The news of the tragedy in her daughter's life--of the double domestic
tragedy, which included her nephew--came to Mrs. Wilson as an appalling
surprise. She had gathered from the tenor of Lucille's letters that
her daughter was not entirely happy; but her appreciation of this was
derived rather from what she read between the lines than from actual
admissions. It had never entered her head that there was danger of a
rupture between Lucille and her husband until the dreadful truth was
disclosed to her by her brother. From him she learned that Paul and
his wife had separated and were to be divorced because of the relations
between Paul's wife and Clarence Waldo. Carleton Howard added that his
son had not the heart to tell her himself before his departure for New
York, and had delegated him to break the intelligence.
When the first wholesale mutual commiserations had been exchanged
between the brother and sister, Mrs. Wilson realized that she was
practically in the dark regarding Lucille. Paul's calamity was so
completely the controlling thought in her brother's mind that, though
he occasionally deplored the plight in which his niece appeared to be
left, he was evidently bent on working his way through the labyrinth of
his personal dismay until he could find a clue which would lead his
mind to daylight. After various ebullitions of anger and disgust, he
found this at last in the assertion that it was best for Paul to be rid
of such a wife; that he had never really fancied his daughter-in-law,
and that the only course was to obliterate her from their memory. She
had disgraced the family, and her name was never to be mentioned again
in his presence. This was an eminently masculine method of disposing
of the matter. After Mr. Howard had accepted it as a solution, he was
able to compose himself in his chair and to smoke. For the past two
days, ever since Paul had talked to him, he had been walking up and
down his library, champing an unlighted cigar, with the measured stalk
of a grim lion. Now his brow lifted appreciably. But his sister's
eyes fell before his aspect of dignified relief. His solution was of
no avail to her. It could not answer the distressing questions which
were haunting her. Why had not Lucille written? What did the silence
mean? She resolved that if she did not hear something in the morning
she would take the first train East, for might not the child be sobbing
her heart out, too mortified even to confide in her mother? Thus
speculating, Mrs. Wilson looked up to inquire once again whether Paul
had not said something more definite regarding his cousin. She had
asked this twice already, and on each occasion Mr. Howard had suspended
his cogitations in order to ransack his memory, but only in vain; which
was not strange, for Paul had taken pains in his conversation with his
father to avoid unnecessary allusion to Lucille, letting her appear,
like himself, an innocent victim of the family disaster. Mr. Howard
was now equally unsuccessful in his recollection. Yet while he was
speaking, the tension of Mrs. Wilson's mind was relieved by the receipt
of a telegram. Lucille was on her way from Newport, and would reach
Benham the following evening.
Mrs. Wilson met her at the station. The mother and daughter embraced
with emotion, thus betraying what was uppermost in the thought of each.
But Lucille promptly recovered her composure, chatting briskly in the
carriage as though she were bent on avoiding for the time being the
crucial topic. On reaching the house she evinced a lively interest in
the supper which had been prepared for her, eating with appetite and
leading the conversation to matters of secondary import. Mrs. Wilson,
though burning to ask and to hear everything, held her peace and
bridled her impatience. It seemed to her that Lucille was looking
well, and had gained in social dignity, which might partly be accounted
for by the fact that she was a matron and a mother, partly by a slight
access of flesh; but the impression produced on Mrs. Wilson's mind was
that she appeared less spiritually heedless than formerly--a
consummation devoutly to be desired in this hour of stress. As she
watched her at table she noted with a mother's pride the tastefulness
of her attire, and the sophistication of her speech. For the first
time--much as she had longed for it in the past--the hope took root in
her heart that their tastes might yet some day coincide, and each find
in allegiance to the fit development of the human race the true zest of
life. Yet how could Lucille be so calm? How could she appear so
unconcerned?
Lucille's mask, such as it was, was not lifted until she had been shown
to her room. "I will come to you presently, mamma," she said, and Mrs.
Wilson understood what was meant. When she came--it was to her
mother's boudoir and study--she had loosened her hair, and was wrapped
in a dainty pink and white wrapper. She established herself
comfortably on a lounge, and crossed her hands on her breast. Mrs.
