The zest of existence must be largely ethical and subjective for the
majority of us or we should speedily become despondent or bored.
Contact with life is necessarily so commonplace for the mass of
humanity, that, were we dependent on personal participation in large
events and dramatic, splendid experiences for inspiration and content,
few would not find themselves restless and in the mental doldrums.
Fortunately for our peace of mind, most of us not only appreciate that
pictorial and world-stirring, or even exciting, affairs can be the lot
of only a fraction of mankind, but, by virtue of the imagination,
manage to impart to our more or less humble vicissitudes the aspect of
an engrossing situation. We recognize the relative insignificance of
the individual drama, but its reality holds us. Its characters may be
few, its scenery bare, its action trite and simple to other eyes, yet
each of us, as the leading actor, finds in the development of a human
soul a part which fascinates him, and lends itself to the finest shades
of expression. Whether it be a king on his throne, or a cripple in his
cot, the essential matter to the world is the nice interpretation. So,
as the true artist in a subordinate rôle forgets for the time that he
is not the leading actor, we refuse to be depressed by the unimportance
of our theatricals and are absorbed by the unfolding perplexities of
our own soul play.
It is every American woman's privilege, according to her tastes, to
dream that she may become the wife of the President of the United
States, or wield a powerful influence as a poetess, humanitarian
educator, or other exponent of modern feminine usefulness. In marrying
Emil Stuart, Constance had renounced the latter in favor of the former
possibility. She had sacrificed all hopes of personal public
distinction, but there still had remained the vision of becoming famous
by proxy, through her husband. If this had never appeared to her happy
eyes as a bride more than an iridescent dream, the idea that she would
presently be working in a lawyer's office would have seemed utterly
inconsistent with her scheme of life, and a violation of her horoscope.
Yet, now that she was established in this position, she found the
experience not only satisfactory, as a means of subsistence, but
interesting. In the first place, it stirred her to be down-town in the
swift current of affairs and a part of the busy crowd which peopled the
huge office-buildings and swept to and from its work with the
regularity and rhythmic force of the tide. Through this daily contact
she discerned, as never before, the dignity and the pathos of labor,
and gained both courage and exhilaration from the thought that, though
there were generals and captains, and she was in the rear rank of
privates, the real strength of the army lay in the faithful performance
by the individual of that portion of the world's toil entrusted to
himself or herself. There was attraction, too, in her employment,
though her task was but to register and reproduce with despatch the
thoughts of others. The occupation tested her accuracy, patience,
tact, and diligence. She must avoid blunders and be swift to
comprehend. There were secrets in her keeping; affairs upon the issue
of which hinged large sums of money, and often the happiness of leading
citizens, who were clients of the office; close legal battles between
mind and mind; domestic difficulties settled out of court; and suits
for injuries, where the price of a life or of a limb were at stake.
Her lips must be sealed, and she must seem unaware of the tragedies
which passed beneath her observation. Yet the human element became a
constant, vivid interest to her, and now and then it happened, as, for
instance, when a forlorn hope brought liberal damages to the wronged or
the afflicted, that she was taken into the secret by the exultant
plaintiff, and was able to rejoice openly. There was, finally, her
association with her employer. From this she had not expected much.
She was there to execute his instructions without superfluous words or
the obtrusion of her own personality. She knew, instinctively, that he
would not treat her merely as a machine, but she took for granted that
their relations would be formal. It pleased her that, though this was
the case, there were moments, even from the first, when he let her
perceive that he regarded her as a social companion. To evince a
kindly interest in her personal affairs was simply human; anyone might
show this; but to talk with her on the topics of the day, to call her
attention to a book or an article, or, as presently happened, to invite
her opinion on a question of legal ethics, was a flattering indication
that he considered their point of view the same. A difference in point
of view is the most insurmountable, because the most intangible,
barrier to the free play of human sympathy and the social instinct. It
is the last great fortress in the pathway of democracy; one which the
besiegers will be able to carry only by learning the password. A
free-masonry exists, from the cut of the mind to that of the hair and
coat, between those who recognize each other, and not to speak the same
language palsies the best intentions. Modest as her introduction to
Mrs. Randolph Wilson had made her, Constance in her heart believed that
she spoke the same mental language as Mr. Perry. But would he
recognize it? That he did so not only increased her interest in
serving him, but held out the promise of a new friend. He might so
easily have passed her over, he who was so busy and had so many
acquaintances. Yet it was plain that he liked to talk to her, and that
he availed himself of opportunities for conversation. At the end of a
year it happened that the other stenographer, her predecessor, left Mr.
Perry's employment in order to marry. As a consequence, Constance
became the senior clerk, and was given formal charge of the office with
a slight increase in pay.
