Unleavened Bread Part 4

People like Mrs. Taylor repressed her, but the motherly loquacity and comprehension of Mrs. Earle drew her out and thawed at once and forever the ice of acquaintanceship. Before she quite realized the extent of this fascination she had promised to recite something, and as in a dream, but with flushing cheeks, she heard the President rap the table and announce "You will be gratified to hear that a talented friend who is with us has kindly consented to favor us with a recital. I have the honor to introduce Mrs. Lewis Babc.o.c.k."

After the first flush of nervousness, Selma's grave dignity came to her support, and justified her completely in her own eyes. Her father had been fond of verse, especially of verse imbued with moral melancholy, and at his suggestion she had learned and had been wont to repeat many of the occasional pieces which he cut from the newspapers and collected in a sc.r.a.p-book. Her own preference among these was the poem, "O why should the spirit of mortal be proud?" which she had been told was a great favorite of Abraham Lincoln. It was this piece which came into her mind when Mrs. Earle broached the subject, and this she proceeded to deliver with august precision. She spoke clearly and solemnly without the trace of the giggling protestation which is so often incident to feminine diffidence. She treated the opportunity with the seriousness expected, for though the Inst.i.tute was not proof against light and diverting contributions, as the whistling performance indicated, levity of spirit would have been out of place.

"'Tis a twink of the eye, 'tis a draught of the breath From the blossom of health to the paleness of death; From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud, O why should the spirit of mortal be proud?"

Selma enjoyed the harmony between the long, slow cadence of the metre and the important gravity of the theme. She rolled out the verses with the intensity of a seer, and she looked a beautiful seer as well.

Liberal applause greeted her as she sat down, though the clapping woman is apt to be a feeble instrument at best. Selma knew that she had produced an impression and she was moved by her own effectiveness. She was compelled to swallow once or twice to conceal the tears in her voice while listening to the congratulations of Mrs. Earle. The words which she had just recited were ringing through her brain and seemed to her to express the pitch at which her life was keyed.

Selma was chosen a member of the Inst.i.tute at the next meeting, and forthwith she became intimate with the president. Mrs. Margaret Rodney Earle was, as she herself phrased it, a live woman. She supported herself by writing for the newspapers articles of a morally utilitarian character--for instance a winter's series, published every Sat.u.r.day, "Hints on Health and Culture," or again, "Receipts for the Parlor and the Kitchen." She also contributed poetry of a pensive cast, and chatty special correspondence flavored with personal allusion. She was one of the pioneers in modern society journalism, which at this time, however, was comparatively veiled and delicate in its methods. Besides, she was a woman of tireless energy, with theories on many subjects and an ardor for organization. She advocated prohibition, the free suffrage of woman, the renunciation of corsets, and was interested in reforms relating to labor, the pauper cla.s.ses and the public schools. In behalf of any of these causes she was ready from time to time to dash off an article at short notice or address an audience. But her dearest concern was the promotion of woman's culture and the enlargement of woman's sphere of usefulness through the club. The idea of the woman's club, which was taking root over the country, had put in the shade for the time being all her other plans, including the scheme of a society for making the golden-rod the national flower. As the founder and president of the Benham Inst.i.tute, she felt that she had found an avocation peculiarly adapted to her capacities, and she was already actively in correspondence with clubs of a similar character in other cities, in the hope of forming a national organization for mutual enlightenment and support.

Mrs. Earle received Selma by invitation at her lodgings the following day, and so quickly did their friendship ripen that at the end of two hours each had told the other everything. Selma was p.r.o.ne instinctively to regard as aristocratic and un-American any limitations to confidence.

The evident disposition on the part of Mrs. Earle to expose promptly and without reserve the facts of her past and her plans for the future seemed to Selma typical of an interesting character, and she was thankful to make a clean breast in her turn as far as was possible. Mrs.

Earle's domestic experience had been th.o.r.n.y.