Wilson was sitting at her desk obliquely in the line of vision, so she
had merely to turn her head on her supported elbow in order to command
her daughter's expression. So they sat for a moment, until Lucille
said:
"Well, mamma, I suppose Paul has told you everything. Clarence and I
have separated for good, and I am on the way to South Dakota."
There was a profound silence. In spite of the introduction the import
of the last words was lost on Mrs. Wilson. She was simply puzzled.
"South Dakota?" she queried. "Paul told me nothing. Your uncle----"
"You know surely what has happened?" It was Lucille's turn to look
surprised.
"I know, my child, that your husband has been false to you with your
cousin Paul's wife."
"And both Paul and I are to obtain a divorce."
Mrs. Wilson winced. "Your uncle intimated as much in the case of Paul.
I had hoped you might not think it obligatory to break absolutely with
your husband. Or, rather, Lucille, my mind was so full of distress for
you that I did not look beyond the dreadful present. You do not know
how my heart bleeds for you, dear."
As she spoke, Mrs. Wilson left her seat, and kneeling beside the
lounge, put her arms around her daughter's neck. Lucille, grateful for
the sympathy, raised herself to receive and return the embrace, but her
speech was calm.
"It is a mortification, of course; it would be to any woman. If he had
been faithful to me, I would never have left him. But we were mismated
from the first. We found out six months after our marriage that we
bored each other; and then we drifted apart. So there would be no use
trying to patch it up. We should only lead a dog and cat life.
Besides---" she paused an instant, then interjected, "I hoped Paul had
broken this to you, mamma--I want to be free because I am going to
marry again."
Mrs. Wilson sprang back as though she had been buffeted. "Marry
again?" she gasped.
Lucille spoke softly but with firmness. "I am going to marry Mr.
Bradbury Nicholson of New York." She added a few words as to his
identity, then with an emphasis intended to express the ardor of a soul
which has come to its own at last, exclaimed:
"I'm deeply in love with him, mamma; and I never was with Clarence. I
thought I was, but I wasn't. This time it's the real thing."
Mrs. Wilson rose and returning to her desk rested her head again upon
her supported elbow. She was stunned. The shock of the announcement
was such that she did not attempt to speak. But Lucille, having begun,
was evidently bent on making a clean breast of her affairs.
"So I am on my way to Sioux Falls to obtain a divorce."
"Why do you go there?"
"Because it is one of the quickest places. Residence is necessary to
enable me to sue, and residence can be acquired by living there ninety
days. Then, too, the courts don't insist on very strict proof, so I
can obtain a divorce for neglect or cruelty, and avoid the
unpleasantness of alleging anything worse. I thought of Connecticut,
where the law allows a divorce for any such misconduct as permanently
destroys one's happiness and defeats the marriage relation, but my
lawyer said it would be simpler and quicker to go to South Dakota.
Clarence knows all about it, and is only too glad, and he has agreed to
give up all claim on baby."
The reference to her grandchild plunged a fresh dagger into Mrs.
Wilson's heart.
"Where is your baby?" she asked, sternly. She had already in the
carriage inquired for its welfare, taking for granted that its mother
had been unwilling to bring it on what had appeared to be a flying
journey.
"At Newport. Two of my maids and baby are to join me here. I don't
wish to start for a week, if you will keep me, and, as there was
packing still to be done, and the Newport air is fresher so early in
the autumn, I told them to follow. You may keep baby here until I send
for her, if it would make you feel any happier, mamma."