[Illustration: There were moments, even from the first, when he let her
perceive that he regarded her as a social companion]
She would scarcely have been human had Gordon Perry's complimentary
interest failed to inspire her with some degree of hero-worship. Yet,
though she was presently aware that she had set him on a pedestal, she
felt that she had excellent reasons for her partiality. Was he not a
clear-headed, astute reasoner, as well as kind? A thorough,
conscientious worker, who went to the root of whatever he undertook,
and prosecuted it vigorously, as well as a gracious spirit with a sense
of humor? If she did not reveal much of the last quality herself, she
appreciated and enjoyed it in others, especially when it was the sort
of humor which championed truth against error and could be playful or
caustic, as the occasion demanded. He was simple and approachable, yet
he had influential and fashionable friends. Recently he had made the
acquaintance of Mrs. Randolph Wilson, and was on pleasant terms with
her. Constance had recognized her handwriting, and had been apprised
by Loretta of his presence at Mrs. Wilson's entertainments. Loretta
had, what seemed to Constance, almost a mania for the social department
of newspapers. She knew by rote the names of the society leaders, and
was familiar through reportorial photography with many of their faces.
Mrs. Wilson was the bright, particular star in this galaxy of interest.
Loretta searched with avidity for every item of gossip which concerned
her divinity, and took a hectic pleasure in retailing her information.
Thus it happened that every now and then she would exclaim: "I see that
your boss was at her last entertainment," the fact of which was more
agreeable to Constance than the phraseology. Loretta's diction was
always clear, but Constance, who wished to feel that they spoke the
same language, had often to bite her lips as a reproof to her
sensibilities; and, especially, when she heard her hero spoken of as
her boss. It was so wide of the truth regarding him.
Then there was his mother, and here again Constance had cause to feel
gratified. Quite unexpectedly Mrs. Perry had called upon her, seeking
her at Lincoln Chambers in the late afternoon when she was likely to be
at home. While serving her five o'clock tea, Constance had observed,
with interest in her personality, marked resemblances to her son. He
had inherited her naturalness and mental vigor. Her cheerful
directness, too, but in his case the straightforward attitude was
softened by the habit of deliberation and garnished by a more tolerant
gaiety. It was obvious that Mrs. Perry maintained the integrity of her
convictions until they ran counter in daily life to his, and in
capitulating reserved always the privilege to be of the same opinion
still, which she exercised with her tongue in her cheek, thereby
betraying her great pride in her son, and in her son's superior wisdom.
She professed, for instance, to regard his ideas concerning the new
home in which he had just installed her, and where she was keeping
house for him, as extravagant. What was the use of spending so much on
mere creature comforts? She did not need them. She had sat on
straight-backed chairs all her days and preferred them, and she did not
require a telephone to order her marketing.
"When I was young," she said to Constance, "there was only one set
bath-tub in a house, if any, and no modern plumbing. We carried hot
water upstairs in pails, and those who drew water from the boiler
poured in as much as they took. But there are so many labor-saving
machines to-day, that sheer laziness is at a premium. Gordon declares
that I'm all wrong, and that more people are clean and comfortable as a
consequence. Then, as to the wall-papers and carpets and upholstery,
well, they're pretty, I can't deny that. But, somehow, it goes against
my grain to see so many bright colors. Yet when I say it looks
frivolous, Gordon simply laughs. So I've promised to hold my tongue
until everything is finished, and to let him have his way. He likes to
have his way almost as much as I do mine, Mrs. Stuart, and the
strangest part is that, though he doesn't always convince me, I have a
secret feeling that he must be right."
Constance was taken to see the new house in one of the outlying and
more fashionable wards of the city, which, as Mrs. Perry had declared,
was supplied with all the modern improvements and was being furnished
with an eye to artistic taste. It became evident that the old lady,
despite her misgivings, was very proud at heart of the whole
establishment, but that her satisfaction centred in the library--her
son's room--a cosey, spacious apartment with tall shelves for his books
and various conveniences adapted to a bachelor and a student. As
standing on the threshold, she exhibited it to her guest with a shy
pride, which almost seemed to gasp at the effects disclosed, she
murmured: "It sometimes seems to me a wicked waste of money; but I'm
glad to think he's going to be so comfortable."
Constance replied, "It's a delightful room. Just the place, restful to
the body and stimulating to the spirit, which a busy man like Mr. Perry
ought to have."
"There can be nothing too good for him, if that's what you mean."
"I heartily assent," said Constance, smiling. "And I agree with your
son that it is sensible and right to surround oneself with pretty
things if one has the means."
"I guess that he must have talked it over with you," said the old lady,
with a keen glance.
"No."
