly in her own attitude toward her husband.... It was
on one of her visits to her aunt that Cicily encountered Mr. Delancy,
who was already aware of the unfortunate position of affairs, and now
felt himself called on to protest. He expressed himself with some
severity, and concluded with a hope that she was not determined to
persevere in her folly.
"I was never more determined in my whole life, Uncle Jim," was the
emphatic answer.
Mr. Delancy resisted a temptation to snatch up one of the teacups from
the exquisite Sevres service over which his wife and his niece were
sitting, and to hurl it into the fireplace, for the sake of relieving
his choler. He refrained from any overt act, however, by a great effort
of will, and perforce contented himself with an explicit statement of
his opinion:
"You were never more bull-headed in your life," he snorted, stopping
short in his agitated pacing of the drawing-room, to face his niece with
a scowl; "and that's saying a great deal--a very great deal!"
"James!" Mrs. Delancy exclaimed, in mild remonstrance.
But Cicily was not to be suppressed by this man who typified the evils
against which she had fought.
"Would you have me give up my principles?" she questioned, scornfully.
Once again, Mr. Delancy snorted contemptuously.
"You haven't got any principles," he declared, baldly. "No woman has."
At this brutal statement on the part of her husband, Mrs. Delancy
stiffened, and an exclamation of shocked amazement burst from her.
Cicily smiled cynically, as she addressed her aunt:
"Well, Aunt Emma," she said amusedly, "you see now what your attitude
has led to. You began with no backbone. So, now, you have no principles.
Oh, you nice, sweet-faced, gray-headed, deceiving old-lady reprobate,
you!"
But Mrs. Delancy refused to see any element of humor in the situation.
Indeed, she was on the verge of tears over the wantonly injurious
statement made by the husband whom she had cherished for a lifetime.
"James, how could you!" she cried out, in a voice broken by emotion. "To
say such things to your wife--oh!"
Too late, the irascible husband realized that he had committed a serious
fault, had in fact been guilty of a gross injustice, which was hardly
less than an insult, to the woman whom he thoroughly respected.
"Emma--" he began, appealingly.
But Mrs. Delancy had changed in an instant from tearful reproach to
righteous indignation.
"No, don't speak to me!" she commanded; and she deliberately turned her
back on the culprit.
Under the goad of this treatment, Delancy addressed his niece in a tone
that was almost ferocious.
"So," he snarled, "not content with breaking up your own home, you'd
try to ruin mine, would you! You should apologize to your Aunt Emma, at
once."
"Dear Auntie," Cicily exclaimed without a moment's hesitation, in a
voice of contrition, "I beg you to let me apologize to you very humbly
for what Uncle James said."
"What the--!" stormed the badgered old gentleman. "Now, look here,
Cicily. You think you're very smart. But do you know what your attitude
has led to?--Scandal!"
Mrs. Delancy forgot for the moment her own subject for complaint.
"Yes," she agreed, turning to her niece, "it's a scandal to live in a
house with a strange man--you know, that's what you yourself called
Charles."
"It's a worse scandal," Delancy amended, "not to live with him."
"Oh, I see," Cicily remarked, meditatively. "I must have a chaperon.
But, on the other hand, now, Charles is, or rather he was, my husband.
That seems, somehow, to make a difference. At least, we are well
acquainted, although strangers at present, in a sense. And, besides, I
have the kindliest feeling for Charles, and that's more than lots of
women have for their husbands. As to that, you know, since he's not my
husband now, there is really no reason why I should not have the very
kindliest of feelings for him."
"Well, you claim to renounce your husband," Delancy argued angrily, "and
yet you continue to live with him in the same house. It's a monstrous
state of affairs. Will you tell me, please, madam, when this scandalous
situation is to end?"
"Would you have me desert Charles in a crisis?" Cicily demanded,
haughtily. "No, I'll give no one an opportunity to accuse me of
desertion in the face of the enemy."
"Oh, Lord!" Delancy exclaimed; and his tone was eloquent. "Oh, no, you
haven't deserted him!"
"I don't see what that has to do with it," Cicily objected, flushing
painfully. "Charles and I have merely--that is, we've--broken off
diplomatic relations."
At this extraordinary statement of the case, Mrs. Delancy, in her turn,
flushed a dainty pink, which was wondrously becoming to her waxen
cheeks, not unduly wrinkled despite her burden of years. Delancy
himself forgot indignation for the moment, and laughed outright, as he
regarded his wife to observe the manner in which she received the
surprising information. His eyes took on a kindlier expression as he saw
the change that gave her a wondrously younger look, and a rush of
memories caused him to smile reminiscently, half-sadly, half-tenderly.
