Together Part 31

It was a little joke they had, that when Cairy was not with them he was "dining out."...

When Cairy had left, Conny rose from her lounging position as if to resume the burden of life.

"It's the Commission?" she inquired.

"Yes! I sent you the governor's letter."

For a time they discussed the political situation in the new Commission, to which Woodyard had recently been appointed, his first conspicuous public position. Then his wife observed wearily: "I was at Potts's this morning and saw Isabelle Lane there. She was in mourning."

"Her father died,--you know we saw it in the papers."

"She must be awfully rich."

"He left considerable property,--I don't know to whom."

"Well, they are in New York. Her husband has been made something or other in the railroad, so they are going to live here."

"He is a very able man, I am told."

After a time Conny drawled: "I suppose we must have 'em here to dinner,--they are at a hotel up town. Whom shall we have?"

Evidently after due consideration Conny had concluded that the Lanes must come under her cognizance. She ran over half a dozen names from her best dinner list, and added, "And Tom."

"Why Tom this time?" Percy demanded.

"He's met Isabelle--and we always have Tommy! You aren't jealous, are you, Percy?" She glanced at him in amus.e.m.e.nt.

"I must dress," Percy observed negligently, setting down his cup of tea.

"Come here and tell me you are not jealous," Conny commanded. As her husband smiled and brushed her fair hair with his lips, she muttered, "You silly!" just as she had to Cairy's unreasonableness. Why! She was Percy's destiny and he knew it.... She had a contempt for people who ruffled themselves over petty emotions. This s.e.x matter had been exaggerated by Poets and Prudes, and their hysterical utterances should not inhibit her impulses.

Nevertheless she did not consider it a suitable opportunity to tell Percy about the kiss.

Percy Woodyard and Cornelia Pallanton had married on a new, radical basis.

They had first met in the house of an intellectual woman, the wife of a university professor, where clever young persons were drawn in and taught to read Schopenhauer and Nietzsche, Ibsen and George Moore, and to engage gracefully in perilous topics. They had been rather conscious that they were radicals,--"did their own thinking," as they phrased it, these young persons. They were not willing to accept the current morality, not even that part of it engraved in law; but so far as regarded all of morality that lay outside the domain of s.e.x their actions were not in conflict with society, though they were Idealists, and in most cases Sentimentalists. But in the matter of s.e.x relation, which is the knot of the tangle for youth, they believed in the "development of the individual." It must be determined by him, or her, whether this development could be obtained best through regular or irregular relations. The end of all this individual development?

"The fullest activity, the largest experience, the most complete presentation of personality," etc. Or as Fosd.i.c.k railed, "Suck all and spit out what you don't like!"

So when these two young souls had felt sufficiently moved, one to the other, to contemplate marriage, they had had an "understanding": they would go through with the customary formula and oaths of marriage, to please their relatives and a foolish world; but neither was to be "bound" by any such piece of silly archaism as the marriage contract. Both recognized that both had diversified natures, which might require in either case more varied experience than the other could give. In their enlightened affection for each other, neither would stand in the light of the other's best good.... There are many such young people, in whom intellectual pride has erased deeper human instincts. But as middle life draws on, they conform--or seek refuge in the divorce court.

Neither Percy nor Cornelia had any intention of practising adultery as a habit: they merely wished to be honest with themselves, and felt superior to the herd in recognizing the errant or variant possibilities in themselves. Conny took pleasure in throwing temptation in Percy's way, in encouraging him to know other women,--secretly gratified that he proved hopelessly domestic. And on her side we have seen the innocent lengths to which she had hitherto gone.

For it proved as life began in earnest for these two that much of their clear philosophy crumbled. Instead of the vision of feminine Idealism that the young lawyer had worshipped, Conny developed a neat, practical nature, immensely capable of "making things go." As her husband was the most obvious channel through which things could move, her husband became her chief care. She had no theory of exploiting him,--she had no theories at all. She saw him as so much capacity to be utilized. Just as she never was entrapped into a useless acquaintance, never had a "wrong person" at her house, never wasted her energies on the mere ebullition of good feeling, so she never allowed Percy to waste his energies on fruitless works.