"I had a home once, too," she said, "a happy home, I thought. My husband said he loved me. But almost from the first we had trouble. It went on so from month to month, and finally we agreed to part. He objected, my dear, to my living my own life. He didn't like me to take an interest in things outside the house--public matters. I was elected on the school-board--the only woman--and he ought to have been proud. He said he was, at first, but he was too fond of declaring that a woman's place is in her kitchen. One day I said to him, 'Ellery, this can't go on. If we can't agree we'd better separate. A cat-and-dog life is no life at all.' He answered back, 'I'm not asking you to leave me, but if you're set on it don't let me hinder you, Margaret. You don't need a man to support you. You're as good as a man yourself.' He meant that to be sarcastic, I suppose. 'Yes,' said I, 'thank G.o.d, I think I can take care of myself, even though I am a woman.' That was the end of it. There was no use for either of us to get excited. I packed my things, and a few mornings later I said to him, 'Good-by, Ellery Earle: I wish you well, and I suppose you're my husband still, but I'm going to live my own life without let or hindrance from any man. There's your ring.' My holding out the ring was startling to him, for he said, 'Aren't you going to be sorry for this, Margaret?' 'No,' said I, 'I've thought it all out, and it's best for both of us. There's your ring.' He wouldn't take it, so I dropped it on the table and went out. Some people miss it, and misbelieve I was ever married. That was close on to twenty years ago, and I've never seen him since. When the war broke out I heard he enlisted, but what's become of him I don't know. Maybe he got a divorce.

I've kept right on and lived my own life in my own way, and never lacked food or raiment. I'm forty-five years old, but I feel a young woman still."

Notwithstanding Mrs. Earle's business-like directness and the protuberance of her bust in conclusion, by way of rea.s.serting her satisfaction with the results of her action, there was a touch of plaintiveness in her confession which suggested the womanly author of "Hints on Culture and Hygiene," rather than the man-hater. This was lost on Selma, who was fain to sympathize purely from the stand-point of righteousness.

"It was splendid," she said. "He had no right to prevent you living your own life. No husband has that right."

Mrs. Earle brushed her eyes with her handkerchief. "You musn't think, my dear, that I'm not a believer in the home because mine has been unhappy--because my husband didn't or couldn't understand. The true home is the inspirer and nourisher of all that is best in life--in our American life; but men must learn the new lesson. There are many homes--yours, I'm sure--where the free-born American woman has encouragement and the opportunity to expand."

"Oh, yes. My husband lets me do as I wish. I made him promise before I accepted him that he wouldn't thwart me; that he'd let me live my own life."

Selma was so appreciative of Mrs. Earle, and so energetic and suggestive in regard to the scope of the Inst.i.tute, that she was presently chosen a member of the council, which was the body charged with the supervision of the fortnightly entertainments. It occurred to her as a brilliant conception to have Littleton address the club on "Art," and she broached the subject to him when he next returned to Benham and appeared before the church committee. He declared that he was too busy to prepare a suitable lecture, but he yielded finally to her plea that he owed it to himself to let the women of Benham hear his views and opinions.

"They are wives and they are mothers," said Selma sententiously. "It was a woman's vote, you remember, which elected you to build our church. You owe it to Art; don't you think so?"

A logical appeal to his conscience was never lost on Littleton. Besides he was glad to oblige Mrs. Babc.o.c.k, who seemed so earnest in her desire to improve the aesthetic taste of Benham. Accordingly, he yielded. The lecture was delivered a few weeks later and was a marked success, for Littleton's earnestness of theme and manner was relieved by a graceful, sympathetic delivery. Selma, whose social aplomb was increasing every day, glided about the rooms with a contented mien receiving felicitations and pa.s.sing chocolate. She enjoyed the distinction of being the G.o.d behind the curtain.