The effect on him was apparent in the pleasanter voice with which he
next addressed his niece, playfully:
"My, my! She'd be sending him home to his mother, I expect, if only he
had a mother."
Cicily, still suffering in the throes of a painful embarrassment,
retorted hotly:
"Uncle Jim, I'd just like to shake you!"
"Oh, don't mind my gray hairs," Delancy scoffed. "And, when you're done
with me, you might spank your Aunt Emma."
That good woman shook her head dolorously, as the flush died from her
face.
"I don't know what we're coming to," she mourned.
"Anarchy!" was her husband's prompt answer, as he mounted again on his
favorite hobby. "Once women begin to believe that they have
intelligence, anarchy will be the natural, the inevitable result. God
never made them to think." In his excitement, he had forgotten the
manner in which he had already once offended his wife.
"Then, why did God give women brains?" Cicily demanded.
"I can't waste my time in arguing with a woman," Delancy answered
loftily, and, turning away, tugged superciliously at a wisp of whisker.
"That's it! Oh, yes, that's it!" Cicily exclaimed, with rising
indignation. Her embarrassment had passed, but a flush remained in her
cheeks, and her radiant eyes were alight with the battle-lust. "You
think women haven't any intelligence. You can't waste your time arguing
with them! Very well, then, I tell you that it's you who haven't the
intelligence to recognize a new point of view--a new force in the world;
the force of women's brains--until it shall hit you in the face. That's
why I'm holding out against Charles, fighting him, to save him, to keep
him from growing into a narrow-minded, hard-headed, ignorant old
fossil!" The application of this explicit description was not far to
seek. It was evident that Delancy took it to himself, for he, in his
turn at last, colored rosily. But he did not choose to accept a personal
reference, and contented himself with a bit of repartee:
"Huh, no fear! He won't live to be a fossil. His troubles will kill him
off early, or I lose my guess.... So, that's your excuse for ruining
him, is it?"
"I'd help him, if he'd let me," Cicily answered, sadly, forgetful of her
indignation against the sex.
"You help him!" Delancy exclaimed, mockingly. "Why, you brought on the
strike."
"But--" Cicily would have protested, only to be interrupted by the
indignant old gentleman, who shook an accusing forefinger at her.
"You can't tell me! Yes, you did, with your impertinent interference.
Huh! When women get to fooling with business, we shall all go to the
dogs. Why, if it hadn't been for you and for what you did with your
precious 'helping,' Charles would have had a chance to make good money.
Now, Morton and Carrington are charging the independent dealers
twenty-two cents a box. But for this strike, Charles might have induced
those old pirates to raise their price to him a little, and let him
make some money.... Help him--oh, piffle!"
"Well," Cicily declared, not a whit abashed, "if I were Charles, I'd
start up again, pay wages, and sell to the independents."
The seriousness with which the young woman spoke for a moment betrayed
Delancy into discussing business with one of the unintelligent sex.
"But his contracts!" he objected.
"What are contracts," Cicily interrupted serenely, "when the workmen are
hungry?"
"There, Emma!" Delancy cried, in deep disgust. "Do you hear? Now, isn't
that just like a woman?"
"Yes, James," Mrs. Delancy answered meekly; "I know that you're right.
But, somehow, I think Cicily, too, is right."
At this paradoxical pronouncement, Delancy stared fixedly at his wife in
stark amazement.
"What!" he gasped. "What! After forty years, you say that to me! You
question my business judgment! Emma, you, my wife!" He struggled wildly
for a few seconds to gain control of his emotions. "No," he continued
bitterly; "I deserve it for forgetting myself. I beg my own pardon for
mentioning a word of business to a woman.... I'm going to Charles--poor
fellow!" After a long, resentful stare directed against his former ward,
he marched out of the room.
"See what you've made me do!" Mrs. Delancy said accusingly to her niece,
as the two were left alone together. "Why, I've actually appeared
rebellious to James."
"You ought to have been so years ago," Cicily rejoined, stubbornly.
But Mrs. Delancy could only shake her head morosely in negation of this
audacious idea. Then, her thoughts reverted to the young woman's
doubtful position.
"How is it all going to end?" was her despondent query.
"You mean, when are Charles and I going to make public the true state of
affairs? When are we going to part before the world?" The old lady
nodded acquiescence. "Well, that will be when the strike is over, and
Charles's business troubles are settled--not before."
"If this sort of thing keeps on," Mrs. Delancy announced, with another
access of self-pity, "your Uncle Jim and I probably will be parted by
that time, too!"
