Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells

by William Dean Howells

  She seemed not to have listened to him. When he stopped, she said, in a quiet, passionless voice, “I suppose you wrote it to get money for this sacque.”

  “Yes; I did,” replied Bartley.

  She dropped it on the floor at his feet. “I shall never wear it again,” she said in the same tone, and a little sigh escaped her.

  “Use your pleasure about that,” said Bartley, sitting down to his writing again, as she turned and left the room.

  She went upstairs and came down immediately, with the gold nugget, which she had wrenched from the baby’s necklace, and laid it on the paper before him. “Perhaps you would like to spend it for tivoli beer,” she suggested. “Flavia shall not wear it.”

  “I’ll get it fitted on to my watch-chain.” Bartley slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.

  The sacque still lay on the floor at his feet; he pulled his chair a little forward and put his feet on it. He feigned to write awhile longer, and then he folded up his papers, and went out, leaving Marcia to make her Sunday dinner alone. When he came home late at night, he found the sacque where she had dropped it, and with a curse he picked it up and hung it on the hat-rack in the hall.

  He slept in the guest-chamber, and at times during the night the child cried in Marcia’s room and waked him; and then he thought he heard a sound of sobbing which was not the child’s. In the morning, when he came down to breakfast, Marcia met him with swollen eyes.

  “Bartley,” she said tremulously, “I wish you would tell me how you felt justified in writing out Mr. Kinney’s life in that way.”

  “My dear,” said Bartley, with perfect amiability, for he had slept off his anger, and he really felt sorry to see her so unhappy, “I would tell you almost anything you want on any other subject; but I think we had better remand that one to the safety of silence, and go upon the general supposition that I know what I’m about.”

  “I can’t, Bartley!”

  “Can’t you? Well, that’s a pity.” He pulled his chair to the breakfast-table. “It seems to me that girl’s imagination always fails her on Mondays. Can she never give us anything but hash and corn-bread when she’s going to wash? However, the coffee’s good. I suppose you made it?”

  “Bartley!” persisted Marcia, “I want to believe in everything you do, — I want to be proud of it—”

  “That will be difficult,” suggested Bartley, with an air of thoughtful impartiality, “for the wife of a newspaper man.”

  “No, no! It needn’t be! It mustn’t be! If you will only tell me—” She stopped, as if she feared to repeat her offence.

  Bartley leaned back in his chair and looked at her intense face with a smile. “Tell you that in some way I had Kinney’s authority to use his facts? Well, I should have done that yesterday if you had let me. In the first place, Kinney’s the most helpless ass in the world. He could never have used his own facts. In the second place, there was hardly anything in his rigmarole the other day that he hadn’t told me down there in the lumber camp, with full authority to use it in any way I liked; and I don’t see how he could revoke that authority. That’s the way I reasoned about it.”

  “I see, — I see!” said Marcia, with humble eagerness.

  “Well, that’s all there is about it. What I’ve done can’t hurt Kinney. If he ever does want to write his old facts out, he’ll be glad to take my report of them, and — spoil it,” said Bartley, ending with a laugh.

  “And if — if there had been anything wrong about it,” said Marcia, anxious to justify him to herself, “Mr. Ricker would have told you so when you offered him the article.”

  “I don’t think Mr. Ricker would have ventured on any impertinence with me,” said Bartley, with grandeur. But he lapsed into his wonted, easy way of taking everything. “What are you driving at, Marsh? I don’t care particularly for what happened yesterday. We’ve had rows enough before, and I dare say we shall have them again. You gave me a bad quarter of an hour, and you gave yourself” — he looked at her tear-stained eyes— “a bad night, apparently. That’s all there is about it.”

  “Oh, no, that isn’t all! It isn’t like the other quarrels we’ve had. When I think how I’ve felt toward you ever since, it scares me. There can’t be anything sacred in our marriage unless we trust each other in everything.”

  “Well, I haven’t done any of the mistrusting,” said Bartley, with humorous lightness. “But isn’t sacred rather a strong word to use in regard to our marriage, anyway?”

  “Why — why — what do you mean, Bartley? We were married by a minister.”

  “Well, yes, by what was left of one,” said Bartley. “He couldn’t seem to shake himself together sufficiently to ask for the proof that we had declared our intention to get married.”

