Part 7

"I have seen Hayes argue with a tough horse--I have seen a tonga driver coerce a stubborn pony--I have seen a riotous setter broken to gun by a hard keeper--but the breaking-in of Pluffles ... was beyond all these."--_Kipling_.

"But, Henry, you should be glad to see your brother's children."

"I don't see why. A pair of young ragamuffins who'll pull the house about my ears."

"My dear Henry! They're nineteen."

"Worse and worse! The boy will be certain to fall in love with you."

"Do you think so?" asked Mrs. Hadwell, eagerly.

"I think it won't be your fault if he doesn't," responded her husband with acerbity.

"Well, at all events the girl won't fall in love with you," said Mrs. Hadwell with a twinkle in her eye.

Her spouse grunted something unintelligible.

"Not if she sees you with that expression on your face," went on Mrs. Hadwell, rather sadly. "It always seems so strange to me that a man of your experience and charm--a finished man of the world, in other words--should give way to these useless moods."

Mr. Hadwell's brow slightly cleared in spite of his efforts to hide the fact.

"If I had seen when I first met you," went on Mrs. Hadwell in chastened accents, "that, beneath the mask of courtly politeness and delicate flattery, you concealed the nature of a gloomy tyrant."

"Da--I mean, confound it all!" said Mr. Hadwell, much affected, "what on earth do you want, Estelle?"

"Why, I'm afraid I don't quite understand you," said Mrs. Hadwell, raising her pretty eyebrows in pained surprise.

"My dear little girl, you know I am not a tyrant," said Mr. Hadwell, miserable at the thought of being so misunderstood, yet, at the same time, secretly delighted at the reference to his "courtly politeness." His delight was natural when one considers the fact that, at no time of his life, had his manners surpassed those of an average groom.

"No--perhaps not," said Mrs. Hadwell, softly. "Yet, Henry, there are times when--when--"

"When what, darling?" inquired Mr. Hadwell, abjectly.

"When," said Mrs. Hadwell with sorrowful dignity, "when, Henry, I am actually afraid to ask you for the little extra money which will provide for the entertainment of your brother's children."

"Must they be so much entertained?" asked Mr. Hadwell, humbly yet uneasily. He was a kind old man, but the prospect of parting with a dollar never failed to cause him acute agony.

"They need not be entertained," responded Mrs. Hadwell with feeling. "Those unfortunate children may come here and stay with us three weeks and return to Ohio to tell their father and mother that the woman who has deprived them of their uncle's fortune, grudges them a ball or a"-- She wept: and Mr. Hadwell writhed in agony. There were only two things in life that he really loved: his big income and his small wife. Of the two, he really preferred his wife: and after a few moments' silent struggle, he succumbed to her tears and her fascinations and drew out his cheque book.

"How much?" he inquired, hardily.

Little Mrs. Hadwell dried her eyes.

"How much?" she inquired, innocently. "How mu--oh, Henry! were you thinking of giving me some money?"

Mr. Hadwell regarded her with perplexity.

"Isn't that what you wanted?" he inquired looking puzzled.

Mrs. Hadwell buried her eighty-dollar head in her pretty hands.

"I wanted you to show some interest in these children--your own brother's children!" she wept. "And you--offer--me--money!"

Mr. Hadwell groaned, feeling that he was a tactless brute yet not quite seeing why. Suddenly a bright thought struck him: he tore out a blank cheque, signed it and tossed it playfully to his wife.

"There, there!" he observed, soothingly. "Don't cry any more, Estelle. Of course these children must be entertained--of course I am pleased about their coming. But, you see, we business men have so much to worry us."

Mr. Hadwell's business consisted in driving to his office every morning, receiving the obsequious greetings of his manager--and drawing his handsome income. Mrs. Hadwell knew this as well--better than he did--therefore----

"Of course," she cooed, drying her eyes and regarding her spouse with mingled awe and wonder. "Of course, dear. You must forgive me if I seem a little unreasonable, sometimes; but it did hurt me so when you seemed to think that all I wanted from you was money"----

"Of course--of course!" said her husband, hastily. "Now I must be off. What are you going to do, to-day?"

