Constance did not see her husband again for twenty-four hours. He
returned at supper-time and took his place at the table without a word
of apology or explanation. He was in a state of great depression,
morose and uncommunicative. On previous occasions when misfortune had
befallen him, he had taken his wife into his confidence, but now it
seemed either that he had lost his grip on life so completely that
words failed him, or that the resentment which he had expressed toward
her was still dominant. When the meal was over, he went out and did
not return until late. He was boozy with drink, and threw himself on
his bed with the air of a man who would fain dispel consciousness by
the luxury of sleep.
Emil's mode of life for the next few weeks was substantially a
repetition of this programme. Glum, sour, and listless he went his way
in the morning; fuddled, indifferent, and sleepy he returned at night.
Concerning his circumstances and plans he said nothing to Constance.
She was left totally in the dark as to the extent and the effect of his
reverses. He had told her that they were ruined, yet he continued to
go down-town as though nothing had happened. Trusting that he would
enlighten her of his own accord, at first she asked no questions. Then
as he did not speak, she requested him one morning to tell her how his
affairs stood, urging her solicitude and affection. He listened
frowningly and put her off with the disconcerting utterance "You'll
know soon enough. It's just as well to let a drowning man grasp at
straws while there are any to grasp at."
His half-scornful, half-desperate manner forbade further inquiry at the
moment if she did not wish to widen the breach between them. Constance
was in deep distress. She yearned to comfort and help him, but this
wifely, loving impulse was haunted by the consciousness now forced upon
her with painful clearness that she had misjudged his nature and was
mated to a crank. How otherwise could she interpret his hostile
attitude toward herself? To what but a cross-grained perversity of
soul could she ascribe his disposition to blame her for his
misfortunes? Her duty was plain, to make the best of the situation,
and to ignore, so far as self-respect would permit, his laceration of
her feelings, trusting to time to restore his sense of justice and
renew concord between them. But what hope was there for the future?
Hope for the realization of that blissful, ennobling married state to
which she had looked forward as a bride and had believed in store for
her? Here was the thought which tormented her and gave poignancy to
the dismay and anxiety of the moment. Even if their immediate
circumstances were less serious than Emil had declared, was there any
reason to believe that his next experiment would be more successful?
She had accepted hitherto without question his declaration that
ill-luck had been responsible for all his troubles, but that
consolation was hers no longer. She found herself listening to the
voice of criticism to which until now she had turned a deaf ear. In a
new spirit, without bitterness, but in the assertion of her right as a
wife to judge the man to whom she had committed her happiness, she
recalled the incidents of their married life--his theories, arguments,
and point of view. He had declared her to blame for his misfortunes.
Surely if she had failed in her duty it had not been toward him. She
had sacrificed her opinions to his, and for his sake abnegated her most
precious predilections in order to make the union of their lives
sweeter and more complete. If she were guilty, was it not of treason
to her own instincts and her own conscience?
Emil indeed had persuaded himself not merely that fortune had betrayed
him, and the hand of the prosperous world was against him, but that his
wife was partly to blame for it. Looking back on his last fiasco, he
conjured up the circumstance that she had not fallen in with his
suggestion of an exodus to New York, and this he had promptly distorted
into a grievance, which grew the more he nursed it. To the notion that
she had thwarted him in everything and that their relations as husband
and wife had been wholly unsympathetic was only another step. It
suited him to feel that he was the injured party, for he was face to
face with the responsibility of supporting his family, which must be
met or avoided. The question of immediate funds was already pressing.
His last reverse had discouraged and angered him, but it had not
diminished his confidence that he would succeed in the right place. It
had only convinced him that Benham was not the right place; that Benham
was too small and provincial; too unappreciative of real ability. He
was unpleasantly in debt, but the bills which he had contracted for
political expenses could be disregarded for the present. He had no
property with which to meet them, and if he were pressed, he had merely
to go into insolvency in order to rid himself of them altogether. Nor
need he worry about the mortgage for the present. It would not be due
for two years, and, provided the interest were paid, they could not be
molested. These redeeming features of his plight were clear to him
after the first days of mental agitation, but his spirit did not
reassert its wonted elasticity. Analyzing the cause, he perceived that
his whole surroundings were repugnant to him, and that he shrank from
recommencing life at the foot of the ladder under the conditions in
which he found himself. He was determined to leave Benham, and he was
determined that his family, if they came with him, should toe the mark.
