As she stood looking at the pictures, a voice at her elbow startled her and she wheeled sharply about.
A quiet, pleasant-faced, middle-aged lady stood there murmuring gently: “Oh, excuse me — you see I live just next door and run in and out quite freely. My name is MacAvelly.”
“Mine is Peckham, Malina Peckham, of The Day, formerly on The Lookover. Say, I’ve heard your name. You’re a friend of the Van Tromps, aren’t you? You can tell me the facts in the Van Tromp story, as well as Stella, I guess. Now did Katy Van Tromp — or didn’t she?” Mrs. MacAvelly smiled her gentle smile.
“You remind me of the little green grasshopper creatures — Katy did! Katy didn’t! Do you remember that lovely thing of Holmes’s about the Katydid?
“Thou ‘mindest me of gentlefolk —
Old gentlefolk are they;
Thou sayst an undisputed thing
In such a solemn way!
And speaking of Holmes, have you read his awful snake story?”
Miss Peckham regarded her with sharp, steady eyes. “Snake story?” she queried. “Is he one of those nature fakers?”
“Very good!” applauded the visitor. “You newspaperwomen are so sharp! Why, no. This story is something almost occult. Are you interested in the occult?”
“Not much,” said Miss Peckham with truth. “I’m interested in the concrete. You know the Widfields pretty well, don’t you?”
“Fairly well. They are delightful people to know.”
“I’ve known Stella Widfield over twenty years.” (Malina did not like to say thirty years, it seemed too confining.) “Went to school with her. And I think she’s an unhappy woman. What do you think?”
Mrs. MacAvelly smiled brightly. “I always love to see loyalty to friends,” she said, “especially among women.”
“Oh, I’m loyal to women, all right,” Miss Peckham cheerfully agreed. “But I hate men. You can always tell when a woman’s unhappy. Most of ’em are. What do you think of this, now?” she suddenly demanded, wheeling about and pointing out the photographs. “And this, and this?”
Mrs. MacAvelly loosed her eyeglasses from the little gold hook on her shoulder and went about examining the pictures.
“Very handsome, I think,” she declared.
“Very numerous, I think,” amended Miss Peckham. “I don’t see any of Stella, do you?”
“Speaking of her, she knows those Van Tromps, I think.”
“Yes, I know she does. That’s what I’m here for — I want the facts.”
“I used to know Dick Van Tromp when he was a boy at college,” pursued Mrs. MacAvelly reflectively. “Seems to me I used to have a picture of him—”
“Oh, did you? Have you? Do let me see it! The Day is wild to get a picture of him. He’s too well known to fake it.”
“If you’ll come to my apartment I’ll let you see it, if I can find it. The Widfields are dining, you see.”
“All right — thank you,” and Miss Peckham briskly followed her out.
In the quiet dining room Mrs. Widfield was idly stirring her coffee, while her husband sipped his appreciatively. She watched him in silence for a while, then rose, with a little, impatient gesture, and went to the back of his chair. She bent over him affectionately, threw her arm around his neck and held him close, her cheek upon his head.
It was a pretty picture, but he seemed uneasy, and struggled out of her embrace, fingering his collar. She stood up, moved away a little, and spoke with rather a forced cheerfulness.
“Now you sit still and read your paper, dear — as long as you want to.”
“Thank you, my dear,” he said with alacrity. She turned with rather a hopeless look, and he sprang up to open the door for her. Returning with a lighter air, he poured himself another cup of coffee, lit a cigar, opened his paper, and settled himself luxuriously.
She stood in the doorway, holding the curtain aside with one jeweled hand, smiling at him, but he did not notice. He was quite unconscious of her gaze and showed every sign of contentment. She turned softly away, and glanced about the pleasant parlor. It seemed chilly — these early storms before the steam heat was on always made her shiver.
Her latest joy in the perfecting of their home was an electric heater, a pretty thing, which glowed cosily even when unlit, and was a fire from heaven, lighted — all soft glow and warmth, no dirt, no trouble to replenish. She turned it on, and crouched a moment by it, watching the pink light through her fingers as she warmed them.