"Well, let me see! Lynn is coming to dinner and we are going for a drive first."

"Ah!" said Mr. Hadwell, looking pleased. He heartily approved of Lynn and took great pleasure in the thought that this exceptionally "nice" young woman was his wife's best friend; feeling that Estelle's evident devotion to Lynn overbalanced her quite as evident love of flattery and attention. Mr. Hadwell never forgot that Lynn insisted on teaching in the public schools rather than allow her uncle to support her, wholly: a piece of unselfishness that went straight to his heart. Needless to say, he did not know that Estelle had talked him over with Lynn from every point of view, both before and after his marriage to the former.

Estelle Harding had been the granddaughter of a wealthy man who had died when she was sixteen, leaving her penniless. For the next five years she had lived with different relatives, positively refusing to follow the example of her friend, Lynn Thayer, who was preparing at the High and Normal schools, to earn her living as a teacher. Being tremendously popular both with girls and boys, she was deluged with invitations and love affairs; but at twenty-one, she met Mr. Hadwell, a wealthy and retiring bachelor of sixty-three, and, from that time on, she paid assiduous and tactful court to him. The net result of this campaign was that, in six months from the time she had first met him, Mr. Hadwell was a married man. It speaks well for our small heroine's tactics that her husband, to his dying day, believed that he had fallen madly in love with her when he saw her first and that nothing but his overpowering fascinations had induced the shy damsel to become his wife. "You were the first man who had ever cared for me," Estelle would say to him, sometimes. "The others--oh, they were just boys! I couldn't look up to them, dear: they were on a level with myself." This was a particularly tactful lie on Mrs. Hadwell's part: she knew well that among her admirers had been young men whose intellect and strength of character had far surpassed her husband's. But tactful lying was Mrs. Hadwell's forte.

Many and varied were the comments on Miss Harding's engagement. "Little cat! how clever she is," said some. The majority, however, murmured feelingly, "So glad that sweet girl will have her reward."

"That sweet girl" had had her reward. All that she cared for in life--money, social position, unlimited flattery and envy were hers without stint. And, much as I hate to grieve the moralists, Estelle Hadwell was a supremely happy and contented woman. If she had been childless it is possible that her lot might, at times, have palled on her: but two pretty, healthy children occupied what little heart she had. Her husband, though in a vague way proud of his children's beauty and brightness, cared little for them: what heart _he_ had was occupied by his wife who played upon his affections with the hand of a practised artist.

She let the cheque lie by her plate, now, as she rose and kissed her better half, affectionately.

"What a delightful visit those dear twins will have, thanks to your generosity," she said, smiling at him, affectionately.

Mr. Hadwell waved a patronizing disclaimer.

"Oh, I shall be glad to do what I can for Carl's children," he said, magnificently.

"That is so like you, dear," returned his simple little wife, gently.

She was giggling softly to herself over this conversation in the afternoon as she pinned an expensive little hat over her still more expensive tresses. "I really do think I am cleverer than most women," she mused. "I get just what I want and I never hurt the dear old thing's feelings." She was really fond of her husband whose absorption in her satisfied her vanity and whose jealousy served to render life interesting. When Lynn Thayer arrived she entered into a long and detailed account of her morning's work, ending by triumphantly displaying the cheque. Lynn laughed, unwillingly.

"I do hate that sort of thing, Estelle," she said. "I know you're awfully clever at getting your own way, but I can never understand why you don't get Mr. Hadwell to allow you a certain sum, monthly. Then you wouldn't have to stoop to this sort of thing."

"Oh, but I like stooping," said Estelle, placidly. "And, besides, if I knew just how much I was going to get every month it would be awfully tame. You haven't a bit of the gambler in you, Lynn."

"Not a particle."

"Then there's another side to the question. If Henry had to make me an allowance he would only allow for necessities. For instance, if I wanted to run down to New York for a week or two it would have to come out of my dress allowance. That would be horrid. Oh, I had such a time getting a few hundred dollars out of him the last time I went. He wrangled over every detail--actually wanted me to stay in the suburbs because hotels were cheaper there, quite forgetting that my fare in and out would amount to something. As I said to him, 'I suppose I could walk to the ferry--it's only twenty miles or so each way and exercise is good for one--but I really couldn't walk across the water; I'm not _quite_ divine yet!'"

