Book 2. The Struggle - Chapter 8

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_ BOOK II. THE STRUGGLE
CHAPTER VIII

The departure of the Williamses to a smarter neighborhood was a trial for Selma. She nursed the dispiriting reflection that she and Wilbur might just as well be moving also; that a little foresight and shrewdness on her husband's part would have enabled him to sell at a handsome profit the house in which they were living; and that there was no reason, except the sheer, happy faculty of making the most of opportunities, to account for the social recognition which Flossy and her husband were beginning to receive. It had not been easy to bear with equanimity during the last year the ingenuous, light-hearted warblings in which Flossy had indulged as an outlet to her triumphant spirits, and to listen to naive recitals of new progress, as though she herself were a companion or ladies' maid, to whom such developments could never happen. She was weary of being merely a recipient of confidences and a sympathetic listener, and more weary still of being regarded as such by her self-absorbed and successful neighbor. Why should Flossy be so dense? Why should she play second fiddle to Flossy? Why should Flossy take for granted that she did not intend to keep pace with her? Keep pace, indeed, when, if circumstances would only shape themselves a little differently, she would be able speedily to outstrip her volatile friend in the struggle for social preferment.

Not unnaturally their friendship had been somewhat strained by the simmering of these thoughts in Selma's bosom. If a recipient of confidences becomes tart or cold, ingenuous prattle is apt to flow less spontaneously. Though Flossy was completely self-absorbed, and consequently glad to pour out her satisfaction into a sympathetic ear, she began to realize that there was something amiss with her friend which mere conscientious disapproval of her own frivolities did not adequately explain. It troubled her somewhat, for she liked the Littletons and was proud of her acquaintance with them. However, she was conscious of having acquitted herself toward them with liberality, and, especially now that her social vista was widening, she was not disposed at first to analyze too deeply the cause of the lack of sympathy between them. That is, she was struck by Selma's offish manner and frigid silences, but forgot them until they were forced upon her attention the next time they met. But as her friend continued to receive her bubbling announcements with stiff indifference, Flossy, in her perplexity, began to bend her acute mental faculties more searchingly on her idol. A fixed point of view will keep a shrine sacred forever, but let a worshipper's perspective be altered, and it is astonishing how different the features of divinity will appear. Flossy had worshipped with the eyes of faith. Now that her adoration was rejected without apparent cause, her curiosity was piqued, and she sought an interpretation of the mystery from her clever wits. As she observed Selma more dispassionately her suspicion was stirred, and she began to wonder if she had been burning incense before a false goddess. This doubt was agitating her mind at the time when they moved from the street.

Selma was unconscious of the existence of this doubt as she had been largely unconscious of her own sour demeanor. She had no wish to lose the advantages of intimate association with the Williamses. On the contrary, she expected to make progress on her own account by admission into their new social circle. She went promptly to call, and saw fit to show herself tactfully appreciative of the new establishment and more ready to listen to Flossy's volubility. Flossy, who was radiant and bubbling over with fresh experiences which she was eager to impart, was glad to dismiss her doubt and to give herself up to the delights of unbridled speech. She took Selma over her new house, which had been purchased just as it stood, completely furnished, from the previous owner, who had suffered financial reverses. "Gregory bought it because it was really a bargain," she said. "It will do very well for the present, but we intend to build before long. I am keeping my eye on your husband, and am expecting great things from the Parsons house. Do you know, I believe in Mr. Littleton, and feel sure that some day we shall wake up and find him famous."