A few days later the knowledge that she herself was to become a mother was forced upon her attention, and was a little irksome. Of necessity her new interests would be interrupted. Though she did not question that she would perform maternal duties fitly and fully, they seemed to her less peculiarly adapted to her than concerns of the intellect and the spirit. However, the possession of a little daughter was more precious to her than she had expected, and the consciousness that the tiny doll which lay upon her breast, was flesh of her flesh and bone of her bone affected her agreeably and stirred her imagination. It should be reared, from the start, in the creed of soul independence and expansion, and she herself would find a new and sacred duty in catering to the needs of this budding intelligence. So she reflected as she lay in bed, but the outlook was a little marred by the thought that the baby was the living image of its father--broad-featured and burly--not altogether desirable cast of countenance for a girl. What a pity, when it might just as well have looked like her.

Babc.o.c.k, on his part, was transported by paternity. He was bubbling over with appreciation of the new baby, and fondly believed it to be a human wonder. He was solicitous on the score of its infantile ailments, and loaded it with gifts and toys beyond the scope of its enjoyment. He went about the house whistling more exuberantly than ever. There was no speck on his horizon; no fly in his pot of ointment. It was he who urged that the child should be christened promptly, though Dr. Glynn was not disposed to dwell on the clerical barbarism as to the destiny of unbaptized infants. Babc.o.c.k was cultivating a conservative method: He realized that there was no object in taking chances. Illogical as was the theory that a healthy dog which had bitten him should be killed at once, lest it subsequently go mad and he contract hydrophobia, he was too happy and complacent to run the risk of letting it live. So it was with regard to baby. But Selma chose the name. Babc.o.c.k preferred in this order another Selma, Sophia, after his mother, or a compliment to the wife of the President of the United States. But Selma, as the result of grave thought, selected Muriel Grace. Without knowing exactly why, she asked Mrs. Taylor to be G.o.dmother. The ceremony was solemn and inspiring to her. She knew from the gla.s.s in her room that she was looking very pretty. But she was weak and emotional. The baby behaved admirably, even when Lewis, trembling with pride, held it out to Mr. Glynn for baptism and held it so that the blood rushed to its head. "I baptize thee in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost." She was happy and the tears were in her eyes. The divine blessing was upon her and her house, and, after all, baby was a darling and her husband a kind, manly soul.

With the help of heaven she would prove herself their good angel.

When they returned home there was a whistle of old silver of light, graceful design, a present from Mrs. Taylor to Muriel. Her aunt, Mrs.

Farley, compared this to its disparagement with one already purchased by Lewis, on the gaudily embossed stem of which perched a squirrel with a nut in its mouth. But Selma shook her head. "Both of you are wrong," she said with authority. "This is a beauty."

"It doesn't look new to my eyes," protested Mrs. Parley.

"Of course it isn't new. I shouldn't wonder if she bought it while travelling abroad in Europe. It's artistic, and--and I shan't let baby destroy it."

Babc.o.c.k glanced from one gift to the other quizzically. Then by way of disposing of the subject he seized his daughter in his arms and dandling her toward the ceiling cried, "If it's artistic things we must have, this is the most artistic thing which I know of in the wide world.

Aren't you, little sugar-plum?"

Mrs. Farley, with motherly distrust of man, apprehensively followed with her eyes and arms the gyrations of rise and fall; but Selma, though she saw, pursued the current of her own thought which prompted her to examine her wedding-ring. She was thinking that, compared with Mrs.

Taylor's, it was a cart wheel--a clumsy, conspicuous band of metal, instead of a delicate hoop. She wondered if Lewis would object to exchange it for another.

With the return of her strength, Selma took up again eagerly the tenor of her former life, aiding and abetting Mrs. Earle in the development of the Inst.i.tute. The president was absorbed in enlarging its scope by the enrollment of more members, and the establishment of cla.s.ses in a variety of topics--such as literature, science, philosophy, current events, history, art, and political economy. She aimed to construct a club which should be social and educational in the broadest sense by mutual co-operation and energy. Selma, in her eagerness to make the most of the opportunities for culture offered, committed herself to two of the new topic cla.s.ses--"Italian and Grecian Art," and "The Governments of Civilization," and as a consequence found some difficulty in accommodating her baby's nursing hours to these engagements. It was indeed a relief to her when the doctor presently p.r.o.nounced the supply of her breast-milk inadequate. She was able to a.s.suage Lewis' regret that Muriel should be brought up by hand with the information that a large percentage of Benham and American mothers were similarly barren and that bottle babies were exceedingly healthy. She had gleaned the first fact from the physician, the second from Mrs. Earle, and her own conclusion on the subject was that a lack of milk was an indication of feminine evolution from the status of the brute creation, a sign of spiritual as opposed to animal quality. Selma found Mrs. Earle sympathetic on this point, and also practical in her suggestions as to the rearing of infants by artificial means, recommendations concerning which were contained in one of her series of papers ent.i.tled "Mother Lore."