Mrs. Wilson made no response to this self-sacrificing offer. She was
asking herself whether it were not her duty as an outraged parent to
rise in her agony and, pointing to the door, bid Lucille choose between
her lover and herself. But would not this be old-fashioned? Could she
endure to quarrel with her own and only flesh and blood? Overwhelmed
as she was by her daughter's absolute indifference to considerations
which she reverenced as the laws of her being, Mrs. Wilson prided
herself on being equally a leader of spiritual progress, a woman of the
world, and an American. She recognized that it behooved her to display
no less acumen and tact in dealing with her personal problem than in
confronting the quandaries of others. She knew instinctively that
violent opposition would simply alienate Lucille and confirm her in her
purpose. It was obvious that their point of view was as divergent as
the poles. How could Lucille take the affair so philosophically? How
could she calmly regard the neglect and sin of her husband merely as
the logical sequence of the discovery that they were mismated, and find
a sufficient explanation for everything in the announcement that they
had bored each other? Yet Mrs. Wilson appreciated in those moments of
horror that it would be worse than futile to give bitter utterance to
her emotions. By so doing she would alienate her daughter and fail to
alter the situation. Though protesting with the full vigor of her
being, she must be reasonable or she could accomplish nothing. So she
put a curb upon her lips. There were so many things she wished to say
that for a spell she could not formulate her thoughts. She was
reminded that she appeared tongue-tied by hearing Lucille remark:
"I was afraid that you would be distressed, mamma. That's why I didn't
write or consult you. You don't approve of divorce, I know. It's
opposed to your ideas of things. But I've thought over everything
thoroughly, and it's the only possible course for me."
This complacency was disconcerting as a stone wall, and made still
plainer to Mrs. Wilson that the offender indulgently regretted the
necessity of explaining and vindicating such common-sense principles.
"It is true, Lucille, that I disapprove of divorce on æsthetic if not
religious grounds. It is an unsavory institution." She paused a
moment to give complete effect to the phrase. "It seems to me to
diminish spiritual self-respect, and to impair that feminine delicacy
which is an essential ornament of civilization. At the same time, if
you had told me that, on account of your husband's sin, you had decided
not merely to leave him, but to dissolve the bond, I should have
demurred, perhaps, but I should have acquiesced. I should have
counselled you to live apart without divorce, as I regard marriage as a
sacrament of the Christian church, but I should have accepted your
decision to the contrary without a serious pang. But you have just
told me, my child, that you are seeking a divorce from your husband
because you are mismated, in order to become as quickly as possible the
wife of another man, whom you profess to love. I cannot prevent you
from doing this if you insist, but as your mother, I cannot let you
commit what seems to me, from the most lenient standpoint, a gross
indelicacy, without seeking to dissuade you."
In conjunction with her ambition to reason in a triple capacity, Mrs.
Wilson was well aware that the world demands promptness of decision no
less than wisdom from its busy leaders; that the public relies on the
past equipment of the lawyer or the physician for correct advice on the
spur of the moment. It was her custom to face confidently the problems
of life which others invited her to solve, as a surgeon confronts the
operating table, ready to do her best on the spot. She knew that the
consciousness of being rushed is part of the penalty of success, and
that half the effectiveness of a busy person consists in the ability to
think and act quickly. So now, face to face with her own dire problem,
her mind centred on the fit solution of her daughter's tragedy, she
relied on the same method, yearning to apply the knife, tie up the
ligaments and cauterize the heart-sorrow in summary fashion by virtue
of her past equipment. So she spoke with conviction, yet aware that
the problem presented had been hitherto for her mainly academic, and
now for the first time loomed up on the horizon of life as an immediate
practical issue.
Pursuing her theme Mrs. Wilson singled out for urgent protest the one
point which stood out like an excrescence on the surface of the sorry
story, and put all else in the background--the projected hasty
marriage. Its precipitancy offended her most cherished sensibilities.
With all the sentiment and mental suppleness at her command she
endeavored to point out the vulgarity of the proceeding. How was it to
be reconciled with true womanly refinement? Was the holy state of
matrimony to be shuffled off and on as though it were a misfit glove?
She appealed to the claims of good taste and family pride. But, though
Lucille listened decorously, it was obvious that the effect of the
scandal of mutual prompt remarriages had no terrors for her. Or,
rather, when her mother paused, she disputed it, claiming that the
affair would be a seven days' wonder; that the world would speedily
forget, or, at least, forgive, if the new ventures proved successful;
that precipitancy in such cases was not novel, and that the people
whose social approbation she desired would consider her sensible for
putting an end to an intolerable relation and claiming her happiness at
the earliest possible date.