  Marcia looked mystified. “Don’t you remember his saying there was something else, and my suggesting to him that it was the fee?”

  Marcia turned white. “Father said the certificate was all right—”

  “Oh, he asked to see it, did he? He is a prudent old gentleman. Well, it is all right.”

  “And what difference did it make about our not proving that we had declared our intention?” asked Marcia, as if only partly reassured.

  “No difference to us; and only a difference of sixty dollars fine to him, if it was ever found out.”

  “And you let the poor old man run that risk?”

  “Well, you see, it couldn’t be helped. We hadn’t declared our intention, and the lady seemed very anxious to be married. You needn’t be troubled. We are married, right and tight enough; but I don’t know that there’s anything sacred about it.”

  “No,” Marcia wailed out, “its tainted with fraud from the beginning.”

  “If you like to say so,” Bartley assented, putting his napkin into its ring.

  Marcia hid her face in her arms on the table; the baby left off drumming with its spoon, and began to cry.

  Witherby was reading the Sunday edition of the Chronicle-Abstract, when Bartley got down to the Events office; and he cleared his throat with a premonitory cough as his assistant swung easily into the room. “Good morning, Mr. Hubbard,” he said. “There is quite an interesting article in yesterday’s Chronicle-Abstract. Have you seen it?”

  “Yes,” said Bartley. “What article?”

  “This Confessions of an Average American.” Witherby held out the paper, where Bartley’s article, vividly head-lined and sub-headed, filled half a page. “What is the reason we cannot have something of this kind?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” Bartley began.

  “Have you any idea who wrote this?”

  “Oh, yes, I wrote it.”

  Witherby had the task before him of transmuting an expression of rather low cunning into one of wounded confidence, mingled with high-minded surprise. “I thought it had your ear-marks, Mr. Hubbard: but I preferred not to believe it till I heard the fact from your own lips. I supposed that our contract covered such contributions as this.”

  “I wrote it out of time, and on Sunday night. You pay me by the week, and all that I do throughout the week belongs to you. The next day after that Sunday I did a full day’s work on the Events. I don’t see what you have to complain of. You told me when I began that you would not expect more than a certain amount of work from me. Have I ever done less?”

  “No, but—”

  “Haven’t I always done more?”

  “Yes, I have never complained of the amount of work. But upon this theory of yours, what you did in your summer vacation would not belong to the Events, or what you did on legal holidays.”

  “I never have any summer vacation or holidays, legal or illegal. Even when I was down at Equity last summer I sent you something for the paper every day.”

  This was true, and Witherby could not gainsay it. “Very well, sir. If this is to be your interpretation of our understanding for the future, I shall wish to revise our contract,” he said pompously.

  “You can tear it up if you like,” ret
urned Bartley. “I dare say Ricker would jump at a little study of the true inwardness of counting-room journalism. Unless you insist upon having it for the Events.” Bartley gave a chuckle of enjoyment as he sat down at his desk; Witherby rose and stalked away.

  He returned in half an hour and said, with an air of frank concession, touched with personal grief: “Mr. Hubbard, I can see how, from your point of view, you were perfectly justifiable in selling your article to the Chronicle-Abstract. My point of view is different, but I shall not insist upon it; and I wish to withdraw — and — and apologize for — any hasty expressions I may have used.”

  “All right,” said Bartley, with a wicked grin. He had triumphed; but his triumph was one to leave some men with an uneasy feeling, and there was not altogether a pleasant taste in Bartley’s mouth. After that his position in the Events office was whatever he chose to make it, but he did not abuse his ascendency, and he even made a point of increased deference towards Witherby. Many courtesies passed between them; each took some trouble to show the other that he had no ill feeling.

  Three or four weeks later Bartley received a letter with an Illinois postmark which gave him a disagreeable sensation, at first, for he knew it must be from Kinney. But the letter was so amusingly characteristic, so helplessly ill-spelled and ill-constructed, that he could not help laughing. Kinney gave an account of his travels to the mining town, and of his present situation and future prospects; he was full of affectionate messages and inquiries for Bartley’s family, and he said he should never forget that Sunday he had passed with them. In a postscript he added: “They copied that String of lies into our paper, here, out of the Chron.-Ab. It was pretty well done, but if your friend Mr. Ricker done it, I’me not goen to Insult him soon again by calling him a gentleman.”