The theory of the new cla.s.ses was co-operation. That is, the members successively, turn by turn, lectured on the topic, and all were expected to study in the interim so as to be able to ask questions and discuss the views of the lecturer. Concerning both Italian and Grecian Art and the Governments of Civilization, Selma knew that she had convictions in the abstract, but when she found herself face to face with a specific lecture on each subject, it occurred to her as wise to supplement her ideas by a little preparation. The nucleus of a public library had been recently established by Joel Flagg and placed at the disposal of Benham.

Here, by means of an encyclopaedia and two hand-books, Selma was able in three forenoons to compile a paper satisfactory to her self-esteem on the dynasties of Europe and their inferiority to the United States, but her other task was illumined for her by a happy incident, the promise of Littleton to lend her books. Indeed he seemed delightfully interested in both of her cla.s.ses, which was especially gratifying in view of the fact that Mrs. Taylor, who was a member of the Inst.i.tute, had combated the new programme on the plea that they were attempting too much and that it would encourage superficiality. But Littleton seemed appreciative of the value of the undertaking, and he made his promise good forthwith by forwarding to her a package of books on art, among them two volumes of Ruskin. Selma, who had read quotations from Ruskin on one or two occasions and believed herself an admirer of, and tolerably familiar with, his writings, was thrilled. She promptly immersed herself in "Stones of Venice" and "Seven Lamps of Architecture," sitting up late at night to finish them. When she had read these and the article in the encyclopaedia under the head of Art, she felt bursting with her subject and eager to air her knowledge before the cla.s.s. Her lecture was acknowledged to be the most stirring and thorough of the course.

Reports of its success came back to her from Littleton, who offered to a.s.sist his pupil further by practical demonstration of the eternal architectural fitness and unfitness of things--especially the latter--in walks through the streets of Benham. But six times in as many months, however. There was no suggestion of coquetry on either side in these excursions, yet each enjoyed them. Littleton's own work was beginning to a.s.sume definite form, and his visits to Benham became of necessity more frequent; flying trips, but he generally managed to obtain a few words with Selma. He continued to lend her books, and he invited her criticism on the slowly growing church edifice. The responsibility of critic was an absorbing sensation to her, but the stark glibness of tongue which stood her in good stead before the cla.s.ses of the Inst.i.tute failed her in his presence--the presence of real knowledge. She wished to praise, but to praise discriminatingly, with the cant of aesthetic appreciation, so that he should believe that she knew. As for the church itself, she was interested in it; it was fine, of course, but that was a secondary consideration compared with her emotions. His predilection in her favor, however, readily made him deaf in regard to her utterances. He scarcely heeded her halting, solemn, counterfeit transcendentalisms; or rather they pa.s.sed muster as subtle and genuine, so spell bound was he by the Delphic beauty of her criticising expression. It was enough for him to watch her as she stood with her head on one side and the worried archangel look transfiguring her profile. What she said was lost in his reverie as to what she was--what she represented in his contemplation.

As she looked upon his handiwork he was able to view it with different eyes, to discern its weaknesses and to gain fresh inspiration from her presence. He felt that it was growing on his hands and that he should be proud of it, and though, perhaps, he was conscious in his inner soul that she was more to him than another man's wife should be, he knew too, that no word or look of his had offended against the absent husband.

CHAPTER VI.

By the end of another six months Littleton's work was practically completed. Only the finishing touches to the interior decoration remained to be done. The members of Rev. Mr. Glynn's congregation, including Mrs. Hallett Taylor, were thoroughly satisfied with the appearance of the new church. It was attractive in its lines, yet it was simple and, consequently, in keeping with the resources of the treasury.