What this phrase meant precisely he did not formulate, but it suited
his mood. "Toe the mark." He kept repeating it to himself, as though
it promised relief from domestic insubordination. Yes, if his wife did
not choose to adopt his theories and abet him in his undertakings, she
could go her own way for all he cared. It was only on account of the
children that he did not put an end to their contract of marriage
to-morrow by leaving her. Except for them it were surely folly for a
man and woman whose ideas were utterly at variance to continue a
partnership the only fruit of which could be discord and
recriminations. So he argued, and it was only the thought of his
children which restrained him from precipitate action and caused him to
continue to go down-town every day seeking a bare livelihood. Since
the night of his defeat at the polls, Constance had not asked him for
money. Presumably she had some laid by, and was living on that, but by
the first of the month she must have recourse to him or starve, and
then would be the time for his ultimatum. The terms of this, beyond a
declaration of general discontent, were still hazy in his brain,
befogged by malt liquor and inflamed by hatred of the world, but a
glowing conviction that their marriage had been a failure through her
fault was a satisfactory substitute for definiteness. Brooding like a
spider in its web, secretive, hoping that something would turn up to
put him on his feet again, yet almost reckless in his attitude, and
drinking assiduously, he drifted on without aim. His evenings were
spent at his workingmen's club, where he continued as an outlet to his
feelings to deliver virulent philippics, which he realized as he
uttered them were a sorry equivalent for personal success.
While thus limp and embittered, a final mishap impelled Emil to action.
It happened that the broker on the same floor as the office where he
had desk-room, and with whom he was on familiar terms, let him in for a
disastrous tip and put the screws on when the market went the other
way. The sum involved was three hundred dollars, the total residue of
Emil's capital, which he had allowed to remain untouched with this
false friend in order not to be entirely without the means to
speculate. The advice offered had seemed to be friendly and
disinterested. When the result proved disastrous the victim promptly
suspected guile. Certainly he encountered a flinty demeanor, as though
the proprietor of the "bucket-shop" were cognizant of the impecuniosity
of his customer and had decided to squeeze him dry and break with him.
This from the man whose social status on the street he had championed
seemed to Emil rank ingratitude. Yet the broker was making no more
than ordinary business demands upon him. His margin was exhausted, and
the transaction would be closed unless he supplied additional security.
This was business-like, but not friendly, as it seemed to Emil,
especially as the ingrate, who had been so confident of the value of
the tip, chose now to be sphinx-like as to what the next day's price of
the stock would be. All he would vouchsafe was that it would go up
sooner or later.
Since it was necessary to act at once, and to sell meant the loss of
the remnant of his capital, Emil concluded to give himself a chance by
making use of five hundred dollars which had just been paid over to him
for a client in redemption of a mortgage. He argued that the stock,
having fallen in price contrary to expectation, was not likely to
decline further at once, and that if he protected his account, he would
be able to make inquiries and form a more intelligent opinion by the
end of a few days as to what he had best do. Besides, there was
lurking in his mind the bitter argument, which he chose to believe
sound, that the world owed every man a living, and assuredly owed it to
a man like himself. Since the hand of society seemed to be against
him, why should he not take advantage of the resources at his disposal
and save himself? He was simply borrowing; if he were not able to
return the money at once, he would do so later with interest. The
consequences of this performance were disastrous. As Emil had
predicted, the stock in question remained stationary for three days,
but by the end of them he felt no clearer regarding which course to
pursue. Estimates as to its value were contradictory; yet since a sale
at the market price meant the safety of the five hundred dollars at the
cost of his own financial obliteration, he remained hopeful. On the
fourth day the stock broke sharply, and again on the day after. His
holding was only one hundred shares--a paltry transaction from a
capitalistic point of view--yet it was rashness for him. Adversity and
his pressing needs had tempted him to disregard his meditated prudence
and to venture on thin ice. He perceived himself ruined and a
defaulter. The obliquity of his peculation was mitigated in his mind
by the conviction that fortune had been signally cruel to him. As for
the borrowed money, he would give his note and pay it presently when he
was on his feet again. Yet he appreciated that his opportunities for
making a living in Benham were at an end, and that if he remained, he
might find difficulty in inducing the owner of the five hundred dollars
to accept him as a creditor without demur. Clearly the simplest course
was to come to terms by post. To shake the dust of Benham from his
feet was his dearest wish, and the time had arrived for its fulfilment.