From a wholesale plea of what she referred to as spiritual decency
directed against unseemly haste, Mrs. Wilson, sick at heart, began to
particularize, and at the same time enlarged her attitude so as to
disclose her innate feeling against divorce in general. She spoke of
the plight of the children concerned, and in alluding to her
grandchild, her tone was piteous. The thought seemed to give her
courage, so that when Lucille, who evidently had a pat response to this
contention ready, sought to interrupt, Mrs. Wilson raised a warning
hand to signify that she must insist on being heard to the end. She
dwelt upon the value of the home to human society, and in this appeal
she gave free utterance to her religious convictions, defending the
sacredness of the marriage tie from the point of view of Christian
orthodoxy. She spoke with emotion and at some length, though she had
never thought the matter out hitherto as a personal issue, she found
that she had in reserve a whole set of argumentative principles to back
her æsthetic eloquence. She urged upon her daughter that if neither
good taste, family pride, nor maternal solicitude would restrain her,
she heed the teachings of the church, which had prescribed the law of
strict domestic ties as essential to the righteous development of human
civilization, and which regarded the family as the corner-stone of
social order and social beauty. Was her only child prepared to fly so
flagrantly in the face of this teaching? Would she refuse to reverence
this standard? As she evolved this final plea, Mrs. Wilson felt
herself on firmer ground. It seemed to her that she had welded all her
protesting instincts into a comprehensive claim which could not be
resisted, for, though emphasizing the obligations of the soul, she had
tried to be both broad and modern. She had not quoted the language of
Scripture--the words of Christ imposing close limitations, if not an
absolute bar on divorce. She felt that there was more chance in
influencing Lucille through an intellectual appeal to her sense of
social wisdom based on present conditions, though to the speaker's own
mind the modern argument was simply a vindication of the precious
inspired truth. But she dismissed the thought that her daughter was
regarding her as old-fashioned, and she spoke from the depths of her
being, so that when she ceased, there were tears upon her cheeks.
Lucille had listened indulgently with downcast eyes. She was unmoved;
nevertheless, with nervous inappropriateness, she turned slowly round
and round the wedding-ring on her finger as she revolved her mother's
appeal. When the end came she remained respectfully silent for a
moment, but there was matter-of-fact definiteness in her reply.
"You know, mamma, that you and I never did agree on things like that.
I don't recognize the right of the church to interfere, so I put
religion put of the question. As to injury to civilization, it seems
to me of no advantage to society, and preposterous besides, that two
persons utterly mismated, like Clarence and me, should continue
wretched all our lives when the law of the land will set us free. What
good would it do if I remained single?"
"Live apart, if you like; but to marry again--and so quickly, Lucille,
is an offence both against the flesh and the spirit," said Mrs. Wilson,
tensely. "Good? It would help to maintain the integrity of the home
upon which progressive civilization rests."
Lucille pursed her lips. "I shall have a home when I marry again. A
far happier home than before; and baby will be far happier than if she
grew up in a discordant household where there was no love and mutual
indifference. Besides, supposing I didn't marry again--supposing
Paul's wife did not marry again, what would happen? We should lead
immoral lives, as people similarly situated do in the Latin countries,
where the church forbids the marriage of divorced persons. It ought to
satisfy you, mamma, that there is not a word of truth in the story of
too intimate relations between me and Mr. Nicholson circulated at
Newport. I told him I should keep him at arm's length until I was
divorced and at liberty to marry him. I let him kiss me once, and that
was all. What would a woman in Paris or London have done? The church
there doesn't seem to mind what goes on behind the scenes, provided the
mass of the people is kept in ignorance."
Mrs. Wilson had colored at the reference to calumniating rumors. It
was clear, now, why Paul had preferred to speak by proxy. Could it be
her own daughter who was claiming credit for such forbearance? Her
first impulse was to inquire what conduct had given rise to the more
serious imputation, but she shrank from the question. It was Lucille
who spoke first.
"I assure you, I expect to have a very charming home, and, if I have
more children, to bring them up well. In a year or two the hateful
past will seem only a nightmare. Why should you or the church seek to
deprive me of happiness? In my individual case our--your church would
marry me because my husband had been unfaithful, provided I procured a
divorce on that ground--which I do not intend to do. But I am
defending myself on general principles. As your daughter you would
wish me to have the courage of my convictions."