There was no large bill for extras to be audited, as possibly would have been the case had a hard-headed designer like Mr. Pierce been employed.

The committee felt itself ent.i.tled to the congratulations of the community. Nor was the community on the whole disposed to grumble, for home talent had been employed by the architect; under rigorous supervision, to be sure, so that poor material and slap-dash workmanship were out of the question. Still, payments had been prompt, and Benham was able to admire competent virtue. The church was a monument of suggestion in various ways, artistic and ethical, and it shone neatly with Babc.o.c.k varnish.

One morning Selma set forth by agreement with Littleton, in order to inspect some fresco work. Muriel Grace was ailing slightly, but as she would be home by mid-day, she bade the hired girl be watchful of baby, and kept her appointment. The child had grown dear to her, for Muriel was a charming little dot, and Selma had already begun to enjoy the maternal delight of human doll dressing, an extravagance in which she was lavishly encouraged by her husband. Babc.o.c.k was glad of any excuse to spend money on his daughter, who seemed to him, from day to day, a greater marvel of precocity--such a child as became Selma's beauty and cleverness and his own practical common-sense.

Selma was in a pensive frame of mind this morning. Two days before she had read a paper at the Inst.i.tute on "Motherhood," which had been enthusiastically received. Mrs. Earle had printed a flattering item concerning it in the _Benham Sentinel_. It was agreeable to her to be going to meet Littleton, for he was the most interesting masculine figure in her life. She was sure of Lewis. He was her husband and she knew herself to be the apple of his eye; but she knew exactly what he was going to say before he said it, and much of what he said grated on her. She was almost equally sure of Littleton; that is of his admiration. His companionship was a constant pleasure to her. As a married woman, and as a Christian and American woman, she desired no more than this. But on the other hand, she would fain have this admiring companionship continue; and yet it could not. Littleton had told her the day before that he was going back to New York and that it was doubtful if he would return. She would miss him. She would have the Inst.i.tute and Mrs. Earle still, but her life would be less full.

Littleton was waiting for her at the church entrance. She followed him down the nave to the chancel where she listened dreamily to his presentation of the merits of the new decoration. He seemed inclined to talk, and from this presently branched off to describe with enthusiasm the plates of a French book on interior architecture, which he had recently bought as a long-resisted but triumphant piece of extravagance.

Mechanically, they turned from the chancel and slowly made the round of the aisles. A short silence succeeded his professional ardor. His current of thought, in its reversion to home matters, had reminded him afresh of what was perpetually this morning uppermost in his consciousness--his coming departure.

"Now," he said, abruptly, "is the most favorable opportunity I shall have, Mrs. Babc.o.c.k, to tell you how much I am your debtor. I shan't despair of our meeting again, for the world is small, and good friends are sure to meet sooner or later. But the past is secure to me at any rate. If this church is in some measure what I have dreamed and wished it to be, if my work with all its faults is a satisfaction to myself, I wish you to know how much you have contributed to make it what it is."

The words were as a melody in Selma's ears, and she listened greedily.

Littleton paused, as one seriously moved will pause before giving the details of an important announcement. She, thinking he had finished, interjected with a touch of modesty, "I'm so glad. But my suggestions and criticisms have not been what I meant them to be. It was all new to me, you know."

"Oh, yes. It hasn't been so much what you have said in words which has helped me, though that has been always intelligent and uplifting. I did not look for technical knowledge. You do not possess that, of course.

There are women in New York who would be able to confuse you with their familiarity with these things. And yet it is by way of contrast with those very women--fine women, too, in their way--that you have been my good angel. There is no harm in saying that. I should be an ingrate, surely, if I would not let you know that your sane, simple outlook upon life, your independent vision, has kept my brain clear and my soul free.

I am a better artist and a better man for the experience. Good-by, and may all happiness attend you. If once in a while you should find time to write to a struggling architect named Littleton, he will be charmed to do your bidding--to send you books and to place his professional knowledge at your service. Good-by."