This was amiable, particularly as Flossy was very busily engaged in contemplating the brilliant progress of Gregory Williams and his wife. But Selma returned home feeling sore and dissatisfied. Flossy had been gracious, but still dense and naively condescending. Selma chose to foresee that her friend would neglect her, and her foresight was correct. The call was not returned for many weeks, although Flossy had assured her when they separated that distance would make no difference in their intimacy. But in the first place, her doubts recurred to Flossy after the departure of her visitor, and in the second, the agitations incident to her new surroundings, fortified by these doubts, made neglect easy. When she did call, Selma happened to be out. A few days later an invitation to dine with the Williamses arrived. Selma would have preferred to remain at home as a rebuke, but she was miserably conscious that Flossy would not perceive the point of the refusal. So she went, and was annoyed when she realized that the guests were only people whom she knew already--the Parsonses, and some of Gregory Williams's former associates, whom she had met at the old house. It was a pleasant dinner, apparently, to all except Selma. The entertainment was flatteringly lavish, and both the host and hostess with suavity put in circulation, under the rose, the sentiment that there are no friends like old friends--a graceful insincerity which most of them present accepted as true. Indeed, in one sense it was not an insincerity, for Gregory and his wife entertained cordial feelings toward them all. But on the other hand, Selma's immediate and bitter conclusion was also true, that the company had been invited together for the reason that, in the opinion of Flossy, they would not have harmonized well with anyone else.

Said Wilbur as they drove away from the house--"Barring a few moments of agony in the society of my tormentor, Mrs. Parsons, I had a pleasant evening. They were obviously potting their old acquaintance in one pie, but to my thinking it was preferable to being sandwiched in between some of their new friends whom we do not know and who know nothing of us. It was a little evident, but on the whole agreeable."

Selma, shrouded in her wraps, made no reply at first. Suddenly she exclaimed, with, fierceness, "I consider it rank impertinence. It was as much as to say that they do not think us good enough to meet their new friends."

Littleton, who still found difficulty in remembering that his wife would not always enjoy the humor of an equivocal situation, was sorry that he had spoken. "Come, Selma," he said, "there's no use in taking that view of the matter. You would not really care to meet the other people."

"Yes, I would, and she knows it. I shall never enter her house again."

"As to that, my dear, the probabilities are that we shall not be asked for some time. You know perfectly well that, in the nature of things, your intimacy with Mrs. Williams must languish now that she lives at a distance and has new surroundings. She may continue to be very fond of you, but you can't hope to see very much of her, unless I am greatly mistaken in her character."

"She is a shallow little worldling," said Selma, with measured intensity.

"But you knew that already. The fact that she invited us to dinner and did not ignore our existence altogether shows that she likes us and wishes to continue the friendship. I've no doubt she believes that she is going to see a great deal of us, and you should blame destiny and the force of fashionable circumstances, not Flossy, if you drift apart."

"She invited us because she wished to show off her new house."

"Not altogether. You musn't be too hard on her."

Selma moved her shoulders impatiently, and there was silence for some moments broken only by the tapping of her foot. Then she asked, "How nearly have you finished the plans for the Parsons house?"

Wilbur's brow clouded under cover of the night. He hesitated an instant before replying, "I am sorry to say that Mrs. Parsons and I do not seem to get on very well together. Her ideas and mine on the subject of architecture are wide apart, as I have intimated to you once or twice. I have modified my plans again, and she has made airy suggestions which from my point of view are impossible. We are practically at loggerheads, and I am trying to make up my mind what I ought to do."

There was a wealth of condensation in the word 'impossible' which brought back unpleasantly to Selma Pauline's use of the same word in connection with the estimate which had been formed of Miss Bailey. "There can be only one thing to do in the end," she said, "if you can't agree. Mrs. Parsons, of course, must have her house as she wishes it. It is her house, Wilbur."

"It is her house, and she has that right, certainly. The question is whether I am willing to allow the world to point to an architectural hotch-potch and call it mine."

"Isn't this another case of neglecting the practical side, Wilbur? I am sure you exaggerate the importance of the changes she desires. If I were building a house, I should expect to have it built to suit me, and I should be annoyed if the architect stood on points and were captious." Selma under the influence of this more congenial theme had partially recovered her equanimity. Her duty was her pleasure, and it was clearly her duty to lead her husband in the right path and save him from becoming the victim of his own shortcomings.

Wilbur sighed. "I have told her," he said, "that I would submit another entirely new sketch. It may be that I can introduce some of her and her daughter's splurgy and garish misconceptions without making myself hopelessly ridiculous."

