Delphi complete works of.., p.876
Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells, page 876
There has been my blunder. I ought to have counted Aunt Elizabeth. I ought to have fathomed her. It never occurred to me that she was deep enough to drop a plummet in. I, the burden-bearer, the caretaker, the worrier; I, who am opprobriously called “the manager” in this family — I have failed them at this critical point in their household history. I did not foresee, I did not forecast, I did not worry, I did not manage. It did not occur to me to manage after we had got Peggy safely graduated and engaged, and now this dreadful thing has gaped beneath us like the fissures at San Francisco or Kingston, and poor little Peggy has tumbled into it. A teacupful of “management” might have prevented it; an ounce of worry would have saved it all. I lacked that teacupful; I missed that ounce. The veriest popular optimist could have done no worse. I am smothered with my own stupidity. I have borne this humiliating condition of things as long as I can. I propose to go over to that house and take the helm in this emergency. I don’t care whether I am popular or unpopular for it. But something has got to be done for Peggy, and I am going to do it.
I have been over and I have done it. I have taken the “management” of the whole thing — not even discouraged by this unfortunate word. I own I am rather raw to it. But the time has come when, though I bled beneath it, I must act as if I didn’t. At all events I must ACT. ... I have acted. I am going to New York by the early morning express — the 7.20. I would go to-night-in fact, I really ought to go to-night. But Tom has a supper “on” with some visitors to the Works. He won’t be home till late, and I can’t go without seeing Tom. It would hurt his feelings, and that is a thing no wife ought to do, and my kind of wife can’t do.
I found the house in its usual gelatinous condition. There wasn’t a back-bone in it, scarcely an ankle-joint to stand upon: plenty of crying, but no thinking; a mush of talk, but no decision. To cap the situation, Charles Edward has gone on to New York with a preposterous conviction that HE can clear it up. . . . CHARLES EDWARD! If there is a living member of the household — But never mind that. This circumstance was enough for me, that’s all. It brought out all the determination in me, all the manager, if you choose to put it so.
I shall go to New York myself and take the whole thing in hand. If I needed anything to padlock my purpose those dozen words with Peggy would have turned the key upon it. When I found that she wasn’t crying; when I got face to face with that soft, fine excitement in the eyes which a girl wears when she has a love-affair, not stagnant, but in action — I concluded at once that Peggy had her reservations and was keeping something from me. On pretence of wanting a doughnut I got her into the pantry and shut both doors.
“Peggy,” I said, “what has Charles Edward gone to New York for? Do you know?”
Peggy wound a big doughnut spinning around her engagement finger and made no reply.
“If it has anything to do with you and Harry Goward, you must tell me, Peggy. You must tell me instantly.”
Peggy put a doughnut on her wedding finger and observed, with pained perplexity, that it would not spin, but stuck.
“What is Charles Edward up to?” I persisted.
The opening rose-bud of Peggy’s face took on a furtive expression, like that of certain pansies, or some orchids I have seen. “He is going to take me to Europe,” she admitted, removing both her doughnut rings.
“YOU! To EUROPE!”
“He and Lorraine. When this is blown by. They want to get me away.”
“Away from what? Away from Harry Goward?”
“Oh, I suppose so,” blubbered Peggy.
She now began, in a perfectly normal manner, to mop her eyes with her handkerchief.
“Do you want to be got away from Harry Goward?” I demanded.
“I never said I did,” sobbed Peggy. “I never said so, not one little bit. But oh, Maria! Moolymaria! You can’t think how dreadful it is to be a girl, an engaged girl, and not know what to do!”
Then and there an active idea — one with bones in it — raced and overtook me, and I shot out: “Where is that letter?”
“Mother has it,” replied Peggy.
“Have you opened it?”
“No.”
“Has Aunt Elizabeth opened it?”
“Oh no!”
“Did Charlies Edward take it with him?”
“I don’t think he did. I will go ask mother.”
“Go ask mother for that letter,” I commanded, “and bring it to me.”