There was still one hundred dollars belonging to his client in his
hands which he had not used. This he drew to provide himself with
travelling expenses, arguing that the sooner he were able to reach New
York, the quicker the loan would be repaid, and slipped from the city
without a word to anyone. He had decided to cut adrift from all his
past associations, and an indispensable portion of his plan was to
sever forever his relations with his wife.
A week later he wrote this letter to her from New York:
Constance:
This is to let you know what has become of me. You may have
guessed the truth, but it's woman's way to worry, weep, and raise a
hue and cry, though she knows in her heart that she's mismated, and
that it would be a godsend to her if "hubby" had really blown his
brains out or were safely at the bottom of a well. I'm not dead
yet, nor am I contemplating suicide at present. Though if the time
ever does come when I think the game is played out, it will be
one-two-three-go! without any pause between the numbers. But I'm
as good as dead now, so far as you are concerned. You won't be
troubled by me further. You've seen the last of me. I told you I
was strapped. I'm cleaned out to the last dollar. But that
doesn't phaze me except for the moment. I'm going to make a fresh
start and a clean sweep at the same time. You know as well as I
that our marriage has not been a glittering success. In short,
we've made a mess of it. We thought we were suited to each other,
and we find we're not. That's all. I don't approve of you any
more than you do of me, and what's the use of making each other
miserable by protracting the relation until death do us part? It's
up to me to undo the Gordian-knot, and I've cut it.
You'll shed some tears, I suppose, over the situation, and your
friends will call me a brute. But when the shock is past and
sentimental considerations have evaporated, just ask yourself if
I'm not doing the sensible thing for us both. We don't look at
life in the same way and never will. I'm a radical, and you're a
conservative, and we were misled before marriage by the affinities
of flesh to suppose that oil and water would harmonize. From the
point of view of law I'm the offending party, and you'll be a free
woman to sue for divorce on the ground of desertion, by the end of
three years. In the meantime, you can go back to your kindergarten
work or whatever you see fit. You have your health, and your
philanthropic church friends will enable you to support yourself.
The only hitch is the children. If you had been ready to follow me
to New York when I first suggested it, we might not be separating
now. I expect and am anxious to provide for them. If you will
send them on to me, they shall want for nothing. But if you are
bent on keeping them, as I foresee may be the case, the
responsibility is yours. I should like one at least--preferably
the boy. If you insist on keeping them both, I can't help myself.
There's where you have the whip-hand over me. But don't delude
yourself with the notion that I don't love my own flesh and blood
because I'm not willing to live with their mother.
There will be no use in your coming on here or trying to find me.
I have made up my mind. We could never be happy together, so the
fewer words said about parting the better. Send your answer
regarding the children to the New York post-office. I shall expect
it for a week. The money you loaned me is gone with the rest, but
they can't turn you out of your house until the mortgage is due, if
you pay the interest. Some day I shall pay it back to you. I wish
you well, and consider I'm doing us both a service in cutting loose
from you.
Good-by, EMIL.
It seemed to Constance when she had finished this letter as though her
heart would stop. Was this reality? Could it be that her husband was
abandoning her and her children in cold blood, treating the sacred ties
of marriage as lightly as though they were straws? Alas! his cruel
words stared her in the face, freezing her soul, which had been sick
for days over his unexplained absence; sick from dread. Yes, she had
guessed; but she had put the horror from her as impossible, despite his
hints. Unbalanced and embittered as he was, he could not be so unkind.
Now she was face to face with certainty; there was no room for hope.
It was true; so cruelly inhumanly true that her brain felt dazed and
numb. She gazed at his writing stony-eyed and appalled, limp with
dismay and forlornness. To avoid falling she put out her hand to the
table, and the contact of her own flesh served to readjust her
consciousness. Seating herself she swept her fingers across her brow
to rally her senses, and read the letter again slowly. Then
mortification succeeded dismay, and resentment followed close on
mortification. The wounded pride of the wife, the indignation of the
mother protesting for her children asserted themselves, causing her to
flush to the roots of her hair and her pulses to tingle. Coward!