  This laconic reference to the matter in a postscript was delicious to Bartley; he seemed to hear Kinney saying the words, and imagined his air of ineffective sarcasm. He carried the letter about with him, and the first time he saw Ricker he showed it to him. Ricker read it without appearing greatly diverted; when he came to the postscript he flushed, and demanded, “What have you done about it?”

  “Oh, I haven’t done anything. It wasn’t necessary. You see, now, what Kinney could have done with his facts if we had left them to him. It would have been a wicked waste of material I thought the sight of some of his literature would help you wash up your uncleanly scruples on that point.”

  “How long have you had this letter?” pursued Ricker.

  “I don’t know. A week or ten days.”

  Ricker folded it up and returned it to him. “Mr. Hubbard,” he said, “the next time we meet, will you do me the favor to cut my acquaintance?”

  Bartley stared at him; he thought he must be joking. “Why, Ricker, what’s the matter? I didn’t suppose you’d care anything about old Kinney. I thought it would amuse you. Why, confound it! I’d just as soon write out and tell him that I did the thing.” He began to be angry. “But I can cut your acquaintance fast enough, or any man’s, if you’re really on your ear!”

  “I’m on my ear,” said Ricker. He left Bartley standing where they had met.

  It was peculiarly unfortunate, for Bartley had occasion within that week to ask Ricker’s advice, and he was debarred from doing so by this absurd displeasure. Since their recent perfect understanding, Witherby had slighted no opportunity to cement their friendship, and to attach Bartley more and more firmly to the Events. He now offered him some of the Events stock on extremely advantageous terms, with the avowed purpose of attaching him to the paper. There seemed nothing covert in this, and Bartley had never heard any doubts of the prosperity of the Events, but he would have especially liked to have Ricker’s mind upon this offer of stock. Witherby had urged him not to pay for the whole outright, but to accept a somewhat lower salary, and trust to his dividends to make up the difference. The shares had paid fifteen per cent the year before, and Bartley could judge for himself of the present chances from that showing. Witherby advised him to borrow only fifteen hundred dollars on the three thousand of stock which he offered him, and to pay up the balance in three years by dropping five hundred a year from his salary. It was certainly a flattering proposal; and under his breath, where Bartley still did most of his blaspheming, he cursed Ricker for an old fool; and resolved to close with Witherby on his own responsibility. After he had done so he told Marcia of the step he had taken.

  Since their last quarrel there had been an alienation in her behavior toward him, different from any former resentment. She was submissive and quiescent; she looked carefully after his comfort, and was perfect in her housekeeping; but she held aloof from him somehow, and left him to a solitude in her presence in which he fancied, if he did not divine, her contempt. But in this matter of common interest, something of their community of feeling revived; they met on a lower level, but they met, for the moment, and Marcia joined eagerly in the discussion of ways and means.

  The notion of dropping five hundred from his salary delighted her, because they must now cut down their expenses as much; and she had long grieved over their expenses without being able to make Bartley agree to their reduction. She went upstairs at once and gave the little nurse-maid a week’s warning; she told the maid of all work that she must take three dollars a week hereafter instead of four, or else find another place; she mentally forewent new spring dresses for herself and the baby, and arranged to do herself all of the wash she had been putting out; she put a note in the mouth of the can at the back door, telling the milkman to leave only two quarts in future; and she came radiantly back to tell Bartley that she had saved half of the lost five hundred a year already. But her countenance fell. “Why, where are you to get the other fifteen hundred dollars, Bartley?”

  “Oh, I Ve thought of that,” said Bartley, laughing at her swift alternations of triumph and despair. “You trust to me for that.”

  “You’re not — not going to ask father for it?” she faltered.

  “Not very much,” said Bartley, as he took his hat to go out.

