by Myrtle Reed
A Mistress of Art
"You're not going out again this evening, are you, George?" PrettyMrs. Carson seemed on the point of dissolving in tears, but her liegelord buttoned his coat indifferently, and began the usual search forhis hat. Having found it, he hesitated for a moment, then came andstood before her. "See here, Kitty," he began, not unkindly; "we mightjust as well understand this thing first as last. There's no use inyour speaking to me in that tone just because I choose to go out inthe evening. When I married you, I didn't expect to be tied to yourapron string, and I don't intend to be. I consider myself as free asI was before I was married, and I am perfectly willing to accord thesame freedom to you. When you go out, I never ask you where you'vebeen, nor what time you came home, and I'd be glad to have you equallyconsiderate of me. Let's be sensible, Kitty. I hate tears and heroics.See?" He stooped to kiss her, and then went off, whistling a jaunty airmeant to indicate extreme cheerfulness.
For three evenings of that week Mr. George Carson had sought relaxationand entertainment away from his own fireside. This made the fourth, andthe wife of only six months' standing, had a heavy and joyless heart.
Twice before she had spoken of it,--the first time to be answered by alaugh, the second time by very visible irritation, and to-night by thevery cool "understanding" chronicled above.
Kitty had made a marriage vow which was not in the ceremony, but whichwas none the less sincerely meant. "Whatever happens," she said toherself, "I simply will not nag."
She had read the journals for women, written and edited by men, andthis seemed to be the corner-stone of every piece of advice; moreover,she believed in pretty gowns, good dinners, and bright conversationwith sentiment omitted.
"I can't think what it is," she meditated, during the long cheerlessevening. Mr. Carson's appetite had proved beyond question that thedinner was good, and her pretty house gown was certainly becoming--andthen Kitty broke down and wept, for the gown was a new one and Georgehad not noticed it. On such trifles does the happiness of women depend!
In the journals for women, written and edited by men, great stress waslaid on the fact that after a woman was married, she must keep hertroubles to herself. She believed this, too, but the next day, her oldschool friend, Helen Everett, happened in, and she sobbed out her woesin the customary place--on the shoulder of a spinster--forgetting thedeterrent effect on the marriage license business.
"My dear," said that wise young person, "men simply will go out nights.I shouldn't care myself--it leaves a nice long evening to read orstudy, or embroider, or practice, and if Mr. Helen Everett didn't wantto stay with me, I'd be the last one to hint that I wanted him to."
"You're a man-hater, Helen," said Mrs. Carson, trying to smile,"but I'm not. I want George to stay at home a part of the time.Of course I'm willing for him to go out occasionally, for of allthings, I despise a 'sissy-man', but four or five evenings aweek--is--too--much!"
The dainty handkerchief came into use again.
"Philosophy teaches us," said Helen, reminiscently, "that people,especially men, always want what they can't get." Kitty was remindedof the scholarly tone in which Helen had delivered her thesis atcommencement. "To quote a contemporary essayist, 'If a mortal knowsthat his mate cannot get away, he is often severe and unreasonable.'There is also a good old doctrine to the effect that 'like cures like.'"
"Well?" said Kitty, enquiringly.
"I never put my fingers into anybody's matrimonial pie," resumed Helen,"so I'll let you think out your own schemes to keep the charming Mr.Carson under his own vine and fig tree, but you know I live only threeblocks away, and there are no followers in my camp. My brother wouldtake you home, any time you might care to come."
Kitty was silent.
"Think it over, dear," said Helen as she rose to go.
After several minutes of hard thought, Kitty arrived at Helen'smeaning. "This evening shall decide it," she said to herself. "If hestays at home, I shall think that he cares just a little bit; but if hedoesn't, I'll make him care." There was a smouldering fire in Kitty'sbrown eyes, that might at any time leap into a flame.
The pretty house gown appeared at dinner again, but George, seemingly,took no notice of it. Moreover, immediately after the meal he found hishat, and merely saying: "Bye-bye, Kitty," began the jaunty whistle. Sheheard it as it grew fainter, and at last, only lost it in the distantsound of a street car.
The emancipated husband had no particular place to go, and his presentnocturnal pilgrimage was undertaken purely in the interest of wifelydiscipline. He dropped into his club, but found it dull; and perhapsthe thought of Kitty's sad little face tugged remorsefully at hisheartstrings, for he went home early.
