Part 19

She knew, too, why she despised Arthur. It was because of his meekness and his stupidity, his lack of life and excitement—because, in marrying him, she had definitely killed any chances of a romantic marriage that might, some day, have come to her. But, more than that. Corinna knew that she despised him—and that other women despised _their_ husbands—_because she had been able to marry him_. All other men she had known—Rodney and Fred and the others, a man named Phillips and one named Billy Freer and Jim Henderson—they had, in one way or another, managed to escape her. They had been cleverer than she—and avoided matrimony altogether, or at least with her. It had been a duel, her wits and tricks against theirs—and they had won. Only Arthur had lost, simple Arthur, too stupid to get away. So she despised him because he had allowed himself to be caught—and to be caught by her tricks—old tricks, worn-out tricks, tricks at twenty-five, tricks that had failed to ensnare the others.

Life settled down, monotonously. Because she despised Arthur, Corinna was able to disregard him almost entirely. She would spend whole days, slovenly, in a soiled negligée, washing her face carelessly half an hour before he came home, or allowing it to remain daubed with cold cream, serving delicatessen dinners or cold meats and beans. She had no scruples about cheating him. She was true to him because no pleasant opportunities presented themselves.

Finally, bored at staying home so much, she met men she knew down-town and had luncheon with them or went to the matinée. She even flirted with good-looking men on the street or in hotel lobbies and then had tea. The men were not very interesting nor were the flirtations very exciting—the most desirable men wouldn’t notice her and those who did got awfully “fresh”—but it was better than nothing. What if Arthur _did_ find out? What could he do? Kick her out? She’d like to see him. What if he did? She hadn’t done anything actually bad. She was a married woman, had “Mrs.” in front of her name. It wasn’t as if she were a poor worm, like her mother had been. She was a good stenographer, could get a position any day, she knew that. Of course it was easier, spending her days in negligée reading magazines or eating candy, or down-town shopping or flirting. It was a lot better, more comfortable, than working. But, if the worst came to the worst, it wouldn’t be so awfully bad if she left Arthur. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t get along. Poor old Arthur—he ought to be glad he had her—who was he to be considered, anyhow?

She thought of Rodney. His proposal no longer seemed insulting now. She remembered Rodney—his wonderful rough blond hair, his narrow grey eyes, his kisses. She was no longer a young girl with a necessary virtue. She was a married woman now, a woman of the world, not a silly little working girl. If she wanted a little affair....

She tried to reach Rodney over the telephone. He had left that position years before. No one there knew where he was. She sent a note to him, addressed to his former home. It was returned to her. Of course, she’d meet him on the street some day. In the meantime....

She spent as much money as she could on clothes, as little as possible on the household. Arthur was pretty good about money. He was getting ahead, too. He had two raises the first year of their marriage. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if, after all, he made good? She had never thought of that possibility, of his making money. He had been a pitiful way out—a way out of working and the stigma of being unmarried. What if he became something—improved?

VI

When they had been married a year and a half Arthur was promoted to assistant buyer in his department with quite a definite raise in salary. Then, suddenly, for the first time since her marriage, Corinna stopped despising him. He became almost important, some one to notice, to pay attention to. He could and did give her small luxuries far beyond those she would have been able to earn had she still been employed.

Almost unconsciously he took up more of her time. They could not afford a servant, although they were living in a more pretentious apartment—and Arthur, after a long day in the office, often came home tired, out of sorts. He needed cheering up, entertaining. His digestion was not good and he complained of “delicatessen slops,” so that Corinna was forced to cook a regular dinner in the evening. She did it a bit grudgingly, but she was a little afraid of Arthur when he complained or when he quarrelled with her. After all, it was his money that was used to run the house—he deserved a little something from it....

A few months later Corinna’s father died and her mother gave up her own small apartment and came to live with Corinna. Arthur liked his mother-in-law, in an indefinite sort of way, and agreed to the arrangement without a word. But, after that, when matters of money for the household came up, he sometimes dared to assert himself, mentioning that, after all, as long as he was paying for the running of the household and was supporting, unaided, both Corinna and her mother, perhaps his opinion might be listened to and his desires fulfilled.

The next year Corinna’s daughter was born. Corinna did not especially want a baby. Still, all of her friends were having them.... When she knew the baby was coming, she yielded herself deliberately to having it, spending more months than necessary in the house in negligée, ashamed to go on the street on account of her figure. She lay on the couch then, ate huge amounts of chocolates and read sentimental stories in the magazines. After the baby came she did not regain her figure, but retained some of the plumpness which characterized her mother.

There was a maid, now, an ill-trained, slow girl, but, even so, Corinna did not resume the pursuits of her early married life. There were fewer teas with men acquaintances. Perhaps because she was heavier and less entertaining, perhaps because the baby took up much of her time, perhaps because her mother and Arthur seemed to question her more, there seemed fewer chances for “fun.” She associated more with women and talked babies and servants and played bridge. At the end of two years another baby came, Arthur, junior, and before another two years had passed, Corinna’s third child, Archie, was born.

