The day after a ball is always a languid, wearisome period, to be dozed
or yawned through, on bed or sofa, in a state of total collapse. Life
for the time is disorganized, disenchanted; there is a feeling of
flatness everywhere, the rooms lately brilliant and joyous with light
and color; fade out in the chilling glare of day, and appear like
"banquet halls deserted," which each individual "treads alone,"
surrounded by an atmosphere of fatigue, _ennui_ and crossness. In the
country the flatness falls with full perfection, for there is seldom
the anticipation of more excitement to buoy one up and keep the
effervescence of the cup of pleasure up to the proper sparkle.
At a late--a very late breakfast, the morning after the Shirley ball,
the Smiths were assembled with the exception of Blanche, who had
entreated to be left undisturbed, since she must sleep or die, and
Percival, who had breakfasted sketchily on scraps and confectionery,
hours before, and was away in the woods with his gun.
The mail, always deposited in a little heap beside the general's plate,
had been distributed. There was very little--two newspapers, a couple
of letters for Nesbit Thorne, and one for Norma from a New York friend,
claiming a promised visit, and overflowing with gossip and news of
Gotham, full of personalities also, and a faint lady-like suspicion of
wickedness--a racy, entertaining letter. The writer, a Mrs. Vincent,
was Norma's most intimate friend, and she often sacrificed an hour of
her valuable time to the amusement of the girl, whom she felt convinced
was bored to death down in that country desert. The letter in question
was unusually diffuse, for Mrs. Vincent was keeping her room with a
heavy cold, and had herself to amuse as well as Norma. Norma read
scraps of it aloud for the edification of her mother, and the young
men; the general, with his nose in his paper, let the tide of gossip
pass.
Thorne, after a comprehensive glance at his own correspondence, slipped
his letters quietly into his pocket, and gave his best attention to his
cousin's. He had a rooted objection to reading even indifferent
letters under scrutiny, and these he felt convinced were not
indifferent; for one was addressed in the handsome large hand of his
wife, and the writing on the other was unknown to him--it had a legal
aspect. They were letters whose perusal might prove unpleasant; so
Thorne postponed it.
There is an old adage relative to thoughts of the power of darkness
being invariably followed by the appearance of his emissaries, and
although Mrs. Thorne was far from being the devil, or her letter one of
his imps, the arrival of the one, so promptly upon the heels of
thoughts of the other, was singular; her husband felt it so.
"Mamma," observed Norma, glancing up from her letter, "Kate says that
Cecil Cumberland is engaged, or going to be engaged, I can't exactly
make out which. Kate words it a little ambiguously; at all events
there appears to be considerable talk about it. Kate writes: 'Cecil
looks radiantly worried, and sulkily important. His family are ranged
in a solid phalanx of indignant opposition, which, of course, clinches
the affair firmly. Eva Cumberland was here this morning in a white
heat of passion over it; and I believe apoplexy or hydrophobia is
imminent for the old lady. The fact of Mrs.----'" Norma's voice
trailed off into an unintelligible murmur, and she read on silently.
"Mrs.--who, my dear?" questioned her mother, with lively interest. "Is
Cecil going to marry an objectionable widow?"
"Wait a moment, mamma. Kate writes so indistinctly, I'll be able to
tell you presently," there was a shade of reserve perceptible in
Norma's voice.
"But why do the family oppose it?" persisted Mrs. Smith. A warning
look from her daughter admonished her to let the matter rest; that
there were facts connected with Mr. Cumberland's marriage, the
investigation and discussion of which had better be postponed. Mrs.
Smith's tongue burned with inquiries, but she bravely held them back,
and sought to produce a diversion by idle conjectures about Percival.
Norma parried the curiosity of the others adroitly, and declining any
more breakfast, betook herself and her letter to the back parlor, where
she drew a deep arm-chair to the fire, and settled herself comfortably
to re-peruse that portion of her friend's epistle, which related to
Cecil Cumberland's affairs.
Thorne presently followed her, and established himself opposite. He
was great friends with Norma; once, in the days before his marriage,
there had appeared a likelihood of their becoming more than friends.