"You absurd child! What did he say to that?"

"Oh, he mumbled something to the effect that I ought to be a Christian Scientist. That was meant as a joke. He always jokes when he feels ashamed. So I said, 'Yes, if I were a Christian Scientist I could walk over anything, yourself included; but because I am only your poor, stupid, little wife, I must humbly beg you for money for this little trip.' Then he tried to be pompous, the way he always does when I pretend to knuckle down. He said, 'If I don't want you to go to New York, that ought to be enough for any well-regulated wife.' And I said, 'You dear old stupid! I'm not a well-regulated wife. Don't be so ridiculous. Anyone would think I was a watch to hear you talk!' Then I looked cute and rolled my eyes at him and he caved right in. Dear me, Lynn, what a pity it is I can't bestow some of my superfluous cleverness on you. Your aunt tells me that you are positively discouraging Mr. Lighton. You must be mad."

"I am mad--thoroughly mad about the whole business. Why in the world should I marry this man simply because he asks me? Really, I have been so advised and dictated to and badgered about him that now the very thought of his face makes me feel angry."

"Then why do you think of his face?" inquired Mrs. Hadwell, opening her grey eyes, innocently. "Why don't you forget about his face and think about his figure at the bank? That is what any sensible girl would do."

Lynn groaned. "I'm not a sensible girl, unfortunately," she said. "Now, Del, if you're going for a drive before dinner you had better hurry."

"Very well. I'm ready. Dear me! I must just see Mrs. Waite before we go and tell her to have dinner at seven. Oh, Lynn! that woman is such a comfort to me. She's a regular automaton, knows how everything in the house should be done--and does it! Of course she is absolutely heartless, but--what are you giggling at? Oh, my dear, I may not be particularly intense or passionate, but I assure you I am a volcano beside Mrs. Waite. She doesn't care for the children, she doesn't even care for me. Now you know there must be something radically wrong with any one who doesn't care for me--I may have my faults, but no one can deny that I am the most fascinating person!--and in her case it is the stranger as she is a decayed gentlewoman and I have gone out of my way to show her kindness. Why, I even asked her to dine with Henry and me once when we had people who knew her coming to dinner: and she looked at me with her Medusa-like countenance and refused. But as a housekeeper she is a jewel and, as long as she runs my house like clockwork, I can excuse her lack of geniality. Here she is. Oh, Mrs. Waite, will you tell Sarah to put off dinner till eight. I am going out with Miss Thayer. By the way, you don't know Miss Thayer, do you? Miss Thayer, Mrs. Waite. Don't forget about dinner.

"There, isn't she a Gorgon, Lynn? She is always just like that--neat, accurate, frigid, freezing. Ugh! What a lovely day for a drive, isn't it? I'm going to Mr. Amherst's to take a look at my portrait. It is going to be so nice and I want you to see it. I am sure it will be hung in the Art Gallery at the Spring Exhibition. What a nice man he is, isn't he? By the way, speaking of Mrs. Waite, I am going to tell you why I always make a point of introducing her to all my friends and having things just as pleasant for her as possible. It's because she's like that much-talked-of 'skeleton at the feast'; she's a perpetual reminder to me of how lucky I am. I wish you would compare us and take a lesson, my friend. I'm the bright example, she's the awful warning. I might have been just where she is to-day if I hadn't had my wits about me. She might be where I am if she had made the most of her opportunities. Don't waste time telling me that she's plain and uninteresting. I would be plain if I didn't dress properly and eat good food and take good care of myself; and, as for 'interesting,' _every_ woman is interesting to a man if she impresses him as being sensible and womanly--that is, if she enjoys his conversation and tells him that she likes dusting. Every man likes a woman who is fond of dusting. I don't know why. And, as for sweeping, there is no surer passport to a man's affections than to tell him that you sweep out your own room every morning. It never fails to have the desired effect. It doesn't matter if the man is a multi-millionaire with an army of housemaids and footmen; he still thinks it is womanly and domestic to sweep. If I ever found my hold on Henry's affections becoming a trifle slack, I should immediately start sweeping."