Mrs. Wilson sighed. This appeal to her independence was discouragingly
genuine. "Then, where do you draw the line?" she asked, repeating a
formula.
"As to divorce?" Lucille shrugged her shoulders. "The courts decide
that, I suppose. I asked what the law was, and the lawyer told me."
Mrs. Wilson groaned. "The courts! And, accordingly, you apply to the
court which will grant you a divorce most speedily."
"And with the least possible unpleasant procedure. Certainly, I wish
to be married as soon as possible."
"The law must be changed." Mrs. Wilson clasped her hands energetically.
"Very likely, mamma. Now we are on sensible ground. But if the law
were made more strict the church would still object. So it wouldn't
make much difference from your point of view."
There was a touch of complacent paganism in the tone of this last
remark which fused Mrs. Wilson's poignant emotions to a fever point.
"It crucifies renunciation. It is individualism run mad. Child,
child!" she exclaimed, "do not be too sure that easy-going rationalism
is the answer to all the problems of the universe. The time will yet
come when you will recognize what ideals mean--when your eyes will be
opened to the unseen things of the spirit. Before you take this step I
beg of you to talk with Mr. Prentiss."
Lucille shook her head, but her reply was unexpectedly humble. She
avoided an opinion regarding the prophecy, but her words disclosed that
she wished her mother to perceive that her soul had its own troubles,
and was not altogether self-congratulatory in its processes.
"Of course I would give anything if Clarence and I had not fallen out,
and our marriage proved a failure. I can see that such an experience
takes the freshness from any woman's life. It would be of no use,
however, for me to see Mr. Prentiss. We should differ fundamentally.
I do not regard marriage as a sacrament, he does. You see I have
considered the question from all sides, mamma."
"You regard it as a contract, I suppose," said Mrs. Wilson, pensively.
"Yes; the most solemn, the most important of contracts, if you like,
but a contract." Lucille was trying to be reasonable, but her sense of
humor suddenly getting the better of her filial discretion, she added:
"Why, of course, it is simply a contract. Everyone except clergymen
regards it so nowadays. If Clarence had died, I could marry again; why
shouldn't I be just as free, when he has been untrue to me, to regard
our marriage at an end--and----"
Mrs. Wilson put up her hand. "I am familiar with the argument. For
adultery, perhaps, yes; but for everything else, no. And the Roman
Church forbids it absolutely." She reflected a moment, then, as one
who has worked out vindication for an ancient principle by the light of
modern ideas, she added, impressively, "It may well be, that from the
standpoint of the welfare of the home--the protection of human society
against rampant selfish individualism--the oldest church of all was
wise, and is wise, in insisting on adherence to the letter of the words
of Christ as best adapted to the safety of civilization. And that,
too," she continued, significantly, "even though the souls affected sin
in secret, because they cannot override the law. I do not say," she
added, noticing the surprise in her daughter's face, "that this winking
of the church is defensible; but I submit that the consequences can be
no worse than those resulting from the flood-tide of easy divorce, the
fruit of unbridled caprice."
"And what do you say to the attitude of the Church of England, of which
our Episcopal Church is an offshoot. An English woman in Newport told
me the other day that a wife cannot obtain a divorce from her husband
unless infidelity be coupled with cruel and abusive treatment, though
the contrary is true in case of a man. A husband can have his affairs,
provided he does not make them public or beat his wife, but she must
toe the mark. And in England the law of the church is the law of the
land."
Mrs. Wilson pondered a moment. "Our Episcopal Church sanctions no such
distinction. But, after all, woman is not quite the same as man. Her
standard is different; she still expects to be held to a subtler sense
of beauty and duty in matters which involve the perpetuation of the
race. The English rule seems old-fashioned to us, for we insist on
equal purity for the husband and the wife as essential to domestic
unity. Yet the framers of that law were wise in their day; wise,
surely, if the doctrine of loose marital bonds is to imperil the
permanence of the institution we call the family."
