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ROMANCE had never ceased to play a part—
and a large one—in the career of Edith Gor
don. The one regret of her life was that
John Gordon, her husband, had become so intensely
practical. It had been “Jack” in those days when
the blood burned and the heart was prodigal with
vows and protestations; but that time was long past,
and the erstwhile dashing “Jack” had developed into
the stout, somewhat prosaic, entirely unromantic “ John,”
a man eminently unsuited to play Romeo to Edith’s
Juliet.
Edith herself had not stood still—outwardly—with the
advancing years. While, of course, the freshness of
youth no longer shone in her face, the classic features,
about which “ Jack ” had been wont to rave, but which
“John” viewed now with such complacency, had been
left unravaged by the course of time. The gloss and
sheen were gone from the abundant chestnut hair that
waved above her sweet low brow, but the soft light of
the somewhat premature gray crown of advancing years
provided a substitute scarcely less charming.
Her figure, too, was not quite what it had been. The
fulness of a ripe—Edith thought sometimes with dismay
that it was aripening—development of womanhood had
overwhelmed the slender curves of girlhood; but the
result was stillj satisfactory, especially when aided by
those mysterious devices by which feminine humanity
successfully conceals the overloading tendency of aging
flesh. No greater insult could have been offered Edith
Gordon than to have said that she was getting “ fat.”
No one in the house said it, either, although ill-natured
people outside sometimes did not refrain from such
'■"slander and evil speaking”; but Edith’s heart was as
young, as fresh, as verdant; her mind as imaginative,
as subtly apprehensive of the mysterious, the beautiful,
the heroic, as it had been when she was a girl.
In that sort of development she had stood still. It was
a never-ending source of grief to her that John —she
hated that name, and never called him that except in
public;.in private it was often "Jack darl,” or something
else equally affectionate—that John was so changed, so
unresponsive, so unromantic. Why, he had actually de
clared that he would rather be comfortable in his clothes
than look well in them any day of the yearl That he
didn’t really care enough about growing stout to diet
himself! That nothing on earth would induce him to
“bant,” and as for exercise, he abhorred it! He was
never so happy as in a shabby old dressing gown and a
disreputable pair of his slippers, by his own fireside,
with Edith, more beautiful than ever, he averred—and
with too—in his eye, opposite him, and the chil
dren of this singular pair, six in number, clustered
around them.
But, after all, John was a good sort of a man. He was
the best of husbands and absurdly devoted to Edith in
his own quiet way. He really never left her if he could
help it. When he went away from the city on business
he always took her with him. He delighted to see her
beautifully dressed, and while he sometimes mocked, he
inwardly approved of all her efforts to maintain and re
tain the charms which had won him to her affections so
many years before. But he wasn’t demonstrative. No
contingencies that could arise would prevent him from
eating his dinner. Edith was furiously jealous at times
of the children, who moiled and toiled about him and
over him, and to whom he frequently addressed those
pet names and endearing terms which she had once
thought were her own peculiar property.
But she never had the slightest chance to be jealous of
anyone else. She sometimes wished that he would give
her an opportunity to rise out of the placid humdrum
consciousness of his steady affection; and in more dar
ing flights of imagination, she frequently wished that in
some way, without doing anything wrong or compromis
ing herself in any way, she could make John ragingly
jealous, see him lose a meal or two and get thin.
But .othing happened. She often thought, with a
sigh, that all the romance of her life was past; there was
nothing before her but to live on in this contented, peace
ful, uneventful way until the end. If Edith had had a
wider experience of life—and husbands—she would have
known that she was blessed almost above all women.
John honestly tried at times to rise to the measure of
her requirements. He never consciously forgot an an
niversary. There were more anr.iversai '■*» in Edith’s
MIXED DATES
calendar, too, than Saints’ Days in the Church year.
Long ago John had learned manfully to face the conse
quences of those frightful lapses of memory which
confronted higi in the presence of Edith with this ques
tion trembling upon her lips:
"John Gordon, do you know what day this is?”
When Edith asked that question she was not seeking
information as to the day of the week. She wanted John
to remember that it was on such a day as this that he
had first met her at so-and-so’s house. She wanted John
to remember every detail of that meeting which her own
marvelous imaginative faculties could reproduce with
absolute accuracy. Everything that ever happened, that
was connected with their courtship and early life, was
an anniversary, and John really remembered them re
markably well. He was a very busy man. He had a
great many cares. The needs of his growing family were
sufficient to require his undivided attention. Once in a
while he forgot, but not often.
During ,t crisis in his business, which had filled him
with apprehension, on a certain morning Edith came
down to breakfast arrayed with extraordinary bravery.
She wore a new shirtwaist of the color and style which
John affected. In the center of the table was a great
bunch of chrysanthemums, flowers associated with their
wedding day, which had happened to fall a few days
after Edith’s twenty-second birthday. She had made an
heroic resolution before she descended to the dining-
room that she would not call John's attention to the fact
that that day was her birthday—in words, that is; but
she had been unable to restrain herself from indicating
in some way the festive character of the day. Not that
it was particularly festive for Edith, either, for no
woman approaches her fortieth birthday with feelings
of equanimity; but that would not matter to John, who
was accustomed to say that the older he got the happier
he was; and he, at least, ought to rise to the occasion.