Everything must count. Their life was a pattern of simple and p.r.o.nounced design, from the situation of their house to the footing on which it was established and the people who were encouraged to attach themselves there.

Woodyard had been interested in social good works, and as a young man had served the Legal Aid Society. A merely worldly woman would have discouraged this mild weakness for philanthropy. But Conny knew her material; out of such as Percy, corporation lawyers--those gross feeders at the public trough--were not made. Woodyard was a man of fine fibre, rather unaggressive. He must either be steered into a shady pool of legal sinecure, or take the more dangerous course through the rapids of public life. It was the moment of Reform. Conny realized the capabilities of Reform, and Percy's especial fitness for it; Reform, if not remunerative, was fashionable and prominent.

So Conny had steered their little bark, hoisting sail to every favorable wind, no matter how slight the puff, until Woodyard now was a minor figure in the political world. When his name occurred in the newspapers, a good many people knew who he was, and his remarks at dinners and his occasional speeches were quoted from, if there was not more valuable matter. He had been spoken of for Congress. (Conny, of course, would never permit him to engulf himself in that hopeless sea.) Just what Conny designed as the ultimate end, she herself did not know; like all great generals, she was an opportunist and took what seemed to her worth taking from the fortunes of the day. The last good thing which had floated up on her sh.o.r.e was this Commissionership. She had fished that up with the aid of the amiable Senator, who had spoken a word here and a word there in behalf of young Woodyard.

Conny was very well pleased with herself as a wife, and she knew that her husband was pleased with her. Moreover, she had not the slightest intention of permitting anything to interfere with her wifely duties as she saw them....

Percy had gone upstairs to that roof story where in New York children are housed, to see his boy and girl. He was very fond of his children. When he came down, his thoughtful face was worried.

"The kids seem always to have colds," he remarked.

"I know it," Conny admitted. "I must take them to Dr. Snow to-morrow."

(They had their own doctor, and also their own throat specialist.)

"I wonder if it is good for them here, so far down in the city,--they have only that sc.r.a.p of park to play in."

Conny, who had been over this question a good many times, answered irrefutably,--

"There seem to be a good many children growing up all right in the same conditions."

She knew that Percy would like some excuse to escape into the country.

Conny had no liking for suburban life, and with her husband's career at the critical point the real country was out of the question.

"I suppose Jack will have to go to boarding school another year," Percy said with a sigh.

He was not a strong man himself, though of solid build and barely thirty.

He had that bloodless whiteness of skin so often found among young American men, which contrasted with his dark mustache, and after a long day's work like this his step dragged. He wore gla.s.ses over his blue eyes, and when he removed them the dark circles could be seen. Conny knew the limits of his strength and looked carefully to his physical exercise.

"You didn't get your squash this afternoon?"

When Percy was worried about anything, she immediately searched for a physical cause.

"No! I had to finish up things at the office so that I could get away to-night."

Then husband and wife went to their dinner, and Woodyard gave Conny a short-hand account of his doings, the people he had seen, what they had said, the events at the office. Conny required this account each day, either in the morning or in the evening. And Woodyard yielded quite unconsciously to his wife's strong will, to her singularly definite idea of "what is best." He admired her deeply, was grateful to her for that complete mastery of the detail of life which she had shown, aware that if it were not for the dominating personality of this woman he had somehow had the good fortune to marry, life would have been a smaller matter for him.

"Con," he said when they had gone back to the library for their coffee, "I am afraid this Commission is going to be ticklish business."

"Why?" she demanded alertly.

"There are some dreadful grafters on it,--I suspect that the chairman is a wolf. I suspect further that it has been arranged to whitewash certain rank deals."

"But why should the governor have appointed you?"

"Possibly to hold the whitewash brush."

"You think that the Senator knows that?"

"You can't tell where the Senator's tracks lead."

"Well, don't worry! Keep your eyes open. You can always resign, you know."

Woodyard went off to his train after kissing his wife affectionately. Conny called out as he was getting into his coat:--