"Del, I don't think I ever met anyone who could talk more nonsense than you, in a given space of time."

"Nonsense! Oh, Lynn, if I could only get you to understand that what I am saying, although delivered as if it were the merest airy persiflage, is the soundest common sense. If you want to be admired and respected by the male sex--sweep! Or, if you don't like sweeping, don't sweep; but talk about sweeping as if it were the one thing that you doted on; convey the impression that you would rather sweep than go motoring any day. The man in question may have thought you a charming girl before, but, after that, his feelings will take a deeper tinge; you will advance in his mind to the status of a womanly woman. Delicious! Instead of these lectures girls are always attending at Y.W.C.A.'s and colleges, about Browning and the Pyramids and the condition of the poor and the prevalence of frivolity, what a pity it is they can't attend lectures given by some past-master in the art of flirting--such as I, for instance! Wouldn't those lectures be crowded, though; that is, if girls knew what was good for them. And here you have all the advantages of a private course of instruction and you won't take the trouble to learn the first rules of the game. Ah, the golden words of wisdom wasted! the opportunities lost. Ah me!"

"Del, I strongly object to your speaking as though I had no opportunities. Haven't I always at least one person who wants to marry me? even though I do tell the truth occasionally?"

"You have. But that's by good luck, not by management. You might have twenty if you exerted yourself properly."

"You make me feel as though I were a sort of derelict. It's a horrid feeling."

"If I succeed in making you feel a derelict I have succeeded beyond my wildest expectations. Don't you know, my dear child, that you are experiencing in a faint degree what you will experience all your life if you don't hurry up and settle yourself. Don't you know that for the next fifty years you will, not only feel, but be a derelict if you don't accept Lighton and marry him before he changes his mind."

"Thank goodness, this drive can't last forever," exclaimed Lynn, laughing. "Otherwise I should be compelled to get out and walk. You are perfectly unendurable sometimes, Del, and this is certainly one of the times."

"I'm going to be unendurable again and to better purpose, I hope, a little later on," said Mrs. Hadwell, darkly. "But now I suppose we'll have to descend--or ascend, if you like it better--from practical life to pictures. Mr. Amherst paints well, doesn't he? And what a nice man he is. I don't know anyone who doesn't like him, do you?"

"No, I don't think I do. He's nice and very popular."

"And a great friend of yours too, isn't he? I haven't heard you speak of him, lately. I thought at one time"--

"Oh, Del, do think of something else!" exclaimed Lynn a little crossly. "Men, men, men--and marriage, marriage, marriage! _Do_ let us think and talk of something else."

"Very well, my dear, we'll talk of myself. I wanted to get up a flirtation with Mr. Amherst this winter and he didn't seem to respond at all. So I immediately thought that he must be interested in someone else and, as he was always calling on you, naturally I thought"--

"Men again!"

"Not men but a man. Don't you perceive the delicate distinction? Well, as I was saying, Mr. Amherst didn't seem a bit interested in me, charming though I am and was--what a mercy old Tom is stone deaf!--and I was extremely puzzled. I didn't like to be too pointed in my attentions"--

"I do wish, Del, that you wouldn't talk in that way. It sets my teeth on edge to hear a married woman speak in the way you do. Why don't you"--

"Stay at home and attend to my house and children? So I do; but not being altogether a fossil yet I want to do something else at times. Isn't that natural at my age?"

"Quite natural at your age, and there is just the weak point of a marriage like yours. If you had married somebody you really cared about, other men wouldn't interest you."

"Not for the first year or so, no. After that, they would. I might not like them so well as I did my husband, but I should like them and want them to like me. Yes, and I should want them to fall in love with me, too, so long as they didn't tell me about it and insist on making unpleasant scenes. Of course, in that case, they would go, just as they do, now. You know that, Lynn."