All that had been forgotten by the man; the woman's memory was more
tenacious. They were wonderfully good friends still, these two; they
never worried or jarred on one another.
Thorne, having no special desire to read his own letters, lighted a
cigar, stirred the fire to a glorious blaze, and waxed conversational.
The theme he selected for discussion was the topic introduced and
interdicted at the breakfast table a few moments previously--the
debatable engagement of their New York acquaintance. On this subject
he chose to exhibit an unusual--and as Norma felt, unnecessary, degree
of curiosity. He cross-questioned the girl vigorously, and failing to
elicit satisfactory replies, laughingly accused her of an attempt to
earn a cheap notoriety by the elaboration of a petty mystery.
"I wish you'd stop trying to put me on the witness stand, Nesbit!" she
exclaimed in vexation; "why don't you read your own letters? One is
from Ethel, I know. See what she says."
Thorne took his wife's missive from his pocket, opened, and glanced
through it hurriedly; then turned back to the first page, and re-read
it more carefully, the expression of his face hardening into cynicism,
slightly dashed with disgust. The letter was penned in a large running
hand and covered eight pages of dainty cream-laid paper. It was
rambling in phraseology, and lachrymose in tone, but it indicated a
want, and made that want clear.
It was--divorce.
Mrs. Thorne gave no special reason for desiring release from her
marriage vows; she dwelt at length on her "lonely and unprotected"
condition, and was very sorry for herself, and considered her case a
hard one; suggesting blame to her husband in that he had not taken the
necessary steps for her release long before. She intimated that he had
been selfish and lacking in proper consideration for her in leaving it
to her to take the initial steps in the matter. He should have
arranged about the divorce at the time of the separation, she said, and
so have spared her annoyance. As he had not done so, she hoped he
would show some consideration for her now, and help her to arrange the
disagreeable business as speedily and privately as possible. He really
owed her indulgence "after all that had passed"; the last words were
heavily underscored.
Thorne, conscious that the present position of matters between them, as
well as the past unhappiness, was quite as much her fault as his, and
the act of separation more so--he having been the passive and
consenting party, did not consider it specially incumbent on him to
make things easy for his wife. In his irritation and disgust at her
heartless selfishness, he half determined to make them very much the
reverse. He was not surprised at his wife's communication; he knew
perfectly well that she would seek a divorce sooner or later, as the
liberality of the world in such matters made it natural that she should
do. He also knew that it was the larger command of the income which he
had allowed her for his child's sake, combined with the lack of strong
personal motive, which had prevented her from getting a divorce before.
Her letter irritated him, not because she desired to break the shadowy
bonds which still held her, but because he had behaved well to her, and
she had taken it as her right with careless ingratitude. What he had
done, he had done for his son's sake, but he was none the less provoked
that Ethel had failed of appreciation and acknowledgment.
"Read _that_!" he said, and tossed the letter into Norma's lap. While
she was doing so, he broke the seal of the other letter which proved to
be a communication from a firm of solicitors in a small town in
Illinois, in whose hands Mrs. Thorne had placed her case. It was
delicately and ambiguously worded, as became the nature of the
business, and contained simply a courteous notification of their
client's intentions.
Norma had been prepared for Mrs. Thorne's letter by that of her friend
Mrs. Vincent; and perhaps also by a secret hope on which she had fed
for years--a hope that this _would_ happen. She read the letter
therefore without emotion, and returned it without comment.
"Well?" he queried impatiently.
"Well!" she echoed.
"What do you think of it?"
"I think that Mrs. Thorne wishes to marry again."
"No!--do you?" The tone was thoughtful; the interrogation delivered
slowly. The idea was a new one, and it put a different complexion upon
the matter, because of the child; there were still several years during
which the personal custody of the boy was the mother's of right. It
behooved him to look into this matter more closely.
"Yes, I'm sure of it," responded Norma; "it's town talk. See what Kate
Vincent says about it."