Peggy gave me one mutinous look, but the instinct of a younger sister was in her and she obeyed me. She brought the letter. I have this precious document in my pocket. I asked her if she would trust me to find out to whom that letter was addressed. After some hesitation she replied that she would. I reminded her that she was the only person in the world who could give me this authority — which pleased her. I told her that I should accept it as a solemn trust, and do my highest and best with it for her sake.
“Peggy,” I said, “this is not altogether a pleasant job for me, but you are my little sister and I will take care of you. Kiss your old Meddlymaria, Peggy.” She took down her sopping handkerchief and lifted her warm, wet face. So I kissed Peggy. And I am going on the 7.20 morning train.
It is now ten o’clock. My suit-case is packed, my ticket is bought, but Tom has not come back, and the worst of it is he can’t get back to-night. He telephoned between courses at his dinner that he had accepted an invitation to go home for the night with one of the men they are dining. It seems he is a “person of importance” — there is a big order behind the junket, and Tom has gone home with him to talk it over. The ridiculous thing about it is that I forget where he was going. Of course I could telephone to the hotel and find out, but men don’t like telephoning wives — at least, my man doesn’t. It makes it rather hard, going on this trip without kissing Tom good-bye. I had half made up my mind to throw the whole thing over, but Peggy is pretty young; she has a long life before her; there is a good deal at stake. So Tom and I kissed by electricity, and he said that it was all right, and to go ahead, and the other absurd thing about that is that Tom didn’t ask me for my New York address, and I forgot to tell him. We are like two asteroids spinning through space, neither knowing the other’s route or destination. In point of fact, I shall register at “The Sphinx,” that nice ladies’ hotel where mere man is never admitted.
I have always supposed that the Mrs. Chataway Aunt Elizabeth talks about kept a boarding-house. I think Aunt Elizabeth rolls in upon her like a spent wave between visits. I have no doubt that I shall be able to trace Aunt Elizabeth by her weeds upon this beach. After that the rest is easy. I must leave my address for Tom pinned up somewhere. Matilda’s mind wouldn’t hold it if I stuck it through her brain with a hat-pin. I think I will glue it to his library table, and I’ll do it this minute to make sure. ... I have directed Matilda to give him chicken croquettes for his luncheon, and I have written out the menu for every meal till I get home. Poor Tom! He isn’t used to eating alone. I wish I thought he would mind it as much as I do.
Eleven o’clock. — I am obsessed with an idea, and I have yielded to it; whether for good or ill, for wisdom or folly, remains to be proved. I have telephoned Dr. Denbigh and suggested to him that he should go to New York, too. Considered in any light but that of Peggy’s welfare — But I am not considering anything in any light but that of Peggy’s welfare. Dr. Denbigh used to have a little tendresse for Peggy — it was never anything more, I am convinced. She is too young for him. A doctor sees so many women; he grows critical, if not captious. Character goes for more with him than with most men; looks go for less; and poor little Peggy — who can deny? — up to this point in her development is chiefly looks.
I intimated to the doctor that my errand to New York was of an important nature: that it concerned my younger sister; that my husband was, unfortunately, out of town, and that I needed masculine advice. I am not in the habit of flattering the doctor, and he swallowed this delicate bait, as I thought he would. When I asked him if he didn’t think he needed a little vacation, if he didn’t think he could get the old doctor from Southwest Eastridge to take his practice for two days, he said he didn’t know but he could. The grippe epidemic had gone down, nothing more strenuous than a few cases of measles stood in the way; in fact, Eastridge at the present time, he averred, was lamentably healthy. When he had committed himself so far as this, he hesitated, and very seriously said:
“Mrs. Price, you have never asked me to do a foolish thing, and I have known you for a good many years. It is too late to come over and talk it out with you. If you assure me that you consider your object in making this request important I will go. We won’t waste words about it. What train do you take?”
