there is an old copy of the shannon sentinel, dated october 17, 1902, which contains an account of the adams-cutter marriage. it lies folded in the trunk with helen’s last girlhood hat, and a few other things of that tearful nature. i do not know why women keep these little yellowed and faded tokens of past hopes, unless it is for the same reason they devote themselves cheerfully and industriously to the cultivation of flower gardens on their cemetery lots where their dead lie so deeply buried.
the dim type still tells how the altar in this church was decorated with flowers and ferns, who played the wedding march and who performed the ceremony. the bride was the beautiful and accomplished daughter of the late sam adams and mrs. mary adams.
“late” is the adjective you get, instead of the plain civilian title of “mister” you had while you were in the flesh. it depends whether this exchange implies demotion or immortal inflation. but there can be no doubt about the significance of “sam” in this connection. mr. adams was a[95] carpenter, and a good one, but he never received credit in this present world for the concluding, dignifying syllables of his christian name.
in this same paragraph it tells how the bride was dressed, who her attendants were and what they wore. and simmers down in the last sentence to a description of the gowns worn by the respective mothers of the bride and groom. the word “exeunt” does not occur, of course; but that lick-and-a-promise praise of their toilettes really implies that this is the last prominent appearance of these worthy women.
the concluding paragraph is devoted to the groom. and it is evident that the writer saved his most obsequious words for this final flare of flattery. the groom was the son of “our distinguished fellow townsman, mr. george william cutter”—a “university man”; some reference was made to his “sterling qualities” and bright future. he had recently “accepted” a position in the first national bank where he had already “made an enviable record”—cordial finger pointing to “bright future.” “the young couple left on the noon train for a wedding tour in the east. upon their return they will take up their residence in their new home on wiggs street.”
you and i may both believe that either one of[96] us could have written a better account of this wedding, imparted more dignity to the occasion, as undoubtedly a real artist might paint a more pleasing portrait of you or me. but for a naively truthful likeness, we both know that a country-town photographer surpasses the artist when it comes to portraying the warped noses of our countenances, the worried eye and the mouths we really have. this is why we avoid his brutal veracity when we can afford the expense. neither one of us cares to leave the very scriptures of our faces to appall posterity.
in the same manner, i contend there is always an artless charm, a sweet and scandalous candor in what appears in a country newspaper, which is more refreshing and informing than the elegance of our best writers in the use of words. for example, does not the sentinel’s account furnish a clearer picture and even a more intimate interpretation of this bride and groom and the whole scene, than you could possibly receive of a fashionable wedding from the social columns of a big city paper? personally, i have frequently been offended by the cool, bragging insolence of these announcements of city weddings, as if all we were entitled to know is that they can afford the pomp and circumstance; nothing about their “bright future,”[97] or the bride’s “accomplishments,” or the groom’s “sterling qualities” to bid for our interest and good will. why swagger in print about being married? it is not a thing to boast about, but to be humble about, and to entreat the prayers of all christian people, that they may behave themselves, keep their vows and do the square thing by each other and society.
george and helen returned to shannon and their new home on wiggs street the last of october.
helen was far more beautiful than she had ever been, with that sedate air young wives acquire before they are becalmed by the stupefying monotony of love, peace and duty. the lines in george’s handsome young face were firmer. he had that look of resolution men of his type show, before it is confirmed into the next look of arrogance and success.
when helen and george became engaged in august the carrol house was simply an old gray farmhouse, overtaken years ago by the spreading skirts of shannon, but never assimilated. this was due to the fact that when wiggs street was lengthened, it must be made straight whatever happened. the old house was left far to one side on a wide lawn. no one lived in it. altheas and[98] roses bloomed among the weeds, like gentle folk who have lost their station in life and make common lot with the mean and the poor. grass grew between the bricks of the walk which led to the front door. there was a hedge of bulbous-bodied boxwood on either side of this walk. the windows of the old house looked out on this green and growing desolation with the vacant stare they always have in an empty house.
but since the end of august carpenters, plasterers and painters had swarmed over it and through it. laborers had cleaned and cleared and pruned. at last came van loads of carpets, furniture and draperies. these had been smoothed, placed and hung inside. now it looked like the same old house that had suddenly come into a modest fortune, gone to town and bought itself a lot of nice things to wear. not a gable had been changed, but the new roof had been painted green. the walls were so white that they glistened. the windows were so clean that they looked like the bright eyes of a lady with her veil lifted.
on the evening of her first day in this house, helen stood on the veranda waiting for george, watching the elm leaves sweeping past, a golden shower in the november wind. she had been very busy all day, not that there was anything to[99] do, because everything had been done. but she had been going over her possessions, feeling the fullness and vastness of her estate. she had silver, yes, and fine linen. her furniture was good, golden oak, every piece. her rugs were florescent, very cheerful.