Starting to her feet at a slight sound, she turned to greet him — no, he had not risen. She pulled the cushions about on the divan near the fire, and arranged herself gracefully upon it — for about one minute. The cushions were not right, there were too many “candles” on in the heater. She passed here and there, arranging and rearranging things, and going now and then to look at him.
“What is it, dear?” he said, with a preoccupied air, turning slowly from his paper.
“Oh, nothing,” she answered precipitately, and let the curtain drop again. The long mirror over the mantel held her eye for some time; she could not but admire the fine face, pink-lit from the electric glow beneath her.
Cousin Alicia’s photograph caught her eye; she stood it up against the glass, beside her own face, and studied the two, gravely.
Suddenly she saw something that seemed to startle her — leaned forward. Yes, it was one fine shining thread, a white hair. She carefully pulled it out, set back the impressive photograph and turned to walk again, her head bent down, her hands behind her.
Then, shaking off oppressive thoughts, she busied herself arranging his favorite chair, setting by it the small stand, the “gooseneck” light he preferred, the new eyeshade that was all gleaming green celluloid — no wire nor elastic, the footrest at the right distance, a magazine, a new book on the table near.
And every moment or two, a look through the portieres — was he never coming?
At last Mr. Widfield rose rather hastily, crushed his newspaper in his hand, and came in, with an air of cheerfulness that savored faintly of resignation.
“Now then, Stella, my dear, what is it you want?”
She stood waiting, eager, affectionate, her clear eyes on his. “I want you,” she said intensely.
“Well, you’ve got me fast enough, haven’t you? I’m quite in your hands for the evening.”
“Oh, the evening!” She turned away with a quick, sensitive movement. “Don’t stay in on my account, please.”
He smiled, easily. “I am staying at home for the pleasure of my wife’s society, as I not infrequently do.”
She brightened at this, and ran to kiss him.
“You dear. Now let’s sit down and talk! Here’s your chair and here’s mine.” She brought a little stool and nestled down close beside him, looking up at him with loving eyes. “What have you been doing today, dear?”
“Nothing particular — just business.”
“Oh, business! You might talk to me about business, then.”
“Now my charming wife — there is nothing in my business that interests you, and we both know it by this time. I don’t ask you to talk to me about your business.”
“I haven’t any business,” she answered slowly. “And I know you would not care to have me talk to you about what I do.”
“Then why talk?” he suggested, with intent to amuse, and gently stroked her hair, but she dropped her eyes evidently hurt. Then, looking up brightly, “Would you like — have you seen that article on ‘The Evils of the Leather Trade,’ in the last Uplift?”
“No, thanks — and I don’t mean to. Those muckrakers don’t know anything practical.”
She kept her light air, and suggested, “That’s a fine story they are running now — don’t you think so?”
“Have you known me fifteen years and haven’t found out yet that I never read serials? Guess again.”
But she was silent, studying her fingertips, and he looked around for a book, his hand on her shoulder. She looked
at him rather grievedly, then rose and hovered about, arranging his footrest, putting on the eyeshade, with a little kiss for the thin spot on the top of his head. She leaned forward softly and laid her cheek to his; and he reached up to pat it rather perfunctorily. She drew back gently but hastily and walked to the window.
After reading a few minutes, he looked around, saw her attitude of patient resignation, and laid down his book with a sigh, rising and going to her.
“What’s the matter, Stella, dear? Aren’t you feeling well?” His voice was kindly.
She turned to him at once, bravely and sweetly. “Oh yes, dear, I’m all right. I’m reading an excellent novel.”
So saying, she established herself by the table, and began to read intently. He was relieved, and after watching her absorption for a moment, went to the bookcase and brought back a thick book. He pulled his chair about a bit, turned the light differently, pitched the cushion to the divan, kicked away the footstool, and settled down to read.