I am not a person of divination or intuition. I think I have rather a commonplace, careful, painstaking mind. But if ever I had an inspiration in my life I think I have one now. Perhaps it is the novelty of it that makes me confide in it with so little reflection. My inspiration, in a word, is this:
Aunt Elizabeth has reached the point where she is ready for a new man. I know I don’t understand her kind of woman by experience. I don’t suppose I do by sympathy. I have to reason her out.
I have reasoned Aunt Elizabeth out to this conclusion: She always has had, she always must have, she always will have, the admiration of some man or men to engross her attention. She is an attractive woman; she knows it; women admit it; and men feel it. I don’t think Aunt Elizabeth is a heartless person; not an irresponsible one, only an idle and unhappy one. She lives on this intoxicant as other women might live on tea or gossip, as a man would take his dram or his tobacco. She drinks this wine because she is thirsty, and the plain, cool, spring-water of life has grown stale to her. It is corked up in bottles like the water sold in towns where the drinking-supply is low. It has ceased to be palatable to her.
My interpretation is, that there is no man on her horizon just now except Harry Goward, and I won’t do her the injustice to believe that she wouldn’t be thankful to be rid of him just for her own sake; to say nothing of Peggy’s.
Aunt Elizabeth, I repeat, needs a new man. If Dr. Denbigh is willing to fill this role for a few days (of course I must be perfectly frank with him about it) the effect upon Harry Goward will be instantaneous. His disillusion will be complete; his return to Peggy in a state of abject humiliation will be assured. I mean, assuming that the fellow is capable of manly feeling, and that Peggy has aroused it. That, of course, remains for me to find out.
How I am to fish Harry Goward out of the ocean of New York city doesn’t trouble me in the least. Given Aunt Elizabeth, he will complete the equation. If Mrs. Chataway should fail me — But I won’t suppose that Mrs. Chataway will fail. I must be sure and explain to Tom about Dr. Denbigh.
“The Sphinx,” New York, 10 P.M. — I arrived — that is to say, we arrived in this town at ten minutes past one o’clock, almost ten hours ago. Dr. Denbigh has gone somewhere — and that reminds me that I forgot to ask him where. I never thought of it until this minute, but it has just occurred to me that it may be quite as well from an ignorant point of view that “The Sphinx” excludes mere man from its portals.
He was good to me on the train, very good indeed. I can’t deny that he flushed a little when I told him frankly what I wanted of him. At first I thought that he was going to be angry. Then I saw the corners of his mustache twitch. Then our sense of humor got the better of us, and then I laughed, and then he laughed, and I felt that the crisis was passed. I explained to him while we were in the Pullman car, as well as I could without being overheard by a fat lady with three chins, and a girl with a permit for a pet poodle, what it was that I wanted of him. I related the story of Peggy’s misfortune — in confidence, of course; and explained the part he was expected to play — confidentially, of course; in fact, I laid my plot before him from beginning to end.
“If the boy doesn’t love her, you see,” I suggested, “the sooner we know it the better. She must break it off, if her heart is broken in the process. If he does love her — my private opinion is he thinks he does — I won’t have Peggy’s whole future wrecked by one of Aunt Elizabeth’s flirtations. The reef is too small for the catastrophe. I shall find Aunt Elizabeth. Oh yes, I shall find Aunt Elizabeth! I have no more doubt of that than I have that Matilda is putting too much onion in the croquettes for Tom this blessed minute. If I find her I shall find the boy; but what good is that going to do me, if I find either of them or both of them, if we can’t disillusionize the boy?”
“In a word,” interrupted the doctor, rather tartly, “all you want of me is to walk across the troubled stage—”
“For Peggy’s sake,” I observed.
“Of course, yes, for Peggy’s sake. I am to walk across this fantastic stage in the inglorious capacity of a philanderer.”
“That is precisely it,” I admitted. “I want you to philander with Aunt Elizabeth for two days, one day; two hours, one hour; just long enough, only long enough to bring that fool boy to his senses.”