she needed more furniture; the rooms looked sparsely settled, especially the parlor. a bookcase would help, and a few pictures on the walls, but all in good time. she would be contented, ask for nothing else. she meant to be a thrifty, helpful wife, do her own work, take care of george. she was simply speechlessly happy. so it was just as well she had no one to talk to. she wished to be alone except for george, to concentrate upon all this joy. it seemed too good to be true. she had this house, to be sweetened into a home, and all these things; above and transcending everything, she had george. she was absolutely sure of him. is there anything more certain than sunshine when the sun shines?
this day was a criterion of all her days. she was very busy. she expected to find time for her music, and to read a little. she must keep up with what was going on for george’s sake, so that she would be an intelligent companion for him. but she never found time; besides, george[100] cared less than she had supposed for music, and he was strangely indifferent to intelligent conversation, seeing what an intelligent man he was.
sometimes she returned a few calls, merely from a sense of duty. she was never lonely. sometimes her mother came to lunch and spent the afternoon. on sundays they went to church and had dinner with george’s father and mother. as the months passed, mrs. cutter frequently asked her how she “felt.” she always felt well and told her so. she did not notice that mrs. cutter took little pleasure in her abounding health. the spring and summer passed. she was very busy in her garden among the flowers.
one day mrs. adams warned her against taking so much violent exercise.
“but why?” helen asked, standing up with a trowel in her hand, radiantly flushed.
mrs. adams said nothing. she merely measured her daughter this way and that with a sort of tape-line gaze.
“i like working out here, and i am perfectly well,” helen insisted.
“a married woman never knows when she is perfectly well. it is your duty to be careful,” was the reply.
helen flushed and remained silent. she felt[101] that her mother was staring at her inquisitively through this silence as she had sometimes seen her peep through the drawn curtains before a window to satisfy her curiosity or her anxiety.
when at last mrs. adams took her departure, helen went in, closed the door of her room and sat down on the side of her bed.
i do not know how it is with men, but there are thoughts a woman cannot think if the door is open, even if there is not another soul in the house. helen was now engaged in this sort of secret-prayer contemplation of herself, a slim, pretty figure, sitting with her knees crossed, hands folded, lips parted, eyes fixed in a long blue gaze upon the clean white walls of this room.
so that was it! she was the object of—anticipation which had not been—rewarded. the color in her cheeks deepened. she recalled this question, that remark, made by george’s mother. she understood the curious look of suspense with which mrs. cutter frequently regarded her. she wished to remind her of a duty she owed the cutter family. the meaning of it all was perfectly clear to her now. as if it was anybody’s business! she was indignant by this time. she began to shake one foot. her eyes flew this way and that, like the wings of a distracted bird. she[102] was really arguing fiercely with george’s mother, saying the things which we never dare to say in fact. she flounced, bobbing up and down on the springs beneath her, set her impatient foot down, closed her lips firmly and looked really fierce. evidently she was getting the better of this argument, chiefly, no doubt, because mrs. cutter was not there.
suddenly she lifted her left hand, counted the fingers and in turn used up all the fingers of her right hand in this triumphant enumeration. yes, she had been married exactly ten months. not a year yet. why was everybody in such a hurry, even her mother?
then something happened. she became very still, as you do sometimes when the future, which always keeps its bright back to you, suddenly turns around and permits you to behold the face of the years to come. the color faded from her cheeks; her eyes widened into a look of terror. she gave a gasp and buried her face in the pillow.
oh, god, oh, her father in heaven, suppose it should always be like this! suppose she lived to be an old woman and never had a child. doing just the same things over, alone in the house. nothing to look forward to all day except george’s return at the end of it. and nothing[103] for him to expect except herself coming from the kitchen to welcome him and hurrying back again, lest something burned or boiled over if she delayed a moment. what would she be in her husband’s house if she did not become a mother to his children?
she sprang to her feet and tore off the pink apron she was wearing over her summer frock. “i shall be a servant, nothing else,” she cried, tidying her hair before the mirror. “i shall grow old and gray; my skin will be yellow and, if i don’t—if we do not have children, i shall begin presently to look like a good servant, the kind that never gives notice, but just stays on and dies in the family. oh!”
she flew back to the bed, cast herself upon it and wept aloud to the ceiling.
an audience makes hypocrites of us all. the very mirror in your room will do it. the best acting is always done in secret. if you could see that little mouse of a woman whom you never suspect of having more than the timid sniff of an emotion, charging up and down the room in her nightdress, tearing her hair and raving with her eyes, making no sound lest you should hear her, you would be astonished. and she might be no less amazed if she could see you carrying[104] on like a proud female cicero, delivering the mere gestures of an eloquent oration. no acting we ever see on the stage equals the histrionic ability of the least talented woman when it comes to these bed-chamber theatricals of her secret emotions.
helen was calmer when george returned from the bank an hour later. she met him as usual. but the sight of him unnerved her. she flung herself upon his breast and clung to him, as if a strong wind was blowing which might sweep her away from him forever.