  He meant to make a raise out of Ben Halleck, as he phrased it to himself. He knew that Halleck had plenty of money; he could make the stock itself over to him as security; he did not see why Halleck should hesitate. But when he entered Halleck’s room, having asked Cyrus to show him directly there, Halleck gave a start which seemed ominous to Bartley. He had scarcely the heart to open his business, and Halleck listened with changing color, and something only too like the embarrassment of a man who intends a refusal. He would not look Bartley in the face, and when Bartley had made an end he sat for a time without speaking. At last he said with a quick sigh, as if at the close of an internal conflict, “I will lend you the money!”

  Bartley’s heart gave a bound, and he broke out into an immense laugh of relief, and clapped Halleck on the shoulder. “You looked deucedly as it’ you wouldn’t, old man! By George, you had on such a dismal, hang-dog expression that I didn’t know but you’d come to borrow money of me, and I’d made up my mind not to let you have it! But I’m everlastingly obliged to you, Halleck, and I promise you that you won’t regret it.”

  “I shall have to speak to my father about this,” said Halleck, responding coldly to Bartley’s robust pressure of his hand.

  “Of course, — of course.”

  “How soon shall you want the money?”

  “Well, the sooner the better, now. Bring the check round — can’t you? — to-morrow night, — and take dinner with us, you and Olive; and we’ll celebrate a little. I know it will please Marcia when she finds out who my hard-hearted creditor is!”

  “Well,” assented Halleck with a smile so ghastly that Bartley noticed it even in his joy.

  “Curse me,” he said to himself, “if ever I saw a man so ashamed of doing a good action!”

  XXX.

  The Presidential canvas of the summer — which, followed upon these events in Bartley’s career was not very active. Sometimes, in fact, it languished so muc
h that people almost forgot it, and a good field was afforded the Events for the practice of independent journalism. To hold a course of strict impartiality, and yet come out on the winning side was a theory of independent journalism which Bartley illustrated with cynical enjoyment. He developed into something rather artistic the gift which he had always shown in his newspaper work for ironical persiflage. Witherby was not a man to feel this burlesque himself; but when it was pointed out to him by others, he came to Bartley in some alarm from its effect upon the fortunes of the paper. “We can’t afford, Mr. Hubbard,” he said, with virtuous trepidation, “we can’t afford to make fun of our friends!”

  Bartley laughed at Witherby’s anxiety. “They’re no more our friends than the other fellows are. We are independent journalists; and this way of treating the thing leaves us perfectly free hereafter to claim, just as we choose, that we were in fun or in earnest on any particular question if we’re ever attacked. See?”

  “I see,” said Witherby, with not wholly subdued misgiving. But after due time for conviction no man enjoyed Bartley’s irony more than Witherby when once he had mastered an instance of it. Sometimes it happened that Bartley found him chuckling over a perfectly serious paragraph, but he did not mind that; he enjoyed Witherby’s mistake even more than his appreciation.

  In these days Bartley was in almost uninterrupted good humor, as he had always expected to be when he became fairly prosperous. He was at no time an unamiable fellow, as he saw it; he had his sulks, he had his moments of anger; but generally he felt good, and he had always believed, and he had promised Marcia, that when he got squarely on his legs he should feel good perpetually. This sensation he now agreeably realized; and he was also now in that position in which he had proposed to himself some little moral reforms. He was not much in the habit of taking stock; but no man wholly escapes the contingencies in which he is confronted with himself, and sees certain habits, traits, tendencies, which he would like to change for the sake of his peace of mind hereafter. To some souls these contingencies are full of anguish, of remorse for the past, of despair; but Bartley had never yet seen the time when he did not feel himself perfectly able to turn over a new leaf and blot the old one. There were not many things in his life which he really cared to have very different; but there were two or three shady little corners which he always intended to clean up. He had meant some time or other to have a religious belief of some sort, he did not much care what; since Marcia had taken to the Hallecks’ church, he did not see why he should not go with her, though he had never yet done so. He was not quite sure whether he was always as candid with her as he might be, or as kind; though he maintained against this question that in all their quarrels it was six of one and half a dozen of the other. He had never been tipsy but once in his life, and he considered that he had repented and atoned for that enough, especially as nothing had ever come of it; but sometimes he thought he might be over-doing the beer; yes, he thought he must cut down on the tivoli; he was getting ridiculously fat. If ever he met Kinney again he should tell him that it was he and not Ricker who had appropriated his facts and he intended to make it up with Ricker somehow.