She handed him her letter folded down at this paragraph: "People have
been mildly excited, and the gossips' tongues set wagging by a rumor
which floated down from the Adirondacks last summer, and has been
gaining body and substance ever since. You remember how Cecil
Cumberland philandered after a certain lady of our acquaintance last
winter, and how unremitting were his attentions? Friendship, my dear!
Harmless friendship on a pure platonic platform; you understand--_honi
soit qui mal y pense_. Well this autumn the plot thickened; the
platonism became less apparent; the friendship more pronounced.
Nothing painfully noticeable--oh no; the lady is too clever--still, the
gossips began to take a contract, and work on it in slack seasons, and
latterly with diligence. It is openly predicted that madam will seek a
divorce, and then!--we shall see what we shall see. Cecil looks
radiantly worried and sulkily important. His family are ranged in a
solid phalanx of indignant opposition, which of course clinches the
matter firmly. Eva Cumberland was here this morning in a white heat of
passion over it, and I believe apoplexy or hydrophobia is imminent for
the old lady. The fact of Mrs. Thorne's being still a married woman
gives the affair a queer look to squeamish mortals, and the Cumberland
women are the quintessence of conservative old-fogyism; they might be
fresh from the South Carolina woods for all the advancement they can
boast. It's wicked, and I'm ashamed of myself, but whenever I think of
Ethel Thorne trying conclusions with those strait-laced Cumberlands,
I'm filled with unholy mirth." Then followed belated apologies for
this careless handling of a family matter, and copious explanations.
Mrs. Vincent was a wordy woman, fond of writing and apt to be diffuse
when not pressed for time.
Thorne returned the letter to his cousin, and announced his intention
of returning to New York immediately.
"By using dispatch I can catch the boat at Wintergreen this afternoon,"
he said. "I wish you'd tell your mother, Norma, only your mother,
please; it will be time enough to acquaint the others when the whole
affair is out. And, Norma, I can trust you, I know; keep the matter
quiet here as long as possible. These people are strangers; they know
nothing. I don't want to be in every body's mouth--a nine days'
wonder, _here_ as well as in New York. It will be bad enough there.
Promise me to keep it quiet, Norma."
Thorne had reasons for the request. He had ascertained, beyond all
doubt, that no hint of his story had as yet reached Pocahontas. He was
surprised at first, for he thought all women gossiped, and the affair
had never been a secret. He did not conceive for a moment, that the
fact of his divorce would be a permanent stumbling block in the way of
his happiness, but he realized something of the conservatism of her
surroundings, and the old world influences and prejudices amid which
she had been reared. She would be shocked and startled at first; she
would have to grow accustomed to the idea, then reconciled to it. He
recognized at a glance the immense advantage it would be to him to tell
his story himself, and, in his own way, to enlist her sympathy and to
arouse her indignation and her partisanship.
The explanation of the girl's ignorance is simple and natural. The
intercourse between the two families was cordial and frequent, but
there were reservations--tracts of territory which were never trenched
on. There was about the Masons a certain fine reserve which
discouraged promiscuous and effusive confidences. Exhaustive
investigation of their neighbors' affairs had never been their
practice; it was a proud family; a conservative family.
The Smiths had seen no reason to give publicity to their _own_
particular family scandal. Other people's skeletons were interesting,
but the rattling of the bones of their own annoyed them. Then, too, it
was such an old story, its interest as gossip had passed, its piquancy
had evaporated. These people knew none of the parties; it could be to
them of no possible interest even as narrative. There had been no
definite determination on the part of the Smiths to say nothing of the
affair; but nothing had been said. Thorne did not correspond with his
wife, nor did any member of his family, so there were no tell-tale
letters to excite comment or curiosity at the village post-office. How
was Pocahontas to know?
With Thorne's good pleasure, her ignorance would remain until he
himself should lift it.
Norma gave the required promise willingly. She, too, objected to this
affair obtaining publicity. While Thorne sought her father to explain
a sudden call to New York "on business," she communicated the contents
of Mrs. Vincent's letter to her mother, and informed her of Thorne's
determination. Then leaving the good lady to get the better of her
consternation by herself, and to make impossible suggestions, to the
empty air, she repaired to her cousin's room, and assisted him in his
hurried preparations.