"Well, it's a wonder he hasn't, for he sets store by your opinion on
lots of things. In my day, compliments weren't considered good for
young people, but I don't believe from your looks that you'll work any
the less well because I let you know what he thinks of you. He was
saying the other day that he feared you must find thumping on that
machine of yours, week in and week out, and taking down letters in
double-quick time, dull work, and I told him that a woman of the right
sort, with two children to support, had no time to feel dull or to
think about her feelings, but was thankful for the chance of steady
employment. You see I know something about that myself. You have your
boy and girl to keep your thoughts busy, just as I had him."
"Yes, indeed. But it is a pleasure to work for Mr. Perry. No man is a
hero to his valet, and need not be, I suppose, to his stenographer.
You won't think it presumptuous of me to say that he has been very
considerate, and that I enjoy taking down his words because he is so
intelligent and so thorough?"
"There's no one who likes to hear nice things said about him so well as
his mother. There's only one fault about him, so far as I know, and
that may be cured any day. He's a bachelor. I would move straight out
of this house to-morrow in order to see him well married."
"That wouldn't be necessary, I imagine, Mrs. Perry."
"Yes, it would. I should make a detestable mother-in-law. Gordon gets
his clear-headedness from me, and I know my own faults. I shouldn't be
jealous, but I should wish her to do things in my way, and she would
wish to do them in hers, so we should clash. I wouldn't risk it. But
I'd be willing to die to-morrow and never to kiss my grandchildren if
only he had a good wife. I should be very particular, though."
"I should think so. I hope with all my heart that he may meet a woman
worthy of him." Constance was a little surprised by her own fervor.
Expressed in sound it seemed to her almost familiar. Then, without
knowing why, she sighed. Was it because she painfully recalled that
marriage was a lottery?
Mrs. Perry evidently ascribed the sigh to that source, for after
regarding her a moment, she said softly, "It was easier for me than it
is for you. When I lost my husband we were very happy. You are left
alone. You see my son has told me your story."
"I am glad that you should know."
"But you are young, my dear. Young and a charming looking, lovable
woman. The right man may come along. Who knows?"
Constance stared at her in astonishment. "My husband is not dead," she
said, a little formally.
"Yes, I know. He deserted you."
"But he is alive."
"Gordon told me that you had not been divorced."
"I have never thought of such a thing."
"You know where he is?"
"I have not seen him or heard from him since the day he left me nearly
three years ago."
"Precisely."
"He is the father of my children, however."
For a moment Mrs. Perry seemed to be pondering the thesis contained in
her single word of deduction, and her visitor's reply. Then she bent
her shrewd eyes on Constance, and said with a quiet pithiness of
utterance, which reminded the latter of her employer. "I was not
tempted to marry again because I loved my husband, and could not forget
him. But I've never been able to convince my common sense that it is
fair to asperse the woman who marries again after the law has separated
her forever from the man who has done her a grievous wrong, but to
think it only right and fitting for a widow to take a second husband
when the first whom she has loved, and who has loved her, is in the
grave. If I were a young woman on my death-bed, I expect I couldn't
make up my mind to beg my husband to marry again. But I couldn't blame
him if he did. It's the way of human nature, often as not. It's
hateful to be lonely. And why shouldn't the girl marry again, who has
been left in the lurch by a cruel man, who has been false to the vow he
took to support and protect her? Only the other day a rich merchant
whom my son knows, a man of over sixty, who had lived with his wife for
thirty years, married again before she had been dead twelve months, and
they had a solemn church wedding. It was your clergyman, Mrs. Stuart,
who married them. I'd call it disgusting, except that some people said
he was solitary, although he had daughters. But to make fish of one
and flesh of the other, isn't just. I'm an old woman, and the longer I
live the more I dote on justice."
"I remember now. I know whom you mean. Loretta insisted on reading me
the account of it from the newspaper. I've seen him in church. He is
one of the vestrymen."
"Yes, it was a society function. But I don't judge him," said Mrs.
Perry, sitting up straight to emphasize her intention to be
dispassionate. "Men are queer. His wife was dead, and he had the
right to ask another woman to fill her place. But why, then, should
anyone criticise you?"
"Have you heard anyone criticise me?" Constance asked, hoping to
extricate the conversation from the depths of this argument by a ripple
on the surface.
"Some of them would. You did yourself, you know."
"It was a new idea to me. I have never thought of marrying." After a
moment's silence, she added, simply: "How would you like your son to
marry a divorced woman, Mrs. Perry?"
Her mind had picked out, instinctively, the crucial question. The old
lady gave a little gasp and start.