The room was very still. At times the rain swept across the windows, and the distant clangor of passing cars rose fitfully. Presently he caught the sound of a little sigh, and looked at her. Her head was on her hand. Patiently he laid down his book. Patiently he spoke. “Well, dear, what is it?”
She closed her book, ran to him and dropped by his side, burying her face on his shoulder.
“I know I’m a suicidal goose — but — O Morgan! Why don’t you love me anymore?”
He smiled a little wearily, holding her closely. “My esteemed, admired, beloved wife! How old are you?”
She drew back sharply. “Old?”
“Young, I should have said. About sixteen, anybody would think. Well, young lady — sit up and listen. One, I love you. Two, I love you. Three, I love you. Four, I love you. Five, six, seven, eight, up to say forty, I love you. Will that do for one evening?”
She rose and withdrew, softly but decidedly, resuming her seat on the other side of the table, saying, “Thank you. It will do for a long time.” And she read determinedly.
“Well of all—” he began. “Stella — I believe you are ill.”
“I wish I was!” she burst out passionately. “I’d rather be ill! I’d rather die than be so miserable!”
Quietly her husband rose and came to her, laying a strong, gentle hand on her shoulder. “My dear little girl! I know you must be ill, for you were always so reasonable — and now you are so unreasonable.”
“Unreasonable — that’s what men always say,” she retorted.
“Is it any wonder!” he said softly. “Now really, my dear — what makes you miserable? What have you to complain of?”
“I’m not complaining.”
“You certainly said you were unhappy. What does ail you, my dear?”
“May I tell you? Will you listen? Will you try to understand?” Again she clung to him, looking up earnestly into his face.
“Of course I will. I’ll be thankful to find out. I haven’t said anything — but I have noticed that you didn’t seem to be as happy lately as you were before. It’s nothing that money can get, is it?”
“No, indeed!”
“The apartment satisfies you? You don’t want to move — or refurnish, or anything?”
She shook her head. “Oh! it’s not that!”
“The boys are all right. You’re not pining for them, are you?”
“Of course I miss them,” she admitted, “and I was thinking that they’re really gone for good. We never shall have them again, Morgan, not for our own. There’s only you left.”
“And I’m sure I’ve given you no cause for complaint,” he concluded triumphantly. “So you must be ill.”
“I am not ill,” she protested with sudden vehemence.
“Then it is me you are not satisfied with.”
He brought a chair and sat facing her, taking her hands in his. “Now dear, out with it. Please explain.”
“I’m ashamed to.”
“Oh, go ahead. I may be to blame without knowing it. As you say, there are just you and I left now, and we don’t want any misunderstanding. Tell me all about it.”
“It’s no use telling you,” she answered slowly. “When I tell you what I want — and you give it to me because I tell you — because you think it’s your duty — then — Oh, then it isn’t what I want at all — and never can be.”
Mr. Widfield rose and walked the floor.
“Mother of Pearl!” he protested. “If she says what she wants — and gets what she wants — it isn’t what she wants — and never can be!”
He wheeled about suddenly and faced her again. “Look here, Stella! It’s not — you can’t be — jealous! I do believe you’re jealous of Cousin Alicia.”
She looked up at him with clear, honest eyes. “No, Morgan. It’s not that. I am a little bit, sometimes, but I know that’s foolish. The other is real.”
“Tell me ‘the other,’ Stella.”
She bent her head. He came closer, stooped nearer. “Come tell me, dear.”
She whispered in his ear.
“Stella Widfield! I ‘don’t love you’? You — you foolish child. What on earth do you expect me to do to show I love you? You know I do. You know I have for fifteen years — and am likely to for forty! Unless—”
She looked up quickly. “Unless what?”
“Nothing. Of course I will, dear. You are my wife, and a good one.
I’ve no criticism to make of you — except—”
“Oh, ‘unless’ and ‘except’” — she burst forth. “I knew there was something! Oh, Morgan! Can’t you see how it crushes me? To feel you grow cold and indifferent — impatient.”