“helen! my heart, what is the matter?” he exclaimed.
she sobbed.
“are you ill?” he said, turning her face so that it lay upon his breast, chin quivering, eyes closed.
no, she was not ill, she said. the white lids lifted. she regarded him sorrowfully. “only i want to ask you something. i must know,” she whispered.
“ask anything; only don’t cry. i can’t stand it,” kissing her.
“george,” she began after a pause.
“yes, my life,” in grave suspense.
“am i a good wife?”
good heaven! what a question. of course[105] she was, the best and loveliest wife a man ever had.
“but aren’t you—have you been disappointed in me?”
“you surpass my happiest dreams of happiness,” he assured her hastily. now was everything all right?
apparently not. she had gone off into another paroxysm of sobs. he stood with this storm of loveliness clasped to his breast amazed and horrified. what was the matter with helen? he had left her calm and happy at noon. he found her now in torrential tears. she must be ill.
he lifted her tenderly in his arms, strode down the hall to their room and deposited her on the bed.
“you will always love me, whatever happens?” she insisted, clinging to his hand.
he sat down beside her. he filled his lungs; he expanded himself. he must meet this emergency. “helen, i could not live without loving you,” he exclaimed in a deep and powerful voice.
“but if nothing happens, if nothing ever happens?” she wailed.
he was speechless. when you are caught up without a moment’s notice and made to swear to every article of undying love, what else can you[106] do? but she lay wilted, deadly pale, her eyes fixed upon him dolorously, as if he might be going to slay her with the next word. therefore—
he did not finish thinking what he was about to think. a sort of shock passed through him, he caught his breath, looked off, the faintest shade of embarrassment in this look addressed to the ceiling, but not painful. on the contrary you might have inferred that this was a pleasurable confusion. he was instantly calmed, no longer disturbed about helen. he stared at her politely as at an unknown but highly satisfactory phenomenon. he had no experience in a case like this, but he had instincts. every young husband is a father, at least by anticipation. his impression was that she must be soothed, kept quiet.
he bent and kissed her gravely, as you kiss the bible when you take an oath. “don’t worry, my sweet; you will come around all right,” he told her.
she turned her face away, closed her eyes in tearful despair. he had not answered her question. he had evaded with soft words. this would never do. she was beginning to weep again. he said he would go to the phone and call her mother.
[107]“don’t call mother. she has been here all afternoon,” she cried.
so, then mrs. adams knew. well, he didn’t care if the whole world knew. “helen, you must not let go like this. you will hurt yourself,” he said with a note of authority.
her ears heard him; her eyes caught him. for one moment she lay still and sobless. then she sat up, hair streaming over her shoulders, cheeks reddening. “you too!” she cried. “oh, you have all had the same thought in your minds. and it isn’t so,” she informed him.
“well, if nothing is the matter, what is the matter?” he demanded after a pause in the voice of a man sliding from the top of a climax.
“that is,” covering her face with her hands. “your mother, my mother, you, too, all of you have been expecting something that may never happen. and i did not know, did not realize until this day the meaning of these hints, these questions, this solicitude. it was not for me. i do not deserve it, you understand. i am not that way.” oh! her heavenly father, she knew what was before her now if she never had a child. she would not be the same to him!
“of course you will, you silly darling,” he[108] laughed, gathering her in his arms. “the fact is, i am immensely relieved.”
in this wise they took a new lease on their happiness. helen’s skies cleared. it was good to be free and well and just a girl “a while longer,” as george put it. still this was a form of probation. that phrase, “a while longer,” was the involuntary admission he made of his ultimate expectations. for his own part, he declared it was much better for him to make some headway in the bank before they could really afford the expensive luxury of having children. still he felt a bit let down at the contemplation for the first time of the bare possibility of his wife not bearing these children for him.
thus the first year of their married life ended and the next one began. in the main you can see that every sign for the future was propitious. these two young people had the right mind toward each other; no modern decadence, no desire to sidestep nature or fail in their duty. their instincts were normal, their hopes honorable.
how is it then that, with all good intentions, they both missed their cue? it is not for me to say. my task is to tell this story and leave each reader to judge for himself where the blame lay.[109] no doubt there will be many decisions. i have often wondered if even three judges who passed on the same case without knowing each other’s decision, would not each of them render a different judgment. but in regard to this matter, i may be permitted to remark in passing that most of us miss our cue in the business of living, whether we are escorted by the best intentions or a few valorous vices. and my theory is that if we live long enough, we shall hear the prompter in time to make a good ending. if we do not, there is a considerable stretch of eternity before us where no doubt adjustments may be made with a wider mind.