Corinna was definitely middle-aged, now, although she felt that she was still young and didn’t look her age, nearly. She spent her time with the children mostly, for even with the help of her mother and the one maid, the children were always falling down or crying or needing attention.

There was always a lot to do. When she went down-town, it was usually, definitely, on a shopping trip, with a list of things in her purse that had to be looked after. She wore rather expensive things, a bit flashy, too full of ornament, not very carefully made, sometimes torn where one of the children had pulled, but quite “in style” as to the cut of the skirt and the colour.

Arthur did very well in business. When Beatrice, the oldest child, was twelve, he became buyer for his department. With the years, Arthur had changed a little, too. He was a nervous fellow and, when he was home, he insisted that the children be kept quiet. He was on rather a strict diet, which precluded most good things to eat and did not help his disposition. But he retained his quiet habits and his love of home and did not develop any new desires outside of his business ambitions.

VII

It was when Beatrice was thirteen that she said something which surprised Corinna.

“Mother,” she said, “when I get grown up and married, you bet I’m not going to be a slave to a husband, the way you are to Dad.”

“The way I am, Bee? How can you talk like that? Your father is the kindest man. Doesn’t he give you everything? He never....”

“He’s good to us, of course,” the child persisted. “It isn’t that. It’s just—you’re sort of a slave to him. I guess all women are. You bet I won’t be when I’m grown up and married. You were worried all day yesterday for fear Miss Loftus would call last night, because she gets on Father’s nerves.”

“You know how nervous he is; mustn’t be bothered....”

“Oh, I know. Only it doesn’t keep you from being a slave. You worry about what he eats—and if he’s a little late, coming home from the office—and if company stays too late—and if the matinée lasts too long and he’ll be home first—and about his meals and clothes.”

“Nonsense,” said Corinna, “you don’t understand men, dear. They like to have their meals on time, things regular. When you are grown up....”

When her daughter had gone away, Corinna looked back a little at her own life, started to think about things, puzzled over things as she had done when she was younger. With the children and all, there had been little time for introspection. She remembered what she had said to her mother, years before. She had believed—all this time—that she had followed her original plan of independence. She—a slave—to a man—as her mother had been—nonsense! Why—Arthur was no one to slave for—Arthur!

She had thought—all these years—indefinitely—that she still looked down on Arthur, did as she pleased. But she knew, finally now, that after the first year or two of matrimony she had never done that. She knew that her daughter was right, as she had been right. All she was living for was peace and quiet, a regular household, the children well, Arthur satisfied.

There had been quarrels, a few years before. But Corinna had found that Arthur hadn’t greatly minded quarrelling. There were always quarrels in the office, it seemed. One quarrel more or less, in a day, hadn’t mattered to him. But Corinna’s day was so tasteless—children, the household—that it was Arthur’s coming home that added flavour to her life. Arthur—whom she had so despised! She had wanted peace in the evenings, because evenings were the pleasantest part of the day. She knew now, as she must have recognized subconsciously then, that Arthur was the important thing in her life, that his home-comings were the big events for her.

Now she was fat and thirty-eight and already slightly wrinkled. There was nobody—nothing—she was interested in. The children—her home, of course—but outside of that. She doubted if she could take shorthand notes if she tried. She knew she could no longer operate a typewriter—older women couldn’t get positions, anyhow.

She thought of long days of dictation in an office, and shuddered. Arthur made a good living. There were two servants, now, and a good sized apartment and a little place up in the country for the summer. They might even afford a small car next year. Arthur was particular, of course, a bit cranky, even. He still cared for her, never looked at other women, she knew that. He was not very affectionate, never had been. She had been glad of that, at one time. Now she almost wished he were a bit more demonstrative. But he still spoke of their marriage as a success, of their affair as a “love match.” She was glad he felt that way. After all, life was pleasant enough; little household things during the day, shopping, bridge, matinées—Arthur in the evenings. Other women envied her—her home and her children and Arthur. Why, Arthur was nicer than most husbands. She went over in her mind all of the women she knew—all the same—as they had been when she was a little girl—all struggling, working to please the man—the man—

Corinna remembered how strongly she had felt against this when she was a little girl. She knew how her daughter was beginning to feel now. It wasn’t fair of course. It didn’t seem right—that the man should always come first, that his wishes should come first—that she should spend hours—her days—her life—planning for him, doing things for him—always the man—the man.