The lights were low in the drawing-room, she always left them so forhim. "Must have gone to bed about nine," he mused. He went up-stairs,expecting to hear her say: "Is that you, dear?" But no sound of anysort greeted him. The house was as silent as a tomb. After a fewminutes, it became evident that she was not at home, and he sat downwith a book to await her arrival.
It seemed strange, someway, without her,--perhaps because hergown hung from the back of a chair. It was a soft pretty thing ofpinky-yellow--he mentally decided that must be the colour--trimmed withcreamy lace and black velvet ribbon. It was a very pretty gown--a mostadorable gown.
It was half-past eleven, when Kitty came home humming the chorus of apopular song. She started in apparent surprise when she saw him. "Oh,it's you, is it?" she said indifferently.
"Certainly it's me," he responded irritably. "Whom did you expect tosee here?"
Kitty laughed pleasantly, and drew off her gloves. Her tailor-made gownfitted her to perfection, it was his favorite colour, too, and hercollar and cuffs were irreproachable.
"Where have you been, Kitty?" he asked in a different tone.
"Oh, just out," she responded with a yawn. "Where have you been?"
"Humph," responded Mr. Carson.
The following evening, she appeared at dinner in the same severe gown.She was very pleasant and chatted on topics of current interest quiteas if he were a casual acquaintance. She watched him with evidentuneasiness afterward, and he was certain that he detected a faint shadeof relief on her face when he commenced hunting for his hat.
Before ten he came home, and as he half suspected, Kitty was out. Hisirritation grew until he was afraid to trust himself to speak, so hepretended to be asleep, when she came home.
The cloud on the matrimonial horizon grew larger. Outwardly Kittywas kind and considerate, and her vigilant care for his comfort wasin no way lessened. His things were kept in order and something heparticularly liked was always on the table, but the old confidence wasgone and in its place was something that he hesitated to analyse.
She went out every night, now. More than once she had left him witha laconic "Bye-bye," and he had spent a miserable evening before anunsympathetic fire. He learned to detest the severely correct gownsthat she always wore now.
"I say, Kit," he said as he rose from the table, "don't you want to goto the theatre to-night?"
"Can't," she returned shortly, "much obliged for the 'bid' though."
George Carson's hair rose "like quills upon the fretful porcupine."He had a horror of slang from feminine lips, and he had been drawn toKitty in the first place, because she never used it. "Bid!" Oh, Heavens!
He paid no attention to her cheerful farewell when she left him. Hepoked the fire morosely, smoked without enjoying it, and at last castabout for something to read. One of the Journals for women, written andedited by men, lay on the table, and he grasped it as the proverbialdrowning man is wont to clutch the proverbial straw.
He consulted the pages of the oracle anxiously, and he learned that itwas not wise to marry a man who had served a term in the penitentiary,that it was harmless enough for either man or woman to kiss a ladycousin, but that a man cousin must be kept at a fixed and rigiddistance--that it was wrong for cousins to marry, and that it was notonly immoral, but very dangerous to bleach or
dye the hair.
No rule of conduct was specified for the man whose wife went outnights, and he wandered aimlessly into the street. The light and cheerof the club house seemed inopportune, like mirth at a funeral, andhe retired into a distant corner to think. His intimates hailed himjoyously, but were met with marked coldness. One of them, more daringthan the rest, laid a sympathetic hand upon his shoulder.
"What's the matter, old man?"
"Oh, the deuce," growled George, "can't you let a fellow alone?"
He was glad that he got home before Kitty did, for he could pretend tobe asleep when she came in. He knew it would be only a pretence, anduntil midnight he listened for her latch-key in the door. It was longafter twelve, when a carriage stopped at the door, and then he heard amanly voice say: "Good night, Mrs. Carson."
"Good night, Johnnie," she returned, "and thank you for a pleasantevening."
"Johnnie!" Who in creation was "Johnnie?"
But there was no time to wonder, for Kitty's foot was on the stair,and in a frame of mind not usually favourable to repose, he simulatedsleep.
There was a beautiful bracelet at her plate the following evening.
"Oh, how sweet!" she said, with evident pleasure in her eyes.
"Aren't you going to put it on?" he asked, when she laid it aside.
"Oh, yes," she answered brightly, "only I can't wear it with this gown.Bracelets don't go well with linen cuffs."
