"From my wife. She made a clean breast of their affairs, and seemed to
be rather surprised that I didn't know. It's all cut and dried. That
is, it is to work out that way in the end, and soon, if I'm
accommodating. And I am expected to be. After the first flare-up,
which was all on my part, and did not take place until next morning, we
talked in our ordinary voices, as we are talking now." Since the
climax of his narration, Paul's sensational tone had ceased. He seemed
simply tired, as though he had been suddenly let down. "She set me the
example. You know her face. She looked whiter than ever, but was
perfectly clear and explicit. She said it was evident we were not
suited to each other. Although I agreed with her, I was fool enough to
ask her why, and she intimated politely, but clearly, that I bored
her--said we did not care for the same things. She admitted that I was
not to blame for that, and that I had been very generous in money
matters. Then we talked and we talked and we talked, at that time and
again in the evening, until the small hours. The upshot is, we're to
be divorced as soon as it can be arranged. She is to desert me, or I
her. She seemed to be posted as to the law. Or, whatever way you
suggest. I've given in. She appealed to my common sense, as she
called it. She told me that we had made a mistake, that we both knew
it, and that the sooner we recognized it, the better. That there need
be no disagreeable publicity beyond the fact that we were no longer to
be husband and wife. I couldn't deny that my love for her was dead.
The only difficult question was the child. Neither of us wished to
give her up, and each of us would like to have her all the time.
"Poor little thing!"
"Yes, indeed. When I thought of Helen, I told my wife at first that I
was ready to preserve the outward forms of living together, in the
teeth of her unfaithfulness, for the sake of our child. But she told
me that I was old-fashioned. She asked whether I thought it would be
worse for Helen, or whether Helen would be less happy to live as we
should mutually arrange than to grow up in a wretched household, where
the father and mother were utterly at variance. That was a poser.
It's the devil either way. What do you think?"
"It's the devil, as you say. Amen, to that! But if it's got to
be--got to be," Gordon reiterated, "I'm inclined to think your wife was
right in terming your protest old-fashioned. Where a marriage is
utterly blasted, to retain the husk merely for the sake of the children
must fail, it seems to me, in nine cases out of ten, to accomplish its
purpose--to preserve what society is pleased to call the sanctity of
the home."
"There would not be much sanctity left in mine," Paul murmured.
"However, when she saw that I was determined to have my full share of
Helen, or fight, we came to terms. Helen is to spend her winters with
me, her summer vacations with her mother; or some such arrangement;
and, of course, I am to provide for the child." Paul paused
reflectively. "I don't think it ever occurred to my wife that we do
not stand on an equal footing, and that she would not be the best of
moral influences for a daughter. It seems to be an answer to
everything that we were not sympathetic, and that she has met somebody
who is; her affinity, as they say. I had observed her intimacy with
Waldo, and was aware of some cases at Newport where women had
compromised themselves with other women's husbands; and, though I
didn't exactly fancy Waldo's attentions, and had hinted to her twice my
disapproval--to which the first time she pleaded surprise, and the
second, shrugged her shoulders--I never divined the truth until I
received this." He drew a letter from his pocket and handed it to
Gordon. "Even then, I couldn't believe the worst."
Gordon perused the contents of the envelope, a single sheet of paper on
which were the words: "When the cat's away, the mice will play."
"Humph! Anonymous!" he said.
"She asked me what brought matters to a crisis, and I told her. She
thinks it must have been sent by a maid whom she discharged. I
received it at my New York office in the middle of the week, and the
following Sunday night, instead of leaving Newport in my yacht, as
usual, I pretended to do so, and returned late to my house on foot.
The rest you know. It may be I was too much absorbed in my business.
However, it's all over now, and it's best it should be over. What I
wish is advice as to the necessary steps; that you should tell me what
I ought to do."
"As to a divorce?"
"Yes. She is to follow my instructions in regard to it."
"And what as to the others--the Waldos?"
"No wonder you ask. I put the same question to her, and she told me
that I needn't concern myself about them; that they would find a way."
"There are certainly various ways if people choose to connive at
divorce. There are certain States where the residence essential to
give the court jurisdiction can be obtained in a pitifully short
time--even as short as three months, and where an agreement to live
apart is allowed, through lack of scrutiny, to pass for genuine
desertion. If Mrs. Waldo and her husband have both been guilty of
infidelity, neither is entitled to a decree of divorce in any court of
justice. But that concerns them, not you. I was merely voicing the
regret which every decent man feels that there shouldn't be a uniform
law in all our States. But here one runs up against the vested rights
of sovereign peoples. It's a far cry from South Carolina, where no
divorce is granted for any cause whatever, to Wisconsin or Colorado,
where desertion for one year is sufficient. Yet, if one had to choose
between the two, there is less injustice and more regard for the
welfare of society in the latter extreme, radical as it is, than in the
former. Whatever happens, the world will never go back to marital
chains and slavery." Turning to the book-case at his elbow, Gordon
selected a law book and opened it. "I don't hanker after divorce
cases, but I'm very glad you have come to me, Paul. I was simply
shocked, at first; let me tell you now how heartily sorry I am for you."