He held out his hand with frank effusion. He was obviously happy at having given utterance to his sense of obligation. Selma was tingling from head to foot and a womanly blush was on her cheek, though the serious seraph spoke in her words and eyes. She felt moved to a wave of unreserved speech.

"What you have said is very interesting to me. I wish to tell you how much I, too, have enjoyed our friendship. The first time we met I felt sure we should be sympathetic, and we have been, haven't we? One of the fine things about friendships between men and women in this country is that they can really get to know each other without--er--harm to either.

Isn't it? It's such a pleasure to know people really, and I feel as if I had known you, as if we had known each other really. I've never known any man exactly in that way, and I have always wanted to. Except, of course, my husband. And he's extremely different--that is, his tastes are not like yours. It's a happiness to me to feel that I have been of a.s.sistance to you in your work, and you have been equally helpful to me in mine. As you say, I have never had the opportunity to learn the technical parts of art, and your books have instructed me as to that. I have never been in New York, but I understand what you meant about your friends, those other women. I suppose society people must be constantly diverted from serious work--from the intellectual and spiritual life. Oh yes, we ought to write. Our friendship mustn't languish. We must let each other know what we are thinking and doing. Good-by."

As Selma walked along the street her heart was in her mouth. She felt pity for herself. To just the right person she would have confessed the discovery that she had made a mistake and tied herself for life to the wrong man. It was not so much that she fancied Littleton which distressed her, for, indeed, she was but mildly conscious of infatuation. What disturbed her was the contrast between him and Babc.o.c.k, which definite separation now forced upon her attention. An indefinable impression that Littleton might think less of her if she were to state this soul truth had restrained her at the last moment from disclosing the secret. Not for an instant did she entertain the idea of being false to Lewis. Her confession would have been but a dissertation on the inexorable irony of fate, calling only for sympathy, and in no way derogating from her dignity and self-respect as a wife. Still, she had restrained herself, and stopped just short of the confidence. He was gone, and she would probably not see him again for years. That was endurable. Indeed, a recognition of the contrary would not have seemed to her consistent with wifely virtue. What brought the tears to her eyes was the vision of continued wedlock, until death intervened, with a husband who could not understand. Could she bear this? Must she endure it? There was but one answer: She must. At the thought she bit her lip with the intensity and sternness of a martyr. She would be faithful to her marriage vows, but she would not let Lewis's low aims interfere with the free development of her own life.

It was after noon when she reached home. She was met at the door by the hired girl with the worried e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n that baby was choking. The doctor was hastily summoned. He at once p.r.o.nounced that Muriel Grace had membranous croup, and was desperately ill. Remedies of various sorts were tried, and a consulting physician called, but when Babc.o.c.k returned from his office her condition was evidently hopeless. The child died in the early night. Selma was relieved to hear the doctor tell her husband that it was a malignant case from the first, and that nothing could have averted the result. In response to questions from Lewis, however, she was obliged to admit that she had not been at home when the acute symptoms appeared. This afforded Babc.o.c.k an outlet for his suffering. He spoke to her roughly for the first time in his life, bitterly suggesting neglect on her part.

"You knew she wasn't all right this morning, yet you had to go fiddle-faddling with that architect instead of staying at home where you belonged. And now she's dead. My little girl, my little girl!" And the big man burst out sobbing.

Selma grew deadly pale. No one had ever spoken to her like that before in her life. To the horror of her grief was added the consciousness that she was being unjustly dealt with. Lewis had heard the doctor's statement, and yet he dared address her in such terms. As if the loss of the child did not fall equally on her.

"If it were to be done over again, I should do just the same," she answered, with righteous quietness. "To all appearances she had nothing but a little cold. You have no right to lay the blame on me, her mother." At the last word she looked ready to cry, too.

Babc.o.c.k regarded her like a miserable tame bull. "I didn't mean to," he blubbered. "She's taken away from me, and I'm so wretched that I don't know what I'm saying. I'm sorry, Selma."