"But I fail to see the advantage to human society of any family the two
chief members of which are at daggers drawn, and mutually unhappy."
Mrs. Wilson recognized that the gulf of contradiction which yawned
between them was bottomless, and not to be bridged. We learn with
reluctance that each generation is a law unto itself. Yet she said, as
a swan song, "The Episcopal Church and also the Roman Catholic Church
stand for, and reverence, the ideals of beauty, of imagination, of
aspiration. They abhor spiritual commonness. They forget not the
words of the proverb: 'Keep thy heart with all diligence, for out of it
are the issues of life.' Divorce is a device of mediocrity and dwarfed
vision. It is a perquisite of commonness."
The phrase made Lucille start, and she sat troubled for a moment. To
be adjudged common was the most disconcerting indictment which could
have been framed. But reflection was reassuring. She answered
presently.
"I'm sure it won't make any difference in my case; everybody I care
about will call on me just the same."
Meanwhile, under the shock to her convictions, Mrs. Wilson had bowed
her face on her hands on her desk, and hot tears moistened her palms.
Lucille watched her nervously, then rose and went to her, and put her
arm about her. "You mustn't feel so badly, mamma. It will come out
all right: I know it will. I am certain to be happy--and though you
may not think it, I am much more serious than I used to be. Of course,
I wouldn't belong to any other church than the Episcopal; all the
nicest people one knows are Episcopalians now. As you say, that and
the Roman Catholic are the only ones which appeal to the imagination."
Mrs. Wilson's tears flowed faster at this demonstration of sympathy.
She accepted and was soothed by the caresses, but she was ashamed of
and stunned by her defeat, and could not reconcile herself to it. She
would make one effort more.
"Since you will not permit Mr. Prentiss to remonstrate with you," she
said, "you will, at least, talk with your uncle?"
Lucille reflected. She had not forgotten the diamond tiara with which
her uncle had presented her as a wedding present, the crowning act of
many splendid donations, though to have only one tiara had already
become a sign of relative impecuniosity in the social circle in which
she aspired to move. The wife of a genuine multi-millionaire was
expected to have as many tiaras as she had evening dresses. Lucille
was fond of her uncle, and she still wished to appear what she
considered reasonable. "He could not alter my determination, mamma.
But if Uncle Carleton wishes to talk with me, I shall feel bound to
listen," she responded.
Mrs. Wilson felt encouraged by the first effect on her brother of the
announcement of Lucille's plans. From Paul's report, Mr. Howard had
assumed that his niece, like his son, was simply a victim of the
distressing double-tragedy, and the news of Lucille's projected hasty
divorce with a view to immediate remarriage offended his sense of
propriety and evoked at once a fiat no less explicit than his earlier
declaration that the sooner Paul's nuptial knot was cut, and the
wretched business terminated, the better. His present words--that such
indecorous proceedings were not to be tolerated for a moment--were
uttered with the deliberate emphasis which marked his important
verdicts--his railroad manner, some people called it--and conveyed the
impression of a reserve force not to be resisted with impunity. The
interview between him and Lucille took place in the evening, and lasted
nearly an hour. Mrs. Wilson was not present. At its close she heard
her daughter re-enter the house through the private passageway and go
up-stairs. Shortly after, her brother joined her. He sat for a few
moments without speaking, as though reviewing what had occurred, then
said, with the plausible air of one claiming the right to revise a
judgment in the light of having heard the other side of the issue:
"Apparently we have to decide whether we prefer that Lucille should
marry young Nicholson as soon as the law allows, or that she should
continue to receive his marked attentions, which have already inspired
compromising rumors, happily baseless. It seems that the object of her
infatuation--a circumstance which she did not state to you--is
anxious--in fact, hopes, to obtain one of the minor diplomatic
appointments. His father, as you know, is president of the Chemical
Trust and intimate with some of the influential Senators. Should I
intervene in his behalf with the authorities at Washington, the
probabilities of his obtaining the position, already excellent, will be
improved, provided, of course, there is no scandal. If we could shut
Lucille up--confine her by summary process for six months, until she
had time to reflect--she might change her attitude. At any rate, we
should avoid the precipitancy which is the most objectionable feature
of the affair. But the girl is a free agent. We cannot prevent her
from going to South Dakota if she insists, and she does insist. She
refuses to wait the three years requisite to obtain a divorce for
desertion here; and were she to allege what the newspapers are pleased
to call the statutory offence, the proof required by our court would be
exceedingly painful. She prefers a more accommodating jurisdiction,
where fewer questions are asked, and the tie is promptly dissolved. So
on the whole----"
He paused to choose his phraseology, and his sister, guessing its
substance, interposed:
"Then you sided with her?"