"Nonsense!" Cicily jeered, smitten to sudden compunction for her part in
causing distress of mind to the woman whom she really loved and honored.
"Why, Auntie, if you were to leave Uncle Jim, whom would he have to
bully? Pooh, dear, you and he'll never part."
Again, the old lady's thoughts veered from herself.
"But, Cicily," she ventured, "you're doing your best to prolong the
strike. You're actually giving those women money, I know. Yesterday,
when I called to see you, I saw the stub in your chequebook, which was
lying open on the desk in your boudoir. I didn't mean to pry, but I
couldn't help seeing it."
"Well, I'm not letting them starve," was the unashamed admission.
"Cicily," Mrs. Delancy said, with an abrupt transition from one phase of
the subject under consideration to another, "about this matter of you
and Charles separating, I have a suspicion that you are very much like
that highly improper young woman in the French story, who was going to
live with her lover as long as the geranium lasted. And you're going to
live in the house with Charles while his troubles continue. And that
improper young woman used to get up in the night, every night, to water
the geranium, secretly. And you are providing the strikers with food, to
prolong the strike. Humph! You don't want to go." Cicily blushed a
little, but attempted no reply. "You're in love with him--you know you
are!"
The young wife's reserve broke down a little before the keen glance that
accompanied the words.
"I--oh, I'm interested in his spiritual development," she stammered,
weakly. "Anyhow," she added defensively, "he--doesn't know it!"
"Thank heaven, you're still moral!" Mrs. Delancy ejaculated, in accents
of huge relief.
"I think I must be," was the low-spoken admission, "because--because I'm
so unhappy!" The scarlet lips drooped to a tremulous pathos, as she went
on speaking in a voice of poignant feeling. "Oh, Aunt Emma, when I see
Charles so harassed, so tired, so troubled in every way, I just long to
throw my arms around his neck, and to kiss all those hard lines away
from his dear face, and to tell him how much I love him, and how sorry I
am, and how much I want to help him."
"Heaven bless you, child!" Mrs. Delancy exclaimed, surprised and
delighted. "Why don't you, then?"
"Because," came the gloomy explanation, "if I did, I'd be like you."
The old lady was not gratified by this candid defense.
"Humph! Well, you might do worse, if I do say so myself," she declared,
with a toss of her head.
"Of course, you old dear," Cicily agreed, with an air of humility, "in
lots and lots of ways--but--"
"You're obstinate!" came the tart rebuke. "If you're really in love with
him, give in!"
"That's just the trouble," the young wife said. "Because I'm so much in
love with him, I can't give in in this particular. I love him too much
to be content with just the bits of him that are left over from the
other things. I want a partnership. Marriage has changed since your day,
Auntie. Real marriage to-day must be a partnership in all things. I
must have that, a full share in my husband's life--or nothing! I tell
you, there is too much of men and women swearing before God to become as
one, and walking away to begin life and to live it ever after as two. It
was all very well when the women had the house to keep, and didn't
think; but nowadays most of them have no house to keep, and they are
beginning to think."
"But," Mrs. Delancy objected, much discomposed by this tirade against
matrimony as she knew it, "you're upsetting all the holy things. To look
up to your husband--that's love."
"That's lonesomeness and a crick in the neck!" was the flippant denial.
"My woman would stand where her brains entitle her to stand, beside her
husband, looking into his eyes, working for him, working with him, being
together with him straight through everything. That's love; that's real
marriage!"
"Cicily," Mrs. Delancy protested, totally bemused by her niece's fiery
eloquence, "I think you're wrong, but I--I feel that you're right."
"Deep down in your heart, dear," the young woman asserted with profound
conviction, "you know that I'm right, because you're a real woman. The
men don't know it--poor things!--but the ruling passion of a woman's
life is usefulness. And isn't it much nicer to work for a husband whom
you love than for the heathen?"
Before her aunt could frame an adequate answer to this very pertinent
inquiry, Cicily sprung up, with the graceful animation that was usual
with her.
"And, now, I must hurry home," she announced, "to receive Mrs. McMahon
and Mrs. Schmidt and Sadie Ferguson, who are coming to call."
"Merciful providence!" Mrs. Delancy ejaculated, in genuine horror. "You
don't mean to tell me that those women come to your house now?"
"Oh, yes," was the nonchalant assent. "Why shouldn't they? You know,
we're friends again now. I've organized them into a club."
"Well, I do not think it's at all proper," the old lady said, with
severe decisiveness.
But Cicily only laughed under the reproof, bestowed a hasty kiss on her
aunt's cheek, and swept buoyantly from the room.