"Thank you, Don. I knew you would be. As to my cousin, Lucille, I
cannot say, positively, that she has taken the final step--actually
sinned. My wife admitted that she had no real knowledge, though she
took the worst for granted. But it is certain that the marriage is at
an end, that she and her husband are hopelessly alienated, and that at
the first opportunity she will marry this young Nicholson. As to
myself, you agree with me, don't you, that a divorce is the only
possible, the only sensible, course to adopt?"
Gordon paused a moment before replying. "The only possible, no; the
only sensible--since you ask me as a friend as well as a client--in my
opinion, yes. It's a point which every man must decide for himself, if
it confronts him. Some people would say to you that you should stick
to your wife, not live with her necessarily, but refuse to break the
bond; that she might repent and return to you. It seems to me, though,
that if my wife had been false to me and my love for her were dead, I
would not allow such a sentiment--and it is only sentiment--to tie me
forever to a woman who was no longer my wife, except in name. Your
life is before you. Why should a vitiated contract be a bar between
you and happiness? You may wish to marry again."
Paul shook his head.
"Naturally you don't think so, now. But why not?"
"As George the Second said, '_j'aurai des maitresses_,'" Paul answered,
a little bitterly.
"Exactly!" exclaimed Gordon, with eagerness. "The continuance of such
a bond would be a premium on immorality. That's a point which
sentimentalists do not take sufficiently into account. Why is it
necessary to marry again, they ask. For one thing, because a man's a
man, as you and I know. It's a new question to me, Paul, because,
though it's one of the questions ever on the surface, I have never had
to deal with it squarely until now. The more I think of it the more
sure I am that a divorce would be sensible, and more than that,
sensible in the highest sense, without a jot or a tittle of
deprecation. I know; you don't wish to have to apologize. All I can
say is, if I were in your shoes, I would do the same. You have a right
to your freedom."
"I couldn't see it in any other light. Besides, my wife is bent on
being free, herself. If I do not apply for a divorce, she will--and in
the shortest way."
"As to the method," continued Gordon, after a moment's scrutiny of the
volume before him, "it is simple enough--a mere question of time. In
this State where a party is guilty of a cause for divorce--as in this
case, infidelity--the injured party is justified in leaving the home,
and after such separation has continued for the statutory period, the
injured party may obtain a divorce for desertion. Or, simpler still,
your wife can desert you, and after the necessary time has elapsed, the
same result would follow. The statutory period is three years."
"My wife will not like that."
"It is the only course, if she desires to preserve her reputation. If
she prefers to have you bring a libel for divorce on the ground of
infidelity, she can be free in a much shorter time. Also she could
obtain her liberty somewhat sooner by changing her residence to a more
accommodating jurisdiction and asking a divorce from you. Provided you
offered no opposition, she might succeed, but that would be a
back-handed method discreditable to you both, and an evasion of the
laws of this State, which might, hereafter, be productive of unpleasant
complications. It's a sad business, but you should have a clean job."
"Assuredly. We could separate at once?"
"Yes. But one of you must actually desert the other. An agreement to
live apart does not constitute legal desertion. On the other hand, if
she were to leave your house, the court would not inquire what was
going on in your mind, provided you did not show by any overt sign that
you wished to get rid of her. You can be glad, but you must not say
so."
"I understand. She need not be burdened with my presence from the
outset. As for marrying Waldo, she must wait her three years."
"And she may be thankful that she will be able to marry as soon as the
divorce is absolute. In some States the person against whom a divorce
is granted, is forbidden to marry altogether, or for a period of years
as a punishment. To forbid marriage altogether, in such cases, appears
to me another premium on immorality. To forbid it for a time, may
sometimes prevent indecent haste on the part of the guilty, but it is a
good deal like keeping after school children who have been naughty.
Besides, the party forbidden to marry, as in New York, for instance,
has merely to step into New Jersey and be married, and the second
marriage will be held legal by the New York courts and everywhere else."
Paul was silent for a few moments. "That seems to me a decent
programme. My wife can go to Europe, and--and when the time is up,
marry Waldo. It's easy as rolling off a log." He clapped his strong
hand on the wooden arm of his chair, so that it resounded. "My father
will be terribly cut up. My aunt--God knows what she will say or do.
As for myself"--he paused while he lit a fresh cigar--"I shall have to
go into politics."
"Politics?"
"Yes. I'd like to go to Congress." Paul sat back in his chair with
the air of one taking a fresh brace on life. "I've always intended to,
sooner or later. Had it at the back of my mind. But now--well, if I
were sent to Washington, and presently got a foreign mission, my wife
might feel sorry for a few minutes that I bored her. Yet I wouldn't
have her back. Waldo is welcome to her. The real reason," he added,
suddenly, after another pause, "is that I've been asked. One of the
Republican State Committee spoke to me about it in June, just before I
went to Newport. The election isn't until a year from this autumn. I
told him I'd think it over. I've got to do something to counteract
this disgrace, and to forget it. Well, I must be going. I'll see you
again as soon as I hear from my wife."