Yet Corinna thought of the women she knew who had never married—fearing each day that they’d be too old to be allowed to keep on working—discontented, lonely. She knew that women, like herself, who had accepted matrimony—or who had reached for and found matrimony—were slaves. It wasn’t fair. But life wasn’t fair to women. You couldn’t get out of it—do anything about it. If you weren’t married—and didn’t have money—you were lonely, worked hard—had a difficult time of it. If you were married—Corinna knew people only in her own class—you were a slave—as much of a slave as if you had lived hundreds of years ago. Life was not beautiful nor romantic nor lovely. She did not love Arthur—yet, she certainly did not despise him—she really admired him a great deal—getting ahead without pull or anything like that. He worked hard—didn’t get much out of life, either, deserved peace and quiet, things the way he wanted them at home. Life was funny, not especially interesting—children—little things.... She was a slave, of course—still, life was better than it might be—some one to look forward to seeing in the evenings—to worry about pleasing—to do things for—a man.

THE END OF ANNA

I

Anna Clark committed suicide. She did it stupidly, with no striving after effects, no dramatic value. Her death seemed as unfinished as her life. At thirty-five, after ten years of an apparently happy enough marriage, early in the afternoon of a calm, clear day, she swallowed a dose of rather unpleasant poison and died before any one found out about it.

The incompleteness of Anna Clark’s death lay in her own thoughtlessness. She did not leave even one short note to tell of her reasons. There was nothing well-rounded about the affair. One expects at least a note from a suicide. It is little enough, considering the annoyance the whole thing causes. Hurriedly, hysterically written, left on the dresser to be discovered by the first horrified intruder, a note forms the final, definite thing to talk about. Anna Clark never liked to write. She proved her own incompetence, her inadequacy, her love of avoidance of duties, by neglecting note-writing now. No one ever knew why she chose to escape from a continuance of life as it had come to her.

II

Anna’s younger sister found the body. It was late afternoon. Anna must have taken the poison about one o’clock, it was proved later. Ruth, as was her wont, came by to get Anna to go for a walk or a call. Ruth, who was married to a clerk in a haberdashery—a well-appearing chap, too, who could criticize your cravats and tell you if your trousers were of a proper cut—lived in an apartment similar to Anna’s, though a trifle less expensive. Anna’s husband, a city salesman for a spice concern, was doing well and his commissions were far above what they had been at the time of his marriage, almost far enough to make him talk, ambitiously, of a permanent savings account in a year or two.

Ruth usually called for Anna about three o’clock. If it was a nice day, the two women would meet other women of their acquaintance, whom they called “the girls,” and, in groups of three or more, would go down-town, spending a pleasant hour or two looking in the shop windows on Fifth Avenue or on the less pretentious, but to them, more accommodating side streets.

Then Anna would go home, stopping in at a neighbourhood combination meat and vegetable market to purchase her supplies for the evening meal, cooking it so that it would be ready just when Fred Clark got in, which was usually about half-past six. Fred did not dress for dinner, but contented himself by washing his hands, hurriedly, as adequate preparation. Fred liked his meals on time.

Sometimes “the girls” spent the afternoons sewing at the home of one of them or calling on more distant acquaintances. They all lived in practically identical apartments, differing only as to a choice of wall paper, of fumed oak or highly polished mahogany for living rooms and of four-poster or brass beds in the sleeping chambers. Sometimes each “girl” spent the afternoon alone, but this was restricted, usually, to rainy days or days too threatening to venture out. On those days, “the girls” spent their individual afternoons doing their less nice darning and sewing, washing garments too fragile to be trusted to the laundry or making batches of fudge, according to their individual needs and desires.

Ruth had a key to her sister’s apartment, an extra key, made for Anna’s mother-in-law, who lived in Canton, Ohio, and came up each Spring for a visit. Anna had given it to Ruth a few weeks before so that Ruth might get a package in her absence. So, when her ring failed to bring response, Ruth did not need to summon the janitor in order to gain admission. She thought that perhaps her sister had gone out earlier and left a note for her on the table.

Ruth opened the door with the key, which had lain next to her own in her purse, and went in. The living room was in its usual condition, fairly neat, stiffly arranged, dusty in the corners. The mahogany “set” of three pieces, green velour upholstered, a gift from Fred two Christmases ago, the wicker chair with the broken arm, the oval centre table with its rose-coloured silk shade, which Anna had made with the help of “free instruction” given when you buy materials at one of the department stores, all stood in their accustomed places. In the bedroom, the bird’s-eye maple set looked as impudently clean as ever.

In the bathroom, Ruth found Anna. She screamed. Then she went closer and examined the body curiously, as if Anna were a stranger. Anna was fully dressed. She was wearing her new waist and her tan spats.

Ruth screamed again.

She got out into the hall.

A bill collector for an instalment furniture house was coming out of one of the other apartments and heard her. He went to find the janitor.

In less than five minutes a crowd had gathered. Two policemen were there, questioning every one, writing in small notebooks with thick fingers and stubs of pencils and giving out sullen, inaccurate information.