She didn't even take it from the table after dinner, as he noted witha pang. Almost immediately she came in with her hat on and stoodleisurely drawing on her gloves.
"You're not going out again to-night, are you Kitty?" he asked.
"See here, George," she returned, "we might just as well understandthis thing, first as last. There's no use in you speaking to me in thattone, just because I choose to go out in the evening. When I marriedyou, I didn't intend to be tied to your apron string--I suppose, Ishould say, suspender, and I don't intend to be. I consider myselfas free as I was before I was married, and I am perfectly willing toaccord the same freedom to you. When you go out I never ask you whereyou have been, or what time you came home, and I'd be glad to have youequally considerate of me. See?"
Without other farewell, she slammed the outer door. He was petrifiedwith astonishment. Were such words ever before addressed by atyrannical wife to a devoted husband? In the midst of his trouble, thedoor-bell rang. Friends of his and of Kitty's had come to call.
"Where's Kit?" asked Mrs. Clay, after they had chatted a moment.
"She's gone out a minute--yes--no--that is--I don't know," returnedGeorge incoherently.
Mr. Clay's ready tact came to the rescue and he picked up a programwhich lay on the table, half hidden by a magazine.
"Tannhauser," he said cheerfully, "with Gadski as Elizabeth! So youwent Tuesday night? We wanted to go, but there were no seats left. Howearly did you get yours?"
"I--ah--yes--Gadski as Elizabeth--that is--rather early. Yes, she wasvery fine," said George miserably. The stunning revelation had cometo him that on Tuesday night--the evening in which he had heard thecarriage and the voices, Kitty had been to the opera with another man!And it seemed to fairly paralyse his powers of speech. After a littlewhile the guests politely departed, wondering what in the world was thematter with the Carsons.
"Is he crazy?" asked Mrs. Clay.
"Looks like it," answered her husband concisely.
Carson went up-stairs and searched the closet until he found thepinky-yellow gown with the black velvet bows. He sat down with thepretty fluffy thing in his hands. A delicate odour of violets clungto it--Kitty always had violets around her--and the scent seemed likea haunting memory of a happy past, when he had a wife who wore softwomanly things--who loved to have him kiss her, and never went outnights.
With a sudden rush of tenderness he held the little gown close, butit yielded him no caress in return, and he flung it bitterly aside,feeling as he did so, that he sat among the ashes of a desolate andforsaken home.
He grew white and worn in the days that followed. He knew dimly what agrave might mean, since he felt the hurt of a living loss.
He wandered through the lonely rooms evening after evening. The sightof her dainty fluffy things made him suffer keenly, and a tiny jewelledslipper he found on the floor almost unmanned him.
He no longer went to the club, but sat at home among Kitty's thingswhile she went out as usual. One evening, after saying "good-bye" shecaught her gown on a rocker, and turned back to free herself.
He was sitting before the fire, his elbow resting on his knee, andhis chin in the palm of his hand. It was a saddened face that Kittysaw, with all the joy and youth gone out of it. The flickering lightmade the lines of pain very distinct, and her heart smote her at therealisation of what she had done. Quickly she ran up-stairs and tookoff her tailor-made costume. When she came down, he was sitting as shehad left him, unhearing, unseeing and unheeding.
As she came toward him, he looked up. At the first sight of her in thepinky-yellow gown, he rubbed his eyes as if he had seen wrongly. Shecame nearer to him, smiling, her hands outstretched, and he sprang tohis feet. "Kitty," he cried, "are you going to stay at home to-night?"
"To-night, and always, dear, if you want me," she replied.
"Want you--Oh, my little wife!" he said brokenly, and gathered her intohis arms.
They had a long talk after that, and Kitty explained that she had beenspending her evenings with Helen Everett, who was writing a book, andreading it to her, chapter by chapter as it was finished.
"Who is Johnnie?" demanded George abruptly.
"Helen's brother. He's only a boy, but he's a very nice one, and hetakes us to all sorts of lovely places."
After a moment she continued wistfully: "Helen's awfully clever--books,colleges, degrees, and everything."
"And you have only me," said George, laughing, and drawing her closer.
"You're enough, if I can only keep you," she returned mischievously.
His face grew very grave. "I have been a thoughtless brute, sweetheart.Forgive me," he said kissing her fondly. "And know all men by thesepresents, I hereby confer upon you the degree of Mistress of Arts."
A Rosary of Tears