"On the contrary, I opposed her strenuously. I expressed my
disapproval in positive terms. But it became evident to me that she is
in love with this young man and determined to marry him, and from every
point of view I prefer the sanction of the law to clandestine illicit
relations. Would you prefer to have her abstain from a divorce and
live abroad with Bradbury Nicholson? That is what she intimated would
happen if she followed our wishes."
Mrs. Wilson groaned. "And to think that this is the reasoning of my
daughter!"
"I will do her the justice to say," continued Mr. Howard, joining the
points of his fingers, "that she talked quietly and with some
discrimination. It troubles her greatly that you are distressed. I
disapprove of her conduct, but I was pleased on the whole with her
mental powers."
"Yes. She is cleverer than I supposed," murmured Mrs. Wilson. "So you
gave in?"
"Not at all. We agreed to differ. I presume you did not wish me to
quarrel with her?"
"Oh, no. We must never do that."
"Exactly. In the course of our discussion she asked me if I thought
she ought to remain a widow all her days, and, as a reasonable human
being, I was obliged to admit that there was much to be said on her
side."
"A widow! She is not a widow."
"She chose the word, not I. She tells me that you have already
discussed with her the religious--the sentimental side of the question."
"And failed utterly."
There was a silence, which was broken by the banker. "I advise you,
Miriam, to make the best of a painful situation. There are only two
courses open: to disown her, or to let her follow her own course, and
put the best front on it we can. After all, she is only doing what
thousands of other women in this country----"
"Ah, yes!" cried Mrs. Wilson. "And with that argument what becomes of
noble standards--of fine ideals of life? I almost wish I had the moral
courage to show myself the Spartan mother, and to disown her."
"Oh, no, you don't. You would only make yourself miserable." Having
discovered that he had been checkmated, it was a business maxim with
Mr. Howard to accept the inevitable and clear the board of vain
regrets. He set himself to counteract these hysterical manifestations
of his sister. "Besides, it would do no good in this case to cut off
the revenue, for Nicholson has plenty for them both. To disinherit
one's children is an antiquated method of self-torture."
"I had no reference to money," answered Mrs. Wilson with a gesture to
express disdain for the consideration. "I was thinking of my love as a
mother."
"You cannot help loving her, whatever happens," answered her brother
significantly.
Mrs. Wilson acknowledged the force of this comment by a piteous stare.
She forsook the personal for the philosophic attitude. "But if this
loose view of the marriage tie is to obtain, where is it to end? How
long will it be before we imitate the degeneracy of Rome? We are
imitating it already."
"I made a similar remark to Lucille. I reminded her that the ease and
frequency of divorce were among the causes of the decline of Rome. Her
reply was that we are Americans, not Romans. Of course, there is
something in what she says. Our point of view is very different from
theirs." Mr. Howard felt of his strong chin meditatively.
"But where is it to end?" repeated Mrs. Wilson in a tragic tone.
He shook his head. "It is an abuse, I admit; especially as
administered in some of our States. Presently, when we get time, we
Americans will take the question up and go into it thoroughly."
The hopeless incongruity of this reply from Mrs. Wilson's point of view
put the finishing touch to their conversation. It was obvious to her
that she could not expect true sympathy or comprehension from her
brother. It was clear that he was satisfied with opportunist methods,
and that the precise truth had no immediate charms for him.