"A divorced woman? Gordon?" Then she laughed. "The way you said
'divorced woman' had a formidable sound." The personal application was
evidently a surprise to her; evidently, too, it interested her, and she
wrestled with it sitting erect and bright-eyed. In another moment she
had worked out the answer to her own satisfaction. "It would depend
upon her--what she was like. If she were innocent--if she had been
grossly wronged, and had sought the relief from her distress which the
laws allow, and I liked her and he loved her, I shouldn't object. Or,
put it in this way: I should prefer that Gordon did not marry a widow,
but a girl with all the freshness of her life before her."
"Yes, indeed," murmured Constance.
"But plenty of young men fall in love with widows and marry, and no one
thinks any the worse of the widows, or of them. I'd fully as lief
Gordon married a divorced woman as one who had buried her husband. And
if I were sure she was a fine woman, I can imagine my sentiment
vanishing like moonshine, and my not minding a bit."
Constance shook her head thoughtfully. "He must marry some fine, sweet
girl without a past," she said with gentle positiveness.
"Amen to that, my dear. And the sooner the better."
One day early in September, in the summer following the date of this
conversation, Paul Howard entered the office. As he passed into
Gordon's private room, omitting the gay greeting which he was wont to
exchange with her, Constance noticed that his expression was grave and
tense, and that he looked tired. She said to herself that his summer
at Newport could not have rested him.
It was Paul's second season at Newport. In accordance with his
half-humorous prediction, he had hired there, the previous summer, one
of the most desirable villas, a spacious establishment with a superb
outlook to sea. He had maintained a large steam yacht, and an
elaborate stable, and had entertained lavishly. All to please his
wife. At least so he regarded it, and this was in a large measure the
truth. Ever since his marriage, five years back, Paul had been
thinking that he would like to spend his vacation in some cool,
picturesque spot, far from scenes of social display, where with his
wife he could enjoy the beauties of nature unreservedly, and recuperate
from the fatigues of the winter. But, though he had hankered after
this in theory, and had broached the project to Mrs. Howard, somehow it
had never come to pass, and he had been secretly aware for some time
that it never would, unless one of them had nervous prostration and
were ordered away by a physician. For when one is a millionaire and
has an ambitious wife, one gets into the way of doing what other
millionaires do, and becomes acclimated to the amusements proper to
millionaires, until presently the necessity of having luxuries at one's
fingers' ends makes any other programme seem insipid and a bore. Those
who neglect to follow their own tastes cannot fail to be moulded by the
tastes which they adopt. We readily habituate ourselves to our
surroundings, whether it be too few baths, or too many. Paul delighted
in the plumbing facilities of his establishment. He was perpetually
taking baths and changing his underclothes, and the apprehension lest
this orgie be interfered with had taken the edge off his desire for
closer contact with the beauties of nature. He recognized the change
in himself, but charged it to the account of the spirit of the age,
that convenient depository of modern philosophers. So, by the end of
that first summer, he had found himself content rather than otherwise
with the experience and disposed to return. To begin with, his wife
was enthusiastic. As she expressed it, she had had the time of her
life, which was comforting. Although from Monday morning to Thursday
night had been spent by him in New York (he had arranged to be absent
from Benham during the summer months and take temporary charge of the
New York office), the rest of the week was passed at Newport, and for
the trip he had his own comfortable yacht. Besides, he took a
fortnight in August, during the time of the New York Yacht Club cruise,
with its opportunities to meet familiarly men of importance in the
financial world. There was golf and riding and driving, his baths and
cocktails. If he found the widely advertised, and rather foolish,
extravagant entertainments in dog-day August, to which his wife dragged
him, tedious, he could generally slip away early if she wished to stay
to dance, and often he could manage to be in New York when they
occurred. Besides, since to be present at them seemed to be regarded
as social recognition, he was gratified to be treated as a millionaire
would wish to be treated in the society of millionaires. To go, or at
least to be represented by his wife, who made his excuses most
charmingly he was told, showed that he had not been left out, which is
the controlling reason why people go to festivities at Newport, except
to those where trinkets of real value are given away in the course of
the evening. Paul had fully intended to renounce cocktails. In fact,
he had sworn off at Benham; but since they appeared to take the place
of a grace before meat at every gathering of Newport's fashionable male
contingent, he had yielded again like a good fellow to the spirit of
the age just for one summer. One swallow does not make a summer, as we
all know, and similarly, destiny often requires more than one summer to
carry the spirit of the age to its logical conclusions. This is true
of the effect of cocktails on the coats of the stomach, according to
the best medical authorities. But we are not considering that here.
Indeed, the working out process which Paul now found confronting him
was outside of himself and concerned him chiefly as a victim. If his
first summer at Newport had been propitious, taking all things,
including the spirit of the age, into consideration, the second had
been productive of momentous issues. It was in relation to these that
Paul had come to consult Gordon Perry, his friend and legal adviser.