Ruth gave her name and Anna’s and Fred Clark’s name and business address and told about finding the body. In half an hour Fred Clark was there, questioning, being questioned, sorrowful, melancholy, yet conscious of his importance.

The funeral was two days later. “The girls” all sent flowers and the spice firm employés sent a large wreath bought from money collected by the bookkeeper, who always did such things. Every one said Anna was well remembered and that it was a nice funeral.

After the funeral, Fred let Anna’s two sisters, Ruth and Sophie, and his brother Philip’s wife take what they wanted of the household things, and sold the rest to a second-hand dealer, where they brought little enough, and he went to live with Philip, who had a room for him, since his oldest boy had gone West on business.

Ever since she discovered the body, Ruth had tried to find out why Anna committed suicide. It was such a terrible thing to do—the worst thing you could do—just to end things—like that. How Anna must have suffered there, alone! Yet she never left a note or anything. Ruth couldn’t quite understand it. She knew that she never could do away with herself. She was prettier than Anna had been, rather plump and blonde, with little, fine lines around her mouth and light eyes, which had been very blue when she was sixteen.

After a few days, when things began to settle down a little, and Ruth had become accustomed to thinking of Anna as being dead and no longer fell asleep meditating on getting black clothes or the awfulness of finding Anna in the bathroom, she began to reason out for herself why Anna had committed suicide. And, after a while, it came to her and she didn’t blame Anna at all. In fact, she wondered why she herself didn’t do it.

Anna had committed suicide, of course, because she had been in love. Ruth knew now whom Anna had been in love with. Why hadn’t she suspected it sooner? Of course, Anna was in love with Martin, the clerk at the Good Measure Grocery and Meat Market.

It was very plain to Ruth, as she thought about it. She remembered how, when the other girls suggested buying things at grocery departments of down-town department stores, Anna always said; “Oh, let’s not do that, and carry all the bundles home on the subway.” And, if any one suggested having things sent, Anna always reminded them how long it took for deliveries—days sometimes—and down-town stores never would deliver fresh vegetables and fruits at all. “I like the little stores in my own neighbourhood,” Anna would add.

Ruth remembered that Anna had remarked, many times, on the beauty of the clerk Martin’s eyelashes. They were beautiful—long and dark and heavy, and his eyes were an odd shape. Ruth remembered how Anna often lingered with Martin, after the others had given their orders and teased him about things or pretended to scold because she had not been given full measure. And Ruth remembered, too, how Anna always got the pick of everything.

Of course Martin—Ruth never even knew if that was his first or his last name—was the social inferior of their family. No one she knew had ever worked in a grocery store. But, even so, that couldn’t keep Anna from being in love with him. Of course, there hadn’t been anything between them. Ruth knew that. She had been with her sister every day and knew Anna was absolutely moral and all that, but, no doubt, it was the hopelessness of it—loving Martin and seeing only a glimpse of him every day and maybe even knowing that he didn’t love her in return. It was quite too awful. And yet Ruth knew how Anna had felt.

For Ruth was in love too. If Anna had only confided in her, she could have confided in Anna. It just shows how little sisters really know one another.

Of course, Ruth knew that her love was far different from Anna’s, far deeper and truer and more lasting. Though, at that, hadn’t Anna’s love lasted as long as she had? But, of course, there was a difference. For Ruth was in love with no mere grocer’s clerk. She was in love with Towers Wellman, her husband’s best friend.

Towers Wellman worked at the same haberdasher’s shop as her husband even, but there the resemblance ended. For, while Dick was a nice little fellow, quite loving and attentive, he never quite understood things. His mind was wrapped up in collars and underwear sales. But Towers Wellman was a man of the world. He belonged to a bowling club and a political club and went to stag dinners. He was not married and he made jokes about matrimony.

Ruth knew three women who were hopelessly in love with him. Towers had told Ruth about the women himself. Dick would bring Towers home to dinner and Ruth would spend the whole afternoon preparing things he liked, and, in the evening, the three of them would attend a moving picture show, and, sometimes, before she knew it, when there was a dark scene, Towers would be holding her hand.

Ruth thought of Towers the last thing before she went to sleep at night, visualizing his dark, lean profile, his deep-set eyes, his black, waved hair. No wonder women, rich women, were in love with him. And yet, Ruth felt that he loved her alone. Frequently, half in fun, he had told how he had broken an important social engagement to come to dinner, but Ruth knew that the look he gave her had a double meaning, for he _had_ come to dinner, and there wasn’t a reason in the world why some rich woman hadn’t invited him first.

So—Anna had been in love too! And she had felt so badly over it that she had taken poison! Maybe the affair had gone further than Ruth suspected! Yet, how could it? Wasn’t Fred home every evening and hadn’t she seen Anna every day?