He entered the house wearily, and as he stood before the hall table under the chandelier, Selma took him by the arm and turning him toward her gazed into his face. "I wish to examine you. Pauline said to me to-day that she thinks you are looking pale. I don't see that you are; no more so than usual. You never were rosy exactly. Do you know I have an idea that she thinks I am working you to death."

"Pauline? What reason has she to think anything of the kind? Besides, I am perfectly well. It is a delight to work for a woman like you, dearest." He took her face between his hands and kissed her tenderly; yet gravely, too, as though the riddle of life did not solve itself at the touch of her lips. "You will be interested to hear," he added, "that I shall finish and send off the Wetmore College plans this week."

"I am glad they are off your hands, for you will have more time for other work."

"Yes. I think I may have done something worth while," he said, wistfully.

"And I shall try not to be annoyed if someone else gets the award," she responded, smoothing down the sheen of her evening dress and regarding herself in the mirror.

"Of course someone else may have taken equal pains and done a better thing. It is necessary always to be prepared for that."

"That is the trouble. That is why I disapprove of competitions."

"Selma, you are talking nonsense," Littleton exclaimed with sudden sternness.

The decision in his tone made her start. The color mounted to her face, and she surveyed him for an instant haughtily, as though he had done her an injury. Then with an oratorical air and her archangel look, she said, "You do not seem to understand, Wilbur, that I am trying to save you from yourself."

Littleton was ever susceptible to that look of hers. It suggested incarnate conscientiousness, and seemed incompatible with human imperfection or unworthy ambitions. He was too wroth to relent altogether, but he compressed his lips and returned her look searchingly, as though he would scrutinize her soul.

"I'm bound to believe, I do believe, that you are trying to help me, Selma. I need your advice and help, even against myself, I dare say. But there are some matters of which you cannot judge so well as I. You must trust my opinion where the development of my professional life is concerned. I shall not forget your caution to be practical, but for the sake of expediency I cannot be false to what I believe true. Come, dear, let us go to bed."

He put his hand on her arm to lead her upstairs, but she turned from it to collect her fan and gloves. Looking, not at him, but at herself in the mirror, she answered, "Of course. I trust, though, that this does not mean you intend to act foolishly in regard to the Parsons house."

"I have already told you," he said, looking back, "that I am going to make another attempt to satisfy that exasperating woman and her daughter."

"And you can satisfy them, I'm sure, if you only choose to," said Selma, by way of a firm, final observation.

Littleton's prophecy in regard to the waning of friendship between his wife and Mrs. Williams proved to be correct. Propinquity had made them intimate, and separation by force of circumstances put a summary end to frequent and cordial intercourse between them. As he had predicted, their first invitation to the new house was still the last at the end of three months, and save for a few words on one occasion in the street, Selma and Flossy did not meet during that period. But during that same three months Selma's attention was constantly attracted to the Williamses by prominent newspaper allusions to their prosperity and growing fashionable prestige. What they did and where they went were chronicled in the then new style journalistic social gossip, and the every-day world was made familiar with his financial opinions and his equipages and her toilettes. The meeting in the street was an ordeal for Selma. Flossy had been shopping and was about to step into her carriage, the door of which was held open by an imposing liveried footman, when the two women nearly collided.

"I have not seen you for an age," Flossy exclaimed, with the genuine ring of regret in her tone, with which busy people partially atone for having left undone the things they ought or would like to have done. "Which way are you going? Can't I take you somewhere?"

Selma glanced sternly at the snug coupe and stylish horses. "No, we don't seem to meet very often," she said drily. "I'm living, though, at the same place," she added, with a determination to be sprightly.

"Yes, I know; I owe you a call. It's dreadful of me. I've been intending to come, but you can't imagine how busy I've been. Such a number of invitations, and new things to be done. I'm looking forward to giving you a full account of my experiences."

"I've read about them in the newspapers."

"Oh, yes. Gregory is always civil to reporters. He says that the newspapers are one of the great institutions of the country, and that it is sensible to keep in touch with them. I will confide to you that I think the whole business vulgar, and I intend some day, when we are firmly established, to be ugly to them. But at present the publicity is rather convenient and amusing," she exclaimed, with a gay shake of her head, which set her ringlets bobbing.