Unnatural father! What had she done to deserve this? What had they
done, helpless innocents? Give them up to him? Her children, now the
only joy of her life? Never. They could not both have them. Why
should he who had left them in the lurch have either? She could hear
their prattle in the adjoining room, poor little souls, unconscious of
their misery. Then her sense of wounded pride and her anger were
forgotten in the agony of a possible separation from her offspring, and
in the loss of her husband's love, and her tense nerves gave way. "Oh,
Emil, my husband, how could you?" she moaned, and burying her face in
her hands she let sorrow have full sway.
[Illustration: "Oh, Emil, my husband, how could you?" she moaned]
When she had dried her eyes she was prepared to face the situation and
to think more calmly. Certain points were now clear. Emil was right;
since he had ceased to love her, they could never be happy together.
So far as she could see, she had not been at fault, though he had
persuaded himself that she was to blame. She would never have left
him; but now that he had deserted her, she could dare to admit that
their souls were not in accord, and that her love and respect for him
had been waning in spite of herself for many months. She would not
attempt to follow him, and she desired to retain both the children.
Was it her duty to let Emil have one of them? Here was the only
harassing point in the plans for the future which she was formulating.
Would it be fair to the children to separate them? Would she be
justified in keeping them both, in view of the affection which their
father had professed for his own flesh and blood? As Emil had
declared, he and she had made a mess of their marriage, and they were
to separate. Was it fair to him to keep both the boy and the girl?
Ah, but she could not bear the thought of giving up either. She felt
the need of counsel. To whom could she turn? Who were her friends?
She thought of Mr. Prentiss, and she remembered her husband's taunt
concerning her philanthropic church friends with a sense of shrinking.
The church offered itself as a refuge to all in the hour of distress,
but it seemed to her as though she would rather starve than apply to
Mr. Prentiss. Not that she was afraid of starving. That side of the
situation had no terrors for her. She was almost glad at the idea of
supporting herself and her darlings, and she had entire confidence in
her ability to do so, even though she were forced to scrub floors. But
she yearned for the sympathy and advice of a friend. How lonely she
had suddenly become in this large, busy city! Emil had evinced little
desire, especially of late, to make friends in the neighborhood, and
she had been so absorbed in her home and her husband's interest that
she had disregarded her social opportunities. He had been apt to speak
slightingly of their acquaintances as people whom he would soon
outstrip in the struggle of life. And now she was the poorest of the
poor, the saddest of the sad, one of the lowly common people for whom
her doctor father's heart had ever cherished fond and patient sympathy.
She was one of them now herself. How different had been her dreams and
her ambition. To think that she, Constance Forbes, had come to this--a
wife abandoned by her husband, alone and friendless, with only the
semblance of a roof to shelter her and her children. But all this was
nothing if only she need not part with either of her babies. She would
be able to support them, never fear, and with them to support she could
be brave, even happy. But without them? No, no, Emil had forsaken
her, she had lost her faith in him, he was not worthy of the sacrifice;
she dared not trust him; he had no right to either. She could not, she
would not let either go.
When the morning came she was more firmly of the same opinion, and she
composed this reply to her husband:
Emil:
I have your letter and my heart is filled with sorrow. I cannot
compel you to live with me against your will. God knows I have
tried to be a loving, dutiful, and sympathetic wife, but it seems I
have failed to please you. It is true that our ideas of how to
live and what is right are very different. I have been aware of
that in my secret soul, but for your sake I did my best to adopt
your point of view. Now I shall be free to follow my own. Since
you no longer love me, I am not sorry that we are to live apart,
for I can see now that I have suffered much on your account. But I
do not choose to reproach you. What good would it do? Besides you
are the father of my children--poor little things. I do not think
that I should have written to you at all if it were not for the
question what is to become of them.
I am trying to do what is best for them and to be just; just to you
and to myself. I have decided to keep both the children. They are
babies still, and need a mother's love. A father's too, but it
seems they cannot have both. Let God judge between us, Emil. They
are my flesh and blood too, and it is you who are forsaking us, not
we you. As you say, I have my health and we shall not starve. I
am not afraid. There is nothing more to say, is there? It has all
been a dreadful mistake--and we thought we should be so happy.
Good-by. In spite of everything I shall always think of you kindly.