“If I had suspected the nature of the purpose I am to serve in this complication” — began the doctor, without a smile. “I trusted your judgment, Mrs. Price, and good sense — I have never known either to fail before. However,” he added, manfully, “I am in for it now, and I would do more disagreeable things than this for Peggy’s sake. But perhaps,” he suggested, grimly, “we sha’n’t find either of them.”
He retired from the subject obviously, if gracefully, and began to play with the poodle that had the Pullman permit. I happen to know that if there is any species of dog the doctor does not love it is a poodle, with or without a permit. The lady with three chins asked me if my husband were fond of dogs — I think she said, so fond as THAT. She glanced at the girl whom the poodle owned.
I don’t know why it should be a surprise to me, but it was; that the chin lady and the poodle girl have both registered at “The Sphinx.”
Directly after luncheon, for I could not afford to lose a minute, I went to Mrs. Chataway’s; the agreement being that the doctor should follow me in an absent-minded way a little later. But there was a blockade on the way, and I wasn’t on time. What I took to be Mrs. Chataway herself admitted me with undisguised hesitation.
Miss Talbert, she said, was not at home; that is — no, she was not home. She explained that a great many people had been asking for Miss Talbert; there were two in the parlor now.
When I demanded, “Two what?” she replied, in a breathless tone, “Two gentlemen,” and ushered me into that old-fashioned architectural effort known to early New York as a front and back parlor.
One of the gentlemen, as I expected, proved to be Dr. Denbigh. The other was flatly and unmistakably Charles Edward. The doctor offered to excuse himself, but I took Charles Edward into the back parlor, and I made so bold as to draw the folding-doors. I felt that the occasion justified worse than this.
The colloquy between myself and Charles Edward was brief and pointed. He began by saying, “YOU here! What a mess!—”
My conviction is that he saved himself just in time from Messymaria.
“Have you found him?” I propounded.
“No.”
“Haven’t seen him?”
“I didn’t say I hadn’t seen him.”
“What did he say?” I insisted.
“Not very much. It was in the Park.”
“In the PARK? Not very MUCH? How could you let him go?”
“I didn’t let him go,” drawled Charles Edward. “He invited me to dinner. A man can’t ask a fellow what his intentions are to a man’s sister in a park. I hadn’t said very much up to that point; he did most of the talking. I thought I would put it off till we got round to the cigars.”
“Then?” I cried, impatiently, “and then?”
“You see,” reluctantly admitted Charles Edward, “there wasn’t any then. I didn’t dine with him, after all. I couldn’t find it—”
“Couldn’t find what?”
“Couldn’t find the hotel,” said Charles Edward, defiantly. “I lost the address. Couldn’t even say that it was a hotel. I believe it was a club. He seems to be a sort of a swell — for a coeducational professor — anyhow, I lost the address; and that is the long and short of it.”
“If it had been a studio or a Bohemian cafe—” I began.
“I should undoubtedly have remembered it,” admitted Charles Edward, in his languid way.
“You have lost him,” I replied, frostily. “You have lost Harry Goward, and you come here—”
“On the same errand, I presume, my distressed and distressing sister, that has brought you. Have you seen her?” he demanded, with sudden, uncharacteristic shrewdness.
At this moment a portiere opened at the side of my back parlor, and Mrs. Chataway, voluminously appearing, mysteriously beckoned me. I followed her into the dreariest hall I think I ever saw even in a New York boarding-house. There the landlady frankly told me that Miss Talbert wasn’t out. She was in her room packing to make one of her visits. Miss Talbert had given orders that she was to be denied to gentlemen friends.
No, she never said anything about ladies. (This I thought highly probable.) But if I were anything to her and chose to take the responsibility — I chose and I did. In five minutes I was in Aunt Elizabeth’s room, and had turned the key upon an interview which was briefer but more startling than I could possibly have anticipated.
Elizabeth Talbert is one of those women whose attraction increases with the negligee or the deshabille. She was so pretty in her pink kimono that she half disarmed me. She had been crying, and had a gentle look.