"I should think it would be unpleasant to have the details of one's appearance described by the press."

Flossy's doubts had returned in full force during the conversation. She said to herself, "I wonder if that is true? I wonder if it wouldn't be the very thing she would like?" But she answered blithely, "Oh, one gets used to it. Then I can't take you anywhere? I'm sorry. Some day I hope my round of gayety will cease, so that we can have a quiet evening together. I miss your husband. I always find him suggestive and interesting."

"'Her round of gayety! A quiet evening together!'" murmured Selma as she walked away. "Wilbur is right; purse-proud, frivolous little thing! She is determined to destroy our friendship."

Four weeks subsequent to this meeting the newspapers contained a fulsome account of a dancing party given by Mr. and Mrs. Gregory Williams--"an elegant and recherche entertainment," in the language of the reporter. A list of the company followed, which Selma scrutinized with a brow like a thunder-cloud. She had acquired a feverish habit of perusing similar lists, and she recognized that Flossy's guests--among the first of whom were Mr. and Mrs. Morton Price and the Misses Price--were chiefly confined to persons whom she had learned to know as members of fashionable society. She read, in the further phraseology of the reporter, that "it was a small and select affair." At the end of the list, as though they had been invited on sufferance as a business necessity, were the Parsonses; but these were the only former associates of the Williamses. Selma had just finished her second reading of this news item when her meditation was interrupted by the voice of her husband, who had been silent during dinner, as though he had some matter on his mind, and was at the moment sitting close by, on the other side of the lamp which lighted the library table.

"I fear you will be disappointed, Selma, but I have informed Mr. Parsons definitely this morning, that he must get another architect. The ideas of his wife and daughter are hopelessly at variance with mine. He seemed to be sorry--indeed, I should think he was a reasonable and sensible man--but he said that he was building to please Mrs. Parsons, and we both agreed that under the circumstances it was necessary that she should make a fresh start. He asked me to send my bill, and we parted on the best of terms. So it is all over, and except from the point of view of dollars and cents, I am very glad. Only the remembrance that you had set your heart on my making this my masterpiece, prevented me from throwing over the contract weeks ago. Tell me, Selma _mia_, that you approve of what I have done and congratulate me." He pulled forward his chair so that he might see her face without interference from the lamp and leaned toward her with frank appeal.

"Yes, I had set my heart on it, and you knew it. Yet you preferred to give up this fine opportunity to show what you could do and to get business worth having rather than sacrifice your own ideas as to how a house should be built to the ideas of the women who were to live in it. I dare say I should agree with them, and that the things which they wished and you objected to were things I would have insisted on having."

Littleton started as though she had struck him in the face. "Selma! My wife! Do you realize what you are saying?"

"Perfectly."

"Then--then--. Why, what have I said, what have I done that you should talk like this?"

"Done? Everything. For one thing you have thrown away the chance for getting ahead in your profession which I procured for you. For another, by your visionary, unpractical ways, you have put me in the position where I can be insulted. Read that, and judge for yourself." She held out to him the newspaper containing the account of the dancing party, pointing with her finger to the obnoxious passage.

With nervous hands Littleton drew the page under the light. "What is all this about? A party? What has it to do with our affairs?"

"It has this to do with them--if you had been more practical and enterprising, our names would have been on that list."

"I am glad they are not there."

"Yes, I know. You would be content to have us remain nobodies all our days. You do not care what becomes of my life, provided you can carry out your own narrow theory of how we ought to live. And I had such faith in you, too! I have refused to believe until now that you were not trying to make the most of your opportunities, and to enable me to make the most of mine."

"Selma, are you crazy? To think that you, the woman I have loved with all my soul, should be capable of saying such things to me! What does it mean?"

She was quick to take advantage of his phrase. "Have loved? Yes, I know that you do not love me as you did; otherwise you could not have refused to build that house, against my wish and advice. It means this, Wilbur Littleton, that I am determined not to let you spoil my life. You forget that in marrying you I gave up my own ambitions and hopes for your sake; because--because I believed that by living together we should be more, and accomplish more, than by living apart. You said you needed me, and I was fool enough to believe it."