Rebuffed in respect to the support of both her champions, Mrs. Wilson
felt strangely powerless; almost limp. She made no further appeal to
her daughter; the discussion was not resumed, but when the baby
arrived, she reminded Lucille of the proposal that she keep possession
of her grandchild during its mother's sojourn in South Dakota, and
accepted it. This was some comfort, and Mrs. Wilson remained in a
trance, as it were, seeking neither sympathy nor outside suggestion
until after the evil day of Mrs. Waldo's departure.
Not until then did she send for Mr. Prentiss. That the rector could do
nothing to thwart the programme outlined by Lucille was clear, and she
had dreaded the possibility of his advising an attitude on her part
which would induce complete estrangement from her daughter. When he
came she was relieved that he made no such suggestion. He seemed, like
herself, overwhelmed with dismay, and, after he had heard her story,
equally conscious of helplessness in the premises. Indeed it resulted
that Mr. Prentiss, having realized that he could be of no avail in the
particular emergency, turned from the shocking present to the future.
Lucille was beyond the pale of influence (though he declared his
intention of writing to her), but this painful example would be a fresh
spur to the church to take strong ground against the deadly peril to
Christian civilization involved in playing fast and loose with the
marriage tie. Mr. Prentiss glowed with the thought of what he could
and would put into a sermon. Consciousness of the abuse had for some
time been smouldering in his mind, and he reflected that it was time
for him to imitate the example of other leaders of his sect by
undertaking a crusade against indiscriminate divorce. Appalled as he
was by the behavior of his friend's daughter, he reverted--but not
aloud--to his previous opinion that it had been a godless marriage.
Hence there was less occasion for surprise, and the instance in
question lost some of its pathos as a consequence. But it provided him
with a terrible incentive for saving others from the pitfall which had
engulfed this self-sufficient and worldly minded young woman. His zeal
communicated itself to Mrs. Wilson--for he did not fail in due
manifestation of personal sympathy--and when he left her at the end of
a visit of two hours her favorite impulse toward social reform was
already acting as a palliative to her anguish and disappointment as a
mother.
A few days later her brother informed her that Paul's wife had refused
to wait the three years necessary to entitle the one or other of them
to institute dignified divorce proceedings, on the ground of desertion,
in the State where her husband had his domicile, and that she had gone
to Nebraska to pursue her own remedy. Mr. Howard, though obviously
disgusted, finally dismissed the matter with a sweep of his hand, and
the utterance, "I guess, on the whole, the sooner he is rid of her the
better." But this apothegm, which for a second time did him service,
only increased his sister's dejection. The disgrace of the family
seemed to stare her in the face more potently than ever. Following
within a few weeks of this information came the disclosures in the
newspapers of the double divorce with their sensational innuendoes as
to what had occurred at Newport. For three days she kept the house,
too sick at heart to attempt to simulate in public the veneer of an
unruffled countenance. Then she visited Gordon Perry's office, and
consulted him as to the feasibility of putting some legal obstacle in
the way of her daughter's procedure; but learned from him, as she had
feared, that she was powerless. When she resumed her ordinary
avocations she feared lest the shame she felt should mantle her cheek
and impair the varnish of well-bred serenity. It was while she was in
this frame of mind that she was accosted by Loretta, and the effect of
the bald remarks was as though someone had invaded her bosom with a
rude cold hand. They froze her to the marrow, and while, on second
thought, she ascribed the liberty to ignorance, she felt disappointed
at the evolution of her ward. Such lack of delicacy, such inability to
appreciate the vested rights of the soul argued ill for Loretta's
progress in refinement. There was no second invasion of Mrs. Wilson's
privacy. It seemed to her, as the days passed, that she had been
through a crushing illness, and she felt the mental lassitude of slow
convalescence. The receipt of Mrs. Stuart's brief letter informing her
that she had been injured and was in need of counsel was a sudden
reminder that she had allowed her personal sorrow to render her
selfishly heedless of all else. It served as the needed tonic to her
system. She swept away the cobwebs of depression from her brain, and
with a firm purpose to resume her place in the world despatched
forthwith a sympathetic note and two bunches of choice grapes to the
invalid, and on the following morning gave orders to her coachman to
drive her to Lincoln Chambers.