He smiled his steady smile. “You really think I’m impatient with you?”
“Oh, you’re horribly patient! It isn’t patience I want — nor duty — nor kindness. I want your love!”
“And do you think this is a good way to get it?”
“How cruel! When I know — only too well — that there’s no way to get it — that I’ve lost it! Oh, Morgan — you know I think of you every minute of the day.”
“I wish you would occasionally think of something else,” he suggested quietly.
“You know I’m always here waiting for you when you come in — ready to pour your tea — to go out with you — to stay in with you.
You know I care for nothing on earth but you—”
She had risen and come closer, appealing, reaching her hands to him. He took them and stood looking at her tenderly, and yet with a weariness he could not wholly disguise.
“And I don’t care for tea — and haven’t time to go out with you — and staying in does not seem to satisfy you. Stella, my dear, it would be a lot easier if you did care for something on earth besides me — had other interests in life.”
“Such as what?” she demanded pathetically.
“You have your home. I thought you enjoyed it.”
“I do — so do you — that’s not enough.”
“You have your children—”
“Yes — and they’re grown up as far as I’m concerned. They don’t need me anymore.”
“You have friends — amusements — books—”
She shook her head. “I don’t want any more things — or any more people, Morgan. I want your love — all of it. It’s all I have in the world — all I had!”
“Cheer up, my dear. You’ve got it yet. I do love you — and I don’t love anyone else, but I confess—”
She drew back, waiting— “Well?”
He looked at her quizzically.
“I confess there are times when I find Cousin Alicia — restful!”
CHAPTER 4
Malina Peckham, always keen for fresh information, eagerly studied Mrs. MacAvelly’s pleasant parlor, while the photograph was being looked for with cheerful assiduity. She saw nothing unusual, just a harmonious quiet room, ordinary but agreeable.
“I must have been entirely wrong,” said Mrs. MacAvelly, coming in from her b
edroom. “I can’t find it anywhere. It is too bad to have lured you here on false pretenses, Miss Peckham. Now won’t you tell me a little about your work. Do you enjoy it?”
Her manner was quiet, but attractive. Malina’s alert defensiveness relaxed for the moment.
“Why, yes — I enjoy some of it. There are lots of interesting stories to be hunted up. I always did like to find out things.”
“Have you ever made a scoop — one of those big stories I’ve read about?” asked her hostess. “I should think you’d be just the one to succeed where a good many would fail.”
Then the newspaperwoman almost forgot her errand, while she chattered about the various adventures and achievements of her career.
“But I really mustn’t waste any more of your time — and mine,” she said suddenly, starting up with a jerk. “Bless me! How long I’ve stayed!” and she whisked back to Mrs. Widfield’s door.
Mr. Widfield was by no means pleased to hear her hard voice speaking to Hedda in the little hall.
“Here’s your childhood friend again, Stella! I thought good Mrs. Mac had saved us!” He sought to make a stealthy escape, but Malina entered.
“Now you needn’t try to run away, Mr. Widfield. You’re the very man I want to see! Good evening, Stella — I want to see you too, of course.”
She laid aside her raincoat and umbrella on a chair, and whisked out her notebook.
“I know you’ll help me out on this, Mr. Widfield. I just have to get the facts — or I’m fired! Now you can tell me all about this Van Tromp story, I’m sure.”
Morgan Widfield was most displeased with Miss Peckham on account of the jarring mixture of feelings she aroused in him. He liked to admire a woman, and she was not pretty. He liked to take care of a woman, and she was patently able to take care of herself. His feelings about women formed, taken altogether, that vague roseate nimbus, half-reverential, and half-patronizing, which so many men have; such a feeling as one might have for an angel with a wooden leg. And here was Malina, whom he was forced to respect as a keen efficient worker, yet who jarred on all his “finer feelings.” As a man he might have spoken of her as a “clever fellow”— “does capital work”— “sure to get on”— “honest and able.” As a woman, he simply didn’t like her.
Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page 72