Gordon detained him. "You mustn't take too despondent a view of it.
After all, it's not your fault, it's your misfortune. All your friends
will recognize that; and no one will be able to understand how any
woman could weary of the love of a man like you, and prefer a listless,
pleasure-seeker, such as Clarence Waldo."
Paul shrugged his shoulders. "It's the spirit of the age, I suppose.
I'm not sorry, I tell you, but I'm piqued. We are shells upon the
beach. The tide sweeps us along even though we know it is the tide,
and can say of the next man, 'what a fool he is, to drift like that!'
But what is a fellow to do? How is he to escape? I'm a
millionaire--I'm likely to be several times that if nothing breaks. I
didn't wish to go to Newport, but I went. I don't care for half the
things I do, but they have to be done; that is, I do them of my own
accord, when the time comes, and, though I kick, I know I should regret
not doing them merely because they seem to be the proper things for
people of my kind. There you are. I have a sort of double self, as
you know. It isn't that I'm weak, it's--what do you call it?--the
force of my environment. And a millionaire's environment has a
pressure of two hundred pounds to the square inch. It's the same with
the women. What with rich food, splendid apparel, perpetual
self-indulgence, and the power which money gives them to gratify every
whim, is it any wonder that they don't let a little thing like the
marriage vow stand in the way of their individual preferences? Who is
to hold them to account? The church? Some of them go to church, but
in their hearts they are satisfied that this is the only world. And as
to loss of social position--of which they really would be afraid--the
tide is with them. There are too many sympathizers. Or at least, it
is inconvenient to be obliged to hurt other people's feelings in a free
country."
"Rather a formidable indictment against Newport," said Gordon.
"It isn't against Newport. It's against the plutocracy all over the
country. Newport merely happens to be the place where very rich men
with social instincts most do congregate in summer. My domestic
tragedy is typical, yet sporadic. Every season has its crop, but,
numerically, it is small. Infidelity is only one of the phases of the
spirit--but the spirit is rampant. Money-money-money,
luxury-luxury-luxury, self-self-self (individualism, they call it), and
in the process everything is thrown overboard, except the American
flag, and life becomes one grand hurrah, boys, with no limitations,
save murder and lack of physical cleanliness. And I belong to the
procession, my dear fellow. I'm disgusted with it at the moment,
that's why I rail. But in six months I shall be in it again. See if
I'm not."
"You're simply depressed, Paul, and no wonder," said Gordon, with
genial solicitude. "But we mustn't judge our plutocracy--aristocracy,
or whatever you choose to call the personal representatives of the
prosperity of the country--by the antics of a few, disgusting as they
are. I agree that their behavior apes the frivolity and license of the
old French court without its elegance, and I don't suppose that the
founders of our institutions ever included a leisure class as a part of
their scheme. Absorbed in ideals, they neglected to take poor human
nature sufficiently into account. We have lost the buffalo, but we
have acquired a leisure class, and we must make the best of it, not the
worst. We can't cut their heads off; this is a free country. It would
be dreadful--dreadful, wouldn't it, if our institutions, of which we
are so proud, were to produce merely the same old thing over again--a
leisure class of voluptuaries?" Gordon paused for a moment and his
smile died away at the vision which his words evoked. "I don't intend
to believe it; you don't. There are students of destiny who maintain
that nations rise, reach maturity and decline by regular economic laws,
but that human nature never really improves. That's fatalism. The
free play of human individualism is having its last grand chance here
in these United States. If our aristocracy proves no better than any
other--if the rich and powerful are to sneer at morals and wallow in
licentiousness, we couldn't blame society if it should try a strong
dose of socialism, with its repressing, monotonous dead level, rather
than accept the doctrine that the law of supply and demand is the sole
ruler of the universe. But as good Americans we can't afford to judge
our plutocracy, as yet, by the vices of a few people at Newport."
"They sin in such a cold-blooded way," said Paul. "If they really
cared, as some of the foreigners do, one could understand; but they
don't."
"I know. It's one of the canons of old-world traditions that adultery
is almost redeemed by the possession of an artistic sense. To commit
the one without possessing the other, may be no worse morally, yet it
seems much more vulgar. But we mustn't take them too seriously, even
though they are our countrymen and women. They are the exceptions--the
excrescences. Look at your father, for instance. He belongs to
them--but he is not of them. The same is true of yourself; and it is a
privilege, with all its responsibilities, a privilege I envy you. Who
wouldn't be a multi-millionaire if he could? What is more alluring
than power?"
Paul returned the pressure of his friend's hand. "You're a good
fellow, Don. I suppose I'm hipped. That's not my way, as you know.
Usually everything with me is rose color; I'm too good an American, if
anything." He buttoned his well-fitting coat with a dignified air, as
though the pride of the suggestion had stirred his pulses like a brass
band. "The trouble is, that when I'm feeling well, everything goes,
and the only thing which seems of importance is to come out ahead of
the other fellow. So we kick over standards and degenerate. This time
I've been struck with a club, and--and I don't see that it's my fault.
Well, good-bye. As soon as I hear, I'll let you know."