And John had risen to the occasion, too. The birthday
was one of the things he had not forgotten. He had pro
vided her liberally, in accordance with his means,, with
the jewels which looked so prettty upon her beautiful
hands, and he had decided to add to her already large
collection what she had long coveted, a pearl. A fine
specimen which he had purchased the night before, at
that very moment lay in his pocket. But John gave no
outward sign. The Stock Market was in a feverish con
dition, and he buried himself in the paper the moment he
sat down. John and Edith breakfasted alone with Will
iam. The other children had their breakfast earlier and
had gone to school when these two came down. William
was the youngest He was "goin’ on four,” as he
proudly said, which meant that he had just passed his
third birthday. He was an observant young man. Noth
ing out of the common escaped his youthful eye.
" -Mar- ” he said at last, “why are you all dressed
Cyrus TJownsenci ffircicty
His father, who was turning the paper at that mo
ment, fortunately caught this remark and looked over
at his wife.
«
"Well, Edith, I must say that you look very well in
deed this morning, my dear. What’s the occasion ? ”
Edith blushed violently and her heart throbbed in spite
of Herself at the question. She temporized, however.
The possibilities of the situation were so great that she
wanted to enjoy them a little longer. Instead of the
usual retort,
" John Gordon, don’t you know what day it is ? ” she
replied lamely enough, “ Why— er—nothing particular.”
"And the flowers, too,” said John; “they’re gorgeous!
They always remind me of our wedding day,” he added
swiftly, knowing that this was an exceedingly safe re
mark to make; and then—will it be believed?—the
odious man calmly went back to his paper and coffee.
Edith stopped eating at once and stared at him in
silence. Could it be possible? He had forgotten many
things, but never her birthday! William came to the
rescue.
"Why don’t you eat your breakfast, mama?” he re
marked.
Again this caught the attention of John.
“What’s the matter, Edith?” he said. “Aren’t you
well?”
" Who, I ? Perfectly well,” returned Edith with rising
indignation, immediately beginning to attack her waffle
furiously, although every mouthful choked her.*
John had finished his breakfast. He excused himself,
rose from the table, caught William’s chubby face in his
two hands, and, after carefully wiping the fringe of
molasses from around his mouth, pressed a long, exu
berant kiss upon the baby face; then he stepped over to
Edith, laid his hand upon her shoulder, turned her check
up to him, kissed her softly, in what, it must be admit
ted, was rather a matter-of-fact manner, and went out.
Edith heard the door close behind him. It was too
much, She rose from the table, unheeding the baby’s
protests—he objected very much to being left alone
and ran upstairs to her room. She shut the door, threw
herself face downward on the bed and sobbed out her
grief and disappointment in an agony of tears. William,
though he did not like solitude, disliked emptiness the
more. He stayed at the table until, with the assistance
of the maid, he had disposed of a wonderful quantify of
waffles, there being no mama present to interdict his
consumption; then he clambered up the stairs, opened
the door of his mother’s room and entered.
“What’s the matter, mama?” he said; "why are you
cryin’? ”
"Oh, William, my precious baby, mama’s only com
fort!” wailed Edith, stretching out her arms toward the
chubby boy, “ come here to me, my little son. Mama is
so miserable. It’s her birthday, and—and -papa didn't
ew ■T’Ser. Mama is forty years ol<^to-day—that’s bad
COPYRIGHTiv*
rr’s HER BIRTHDAY AND—PAPA DIDN’T REMEMBER.
enough. She’s so lomesome,*so unhappy! No one even
wished her ‘ many happy returns.’ ”
" I’ll do it, mama,” said William, getting up on the
bed and nestling down by her. " Won’t you have a birf
day cake wiv cannels on it, like I did ? ”
"No, nothing, nothing! Nobody cares for mania’s
birthday. She’s an old woman now! So lonesome, her
heart’s broken! ”
"Won’t papa give you somethin’?"
" He’s forgotten all about it, darling. He doesn’t
care any more.”
Edith was so absorbed in her grief, and William was
so absorbed in Edith, that they did not hear the hall
door open. They did not mark John’s rather heavy tread
upon the stairs, consequently they were both greatly
surprised when the door opened and lie stood before
them, an expression of amazement on his face at the
sight of the two figures, for the contagion of his mother’s
misery had been too much for the susceptible infant, and
while she was sobbing softly lie was roaring with all the
vociferousness of childhood.
“Why, Edith! Why, William!” cried John in aston
ishment, “what’s the matter?”
At the sound of his voice Edith sat tip, a flash of hope
pervading her being. He had remembered, then, and
i
had come back! All would be well. But his first words
undeceived her.
” I left those vouchers I was examining last night,”
continued John, "and I came back for them. I find you
in tears. My dear girl, what is the matter?"
