Newspaper Page Text
9
American Sunday Monthly
Magazine Section
COMMOW LACE MAN
had been engaged from the hotel; flowers ordered
from the nearest town, and the dinner was to be, as
my wife said, “a Christmas dream with red and
green trimmings. ,, All through the day she was
busy, attending to decorations, calling to me to
fasten up a wreath or loop a garland of Christmas
pine, and appealing to me for help and advice.
Several times she stood on tip-toe to pull my face
down to hers and kiss me and say, “How could
I ever get on this day without you?”
At last I laughed and asked, teasingly, “Why this
day more than any other? ”
“Why, I always need you,” she said. “But if
anything happened to take you off to-day, the whole
dinner would be a failure. I would just have to
give it up, that’s all.”
Again I laughed at her earnestness, telling her
that she was “ a dear little goose,” as I had no inten
tion of letting her attempt to get on without me.
The dinner was as great a success as Kitty had
hoped it would be, and she was content. As the
last guests left, and their parting calls of “Merry
Christmas!” floated back to us, my wife turned to
me and held up her lips for a kiss.
“A very merry Christmas, little wife!” I said.
“ For this is really Christmas. It is after midnight.”
“And a merry one to you, dear Rob,” she an
swered. Then, as her eyes met mine, she looked
away hastily, adding, “I’m sure I hope you will have
a happy day,” and, without another word, went up
to her room.
We were at our late breakfast the next morning
when I received a summons by long distance tele
phone from my mother’s physician, saying that I
must come at once as my mother was sinking
rapidly. He said that when my sister had tele
graphed, there had been hope of her recovery, but
now there was none.
“There is no train for two hours!” I groaned.
“ What can have become of that telegram! Perhaps
the clerk at the office neglected to send it!”
I was too much excited to note my wife’s silence
as I strode again to the telephone to demand an
explanation, but as I took down the receiver, she
caught hold of my arm.
“Rob!” she gasped. “Stop! Don’t make a
public fuss! The telegram came for you yesterday.
I put it in your desk.”
“Unopened?” I asked.
Her eyes fell before my stern gaze. A lie would
not have helped now.
“No,” she muttered, sullenly, “I opened it.”
I did not ask her what the message was. Half-
dazed, I went to my desk. There lay the telegram
dated thirty-six hours earlier.
“Mother dangerously ill. Come.”
Even now I am frightened when I think of the
wave of rage and sorrow that swept over me. I
remember clenching my hands to keep from seizing
my wife by the shoulders. She began to cry.
“Rob, don’t be so angry! I wanted to keep the
news from you until you had had a good time last
night.”
“A good time!” I burst forth, “and mother
dying! Have you no heart? In Heaven’s name,
why did you do this?”
Her temper flared up, although her tears still
flowed.
“Because I had the first right to you! And the
biggest affair I ever gave would have been spoiled
if you had known about your mother! And what
good could you have done her? She was too ill to
care if you were there or not. O! catching me
by the arm as I turned away, “you are not going to
leave me alone on Christmas, are you?
I pushed her aside and went
up to my room. I was actually
afraid to let myself speak. Later
as I passed her room on my way
downstairs I paused long enough
to say at the half-opened door:
“Kitty, I am going now; I
do not know when I shall
return.”
I remember that she cried
out to me something about
being “afraid to stay alone,”
but I did not stop. I strode
over to the commandant’s
house, told him that my mother
was dying, and did not even
pause to thank him for his
hand-clasp and his “Go on, my
boy!stay as long as you wish!”
I caught the train that I should
have taken yesterday morning.
When I reached my mother’s
house she had been dead an
hour.
One of the strange, and yet
fortunate things in life is that
what seem to us as domestic
tragedies often cause but a tem
porary external upheaval, after
which existence goes on in the same everyday jog
trot. In our hearts things can never again be as
they were; outwardly, there is no transformation.
So, after a month or two, Kitty’s life and mine
seemed to the world as if there had been no great
upheaval, no tearing away of disguises, no period
during which each soul knew and judged the other.
Our son was born six months after my mother’s
death. He brought us closer together for a while
in our common interest in him. My wife was dis
appointed that a daughter had not come to her in
his place. But he was a beautiful child, and this
fact made her who loved beauty proud of him.
Dinah was installed as nurse, and a new maid took
her place in the kitchen.
At first Kitty planned to have Baby Bob with her
at night, but she was a light sleeper and his nestlings
and gruntings in the crib next her bed made her
nervous, so it was suggested that Dinah take charge
of him both night and day. The baby was a restless
little creature, and he must cry loud and long before
the weary colored girl heard him, and I fell gradually
into the habit of having his crib put in my room at
night so that I might give him my personal care.
There are some men with whom fatherhood is a
passion. Others may smile at this statement, but
it is because they know nothing of it. The fact
remains that the most ardent baby-lovers among men
are those of large physical build and muscular
strength. Perhaps it is because I am a great,
awkward chap that little children appeal particu
larly to me. When I held my own baby son in my
arms I asked for no greater happiness.
The child never was uninteresting to me. Kitty
used to laugh at me and say that “new, green little
babies” were “a bore” to her’ but that I liked them
at any age. She was glad that I did, she confessed
demurely, for it took a great weight of responsibility
off her shoulders. For her part, while she loved the
little chap, she meant to have a good time still, even
if she was a mother.
Why should she not? was the question I asked
myself sometimes when I would see her go off with
a party of young people to a hop or musicale. I
told myself that since I cared so little for that kind
“Rob!” she gasped. “Stop!
Don’t make a public fuss!
The telegram came for you
yesterday ”
of tiling
was well
she should
it
that
do the
social act for the fam- 1
ily. She could not
have her friends at the
house quite as freely as here
tofore until the boy was old
enough not to be disturbed by
music, laughter and talking. Kitty
had always had her own way, I argued.
Since the boy and I were satisfied with
each other, why need she give up her fun?
I can hardly describe my wife’s attitude with
regard to her son. I have never doubted that she
loved him in her way. But she had grown more
independent since the dreadful Christmas Day on
which I saw her in all her self-interest, and she saw
me in all my wrath. She had ceased to turn to
me with confidence in my faith in her. She had
never asked my pardon, although it was already hers.
I am sure she never felt she had done me a wrong.
She loved herself best, that was all. So, while
outwardly we seemed to be as close as ever, we were
drifting farther apart. The world took the place
of home and husband for her; the boy compensated
me for all that I had missed.
The child’s heart was not very strong, although
our doctor promised us that he would outgrow the
irregularity as he got older. Yet when he had prieu-
monia at three years of age all our fears were cen
tered on the heart. The disease itself was con
quered, the fever was gone, and the child breathed
with seeming ease. Kitty was buoyant in her joyful
relief from care and confinement and marveled that
Dr. Clark should insist on keeping the child in bed
for so many days after he was practically well.
“It is nonsense!” she declared. “See how fine
the youngster’s color is, and what a good appetite
he has. Dr. Clark is an old alarmist. If / had my
way, the dear little chap should get up, shouldn’t
you, Bobby boy?”
Later I explained to her that the physician said
the lung trouble had put an extra strain on the
{Continued on page 16)
' : % Vrrgima Terhune
Van deWater