The fierce tragedy in her tone lapsed into self-pity under the influence of her last thought, and Littleton, eager in his bewilderment for some escape from the horror of the situation, put aside his anger and dropping on his knees beside her tried to take her hands.

"You are provoked, my darling. Do not say things which you will be sorry for to-morrow. I call God to witness that I have sought above all else to make you happy, and if I have failed, I am utterly miserable. I have needed you, I do need you. Do not let a single difference of opinion spoil the joy of both our lives and divide our hearts."

She pulled her hands away, and shunning his endearment, rose to her feet.

"I am provoked, but I know what I am saying. A single difference of opinion? Do you not see, Wilbur, that none of our opinions are the same, and that we look at everything differently? Even your religion and the God you call to witness are not mine. They are stiff and cold; you Unitarians permit your consciences to deaden your emotions and belittle your outlook on life. When I went with Mr. Parsons the other day to the Methodist church, I could not help thinking how different it was. I was thrilled and I felt I could do anything and be anything. My mother was a Methodist. They sang 'Onward Christian Soldiers,' and it was glorious." She paused a moment and, with an exalted look, seemed to be recalling the movement of the hymn. "With you, Wilbur, and the people like you--Pauline is the same--everything is measured and pondered over, and nothing is spontaneous. I like action, and progress and prompt, sensible conclusions. That is the American way, and the way in which people who succeed get on. But you won't see it--you can't see it. I've tried to explain it to you, and now--now it's too late. We're nobodies, and, if our hearts are divided, that's fate I suppose. It's a very cruel fate for me. But I don't choose to remain a nobody."

Littleton's expression as she talked had changed from astonishment to anger, and from anger to a sternness which gave his words of response the effect of calm and final decision. "You have said so many things with which I do not agree, and which I should have to dispute, that I will not attempt to argue with you concerning them. One thing is clear, both of us have made a horrible mistake. Each has misunderstood the other. You are dissatisfied with me; I realize suddenly that you are utterly different from what I supposed. I am overwhelmed, but your words make plain many things which have distressed and puzzled me." He paused as though in spite of the certainty of his tone, he hoped that she would see fit to deny his conclusions. "We have made a mistake and we shall both be miserable--that must needs be--but we must consider whether there is any method by which we can be less unhappy. What would you like to have me do, Selma? We have no children, thank heaven! Would it be more agreeable to live apart from me and receive support? A divorce does not seem necessary. Besides, our misconception of each other would not be a legal cause."

Selma flushed at the reference to divorce. Littleton's sad, simple statement wore on the surface no sign of a design to hark back to her experience with her first husband, yet she divined that it must be in his thoughts and she resented the recurrence. Moreover, separation, certainly for the present, went beyond her purpose.

"I have no wish for divorce or separation. I see no reason why we should not continue to live as we are," she answered. "To separate would cause scandal. It is not necessary that people should know we have made a mistake. I shall merely feel more free now to live my own life--and there is no telling that you may not some day see things from my point of view and sympathize with me more." She uttered the last words with a mixture of pathos and bright solicitation.

Littleton shook his head. "I agree with you that to go on as we are is our best course. As you say, we ought, if possible, to keep the knowledge of our sorrow to ourselves. God knows that I wish I could hope that our life could ever be as it was before. Too many things have become plain to me in the last half-hour to make that possible. I could never learn to accept or sympathize with your point of view. There can be no half-love with me, Selma. It is my nature to be frank, and as you are fond of saying, that is the American way. I am your husband still, and while I live you shall have my money and my protection. But I have ceased to be your lover, though my heart is broken."

"Very well," said Selma, after a painful pause. "But you know, Wilbur," she added in a tone of eager protestation, "that I do not admit for a moment that I am at fault. I was simply trying to help you. You have only yourself to blame for your unhappiness and--and for mine. I hope you understand that."

"Yes, I understand that you think so," he said sadly. _

Read next: Book 2. The Struggle: Chapter 9

Read previous: Book 2. The Struggle: Chapter 7

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