John was unconsciously adroit. Edith loved to be
called his "dear girl" and John knew it. This time,
however, the words did not mollify her. Since he did
not know, she resolved he never should. She determined
that hereafter her birthday should pass by unnoticed.
She felt the luxury of martyrdom stealing over her,
which was some compensation for her misery. She
dried her tears as best she could and looked disdainfully
and coldly at her anxious husband.
"Nothing, nothing at all," she said.
" Dere is, too," safcl ydung William sturdily.
"William I” said Edith, sharply. "I forbid you to
speak! Don’t say a word 1 ”
Generally John did not interfere between Edith and
the children. This time he broke that wise rule. He
drew a nickel from his porket.
"Bill,” lie said, holding up the coin, "come here.”
1 In a second that infant was in his arms, his face shin
ing through his tears.
"What’s the matter with mama, William?” asked
John.
"Willie, dear,” cried his mother imploringly, but the
allurement of the nickel was too great even for his filial
affection.
"Papa, don't you know what day it is?” asked the
smiling WilUacs.
'T/nr*,*
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“Great Heavens!” thought John in consternation,
“have the children begun to ask that infernal question
too ? ”
He racked his brains for a possible neglected an
niversary. .
"Well, what day is it?” he asked.
"Why, it’s mama's birfday,” said William, tri
umphantly.
John turned open-mouthed to Edith. She had risen
and was confronting him like an angry goddess. The
flash of indignation upon her cheek, the tear that
sparkled in,, her eye—and Edith was one of the few
women who look pretty in tears—made her fairly ador
able. He thought she had never appeared more charm
ing, even when she was only sixteen. For an instant his
admiration shone in his glance, and the unerring Edith
was quick to detect it. There was an opportunity for
him to get into her good graces once more. Alas!
Nemesis must have been guiding him, for what did John
do? llis admiration faded into an expression of amuse
ment. He snickered, he chuckled, he laughed. He sank
down in the nearest chair and roared. Edith had never
been so furiously angry before. This was adding insult
to injury. As soon as she could make herself heard, she
began.
" For my part, John Gordon, I see nothing about
which to laugh. You have forgotten my birthday, a
thing you have never done since we have been married.
I dressed jnysclf to please you, put those chrysanthe
mums on the table because they reminded you always
of our wedding day and my birthday. I had the break
fast you liked, too—and—and you never noticed any
thing! If it hadn’t been for the baby you wouldn’t have
known whether I was dressed or not. I even forgot my
prejudice and ordered that horrid, vulgar liver and
bacon —a combination I detest—for you especially. I
don’t believe you even knew what you were eating! And
then, when you came back, I thought you had remem
bered and had come to wish me many happy returns—
and—and ”
" But, my dear Edith ”
" Don’t say a word! I never was so unhappy in my
life! It is quite evident that you do not care for me
now that I am getting old. All you think of is com
fort, comfort and your children. And I’m forty and
married to a man who has ceased to love me at It’»
bad enough to be forty without being so neglected and
*o lonesome!”
Here Edith put her head down in her hands and be
gan to cry again. John was sober enough now, al
though the remains of his amusement were plainly
visible. It was William who broke in.
"Papa, you’re bad to my mama. I don’t love you
any more.”
"William,” said John, gravely, "ask mama the date
of Her birthday.”
"Thoughtless, cruel, forgetful man,” sobbed Edith,
"he can’t even remember tile date. It's November sth,
if you will have it I ”
"I thought so!” said John, "and Edith, my dearest
wife, do you realize that to-day is the third of Novem
ber, and your birthday isn’t until day after to-morrdw.”
"John Gordon, you are deceiving me! It’s one of
your ways of getting out—-”
" Look at the calendar, my dear," said John. " You
see?"
Poor Edith I She was certainly two days ahead. She
stood looking at John in hopeless dismay. John was
making a herculean effort to restrain his mirth, but it
was impossible. Edifh didn't know whether to continue
weeping or join in his laughter, it was all s'o fearfully
unromantic. William also was waiting to see which way
the wind was blowing. Finally Ed it'll caught the, infec
tion of Her husband’s humor and joined in his glee.
William’s high pitched staccato trill made an appropriate
obligato for the merry conjugal duet.
" Well, now the thing has come out,” said John, in his
matter-of-fact way, feeling in his waistcoat pocket, "since
you have arranged this day for your birthday, T might
as well give you the present I was keeping for you,”
handing her a little packet. With eager fingers she tore
it open, disclosing the radiant pearl. There was a little
slip of paper enclosed in the golden circlet of the ring.
" Read it,” said John.
"To Edith, pearl among wives.
From her lover and husband "
Yes, and the name signed to it was not " John,’’ but
"Jack,” and there he stood, fat, unromantic, rather iiv
different as to dress, blushing like a girl.
Edith flung her arms around his iieek, kissed him en
thusiastically, then held him at arm’s length.
"John Gordon," she said, severely, "you are realh
too provoking! How unromantic of you! Now yot
have gone and spoiled my birthday by giving me in
present to-day 1”