"Yes, I know that. You are very careful, Del. I suppose it is all right and quite harmless in its way, but I can't say that I approve of it. What is the sense of having two or three men always sighing around because they can't marry you?"

"What's the sense of music or flowers or strawberry tarts? I like them and they agree with me. You know there is a lot of misconception with regard to the real tastes of a young woman after she marries. If she is a person who grows and develops she must, of necessity, like many things besides her husband and children. Now here is a case in point. Because I am devoted to my own children is that any reason why I should not be fond of other people's children? As a matter of fact, I don't care much for any children but my own; but, if I did, wouldn't that be blameless and even praiseworthy? So with men. I should always like them all even if I were eighty and had been married all my life."

"It's a funny thing, Del, but some way you never seem married, to me."

"I was married, I assure you. I remember it very distinctly. White is not becoming to me, so I wore a dark blue cashmere dress and a stunning black toque with little feathers--you remember? And Henry thought I was so sensible and so above feminine frivolities."

"It is awfully hard to know what is right and wrong, I must say. You certainly make Mr. Hadwell perfectly happy and you are an ideal mother. Perhaps you are more in the right than I think."

"My dear, I have read somewhere that there are certain plants which die just as soon as they have propagated. That is all they exist for; just to reproduce their own life and then die. Now there are a good many women in the world who are like these plants. They are not half as good mothers, not half as satisfactory wives as I am; but they are devoid of all possibility of offending because, to all intents and purposes, they died with the birth of their first child. Henceforth they exist in a modified form. They are no longer individuals but vegetables. All the young plant needs is air and light; but, as the young human needs food, clothes, exercise and various other things, they exist solely for the purpose of furnishing it with those things. They are incapable of holding an opinion or formulating a thought; they all think exactly alike on all subjects--which means, practically, that they do not think at all--their education, intellectually, stopped when they graduated from school, their education, emotionally, when they married. Are they more commendable than I? What do they do that I don't? Only I do other things in addition. I am a living woman, not a maternal cipher. I have a heart and a mind and a life of my own and these develop side by side with the development of my children. Of course the mere fact of life existing means that there are possibilities of mistakes being made, faults being committed; but isn't it better to live than to die? Lynn, I didn't know I was so clever! Aren't you proud of me?"

"Proud of you, all round, Del, except that I still wish you didn't flirt. Even if you are not in love with your husband it is bad form to publish the fact. And the very fact that you are still alive--very much alive--and capable of leading a life apart from your children makes your way of acting dangerous. I am always afraid that some day you will"--

"That some day I shall fall in love and make a fool of myself? Don't worry. Some women are dominated by one of the great primal instincts, some by another. I am a mother, first and last and always. Men are only things to play with, but my children are necessities. I could never do anything that would cause them a moment's anxiety or difficulty in the future. No, my dear! When little Aileen is enjoying her first season her mother will be the same irreproachable, if frivolous, matron that she is at present. What a serious conversation we have drifted into, haven't we? I don't like it--seriousness! Dear me, Lynn, what in the world should I do if anything were to happen to you? You're the only person whom I dare to be myself with. Catch me trusting another woman. What makes you so unlike other women, Lynn?"

"Possibly the lack of sense for which you were upbraiding me so heartily a little while ago," said Lynn, slyly. "By the way, Del, that name, 'Waite,' is strangely familiar to me. Oh, of course! I know, now. I had a little pupil, once"--

"Oh, Lynn, please don't start to talk about those ragamuffins of yours. I should think you would be glad to put them out of your mind for a few hours."

"He was a most unfortunate child," pursued Lynn, unheeding. "He was plain and stupid and he knew it: and he came from a different social class from most of the others, which seemed to put the final touch to his isolation. I was glad when he died, poor little chap! He was devoted to me and I made a great pet of him because he seemed so lonely. I wonder if"--

"Oh, a Gorgon-faced, icebergy automaton like Mrs. Waite never had a child in her life, I'm sure. Here we are at last."

*CHAPTER XI*

*VISITORS AND DISCLOSURES*

"Knowledge comes but wisdom lingers."--_Tennyson_.