 CHAPTER IV The Daughter-in-Law I have never identified myself with my husband's family, and Charles Edward, who is the best sort ever, doesn't expect me to. Of course I want to be decent to them, though I know they talk about me. But you can't make oil and water mix, and I don't see the use of pretending that you can. I know they never can understand how Charles Edward married me, and they never can get used to my being such a different type from theirs. The Talberts are all blue-eyed, fair-haired and rosy, and I'm dark, thin and pale, and Grandmother Evertz always thinks I can't be well, and wants me to take the medicine she takes. But really I see very little of the family, except Alice and Billy, who don't count. Billy comes in at any time he feels like it to get a book and something to eat, though the others don't know it, and Alice has fits of stopping in every afternoon on her way from school, and then perhaps doesn't come near me for weeks. Alice is terribly discontented at home, and I think it's a very good thing that she is. Anything is better than sinking to that dreadful dead level. She doesn't quite know whether to take up the artistic life or to be a society queen, and she feels that nobody understands her at home. It makes her nearly wild when Aunt Elizabeth comes back from one of her grand visits and acts as if she wasn't anything. She came over right after the row, of course, and told me all about it. She had on her new white china silk and her hat with the feathers. She said she was so excited about everything that she couldn't stop to think about what she put on. She looked terribly dressed up, but she had come all through the village with her waist unfastened in the middle of the back. She said she couldn't reach the hooks. Aunt Elizabeth had gone away that morning for overnight so nobody could get at her to find out about her actions with Mr. Goward. And the telegram she had sent him, until the next day, and everyone was nearly crazy. They talked about it for two hours before Maria went home. Then Peggy had locked herself in her room and her mother had gone out, and her grandmother was sitting now on the piazza rocking and sighing with her eyes shut. Alice said each person had got dreadfully worked up, not only about Aunt Elizabeth, but about all the ways every other member of the family had hurt that person at some time. Mary said that Peggy never would take her advice, and Peggy returned that Maria had hurt her more than anyone by her attitude toward Harry Goward, that she was so suspicious of him that it had made him act unnaturally from the first, that nothing had hurt her so much since the time Maria took away Peggy's doll on purpose when she was a little girl, the doll she used to sleep with, and burned it. It was something she had never got over. Then her mother, who hadn't been talking very much, said that Peggy didn't realize the depth of Maria's affections for her, and what a good sister she had been, and how she had taken care of Peggy the winter Peggy was ill. And then she couldn't help saying that, bad as was this affair about Harry Goward, it wasn't like the anxiety one felt about a sick child. There were times when she felt that she could bear anything if Charles Edward's health were only properly looked after. Of course Lorraine was young and inexperienced, but if she would only use her influence with him. Alice broke off suddenly, and said she had to go. It was just as Dr. Denby's little auto was coming down the street. She dashed out of the door and bowed to him from the crossing, quite like a young lady for all her short skirts. She really did look fetching. Dr. Denby smiled at her, but not the way he used to smile at Peggy. I really thought he cared for Peggy once, though he's so much older that nobody else seemed to dream of such a thing. Of course, after Alice went I just sat there in the chair all humped up, thinking of her last words. The family are always harping on Lorraine's influence. If they wanted their dear Charles Edward made different from the way he is, why on earth didn't they do it themselves when they had the chance? That's what I want to know. I know they mean to be nice to me, but they take it for granted that every habit Charles Edward has or hasn't, and everything he does or doesn't, is because I didn't do something that I ought to have done, or condone something that I ought not. They seem to think that a man is made of soft kindergarten clay, and all a wife has to do is sit down and mold him as she pleases. Well, some men may be like that, but Peter isn't. The family never really have forgiven me for calling their darling Charles Edward Peter. I perfectly loathe that long-winded Walter Scotty name, and I don't care how many grandfathers it's descended from. I'm sorry, of course, if it hurts their feelings, but as long as I don't object to their calling him what they like, I don't see why they mind. And as for my managing Peter, they know perfectly well that though he's a darling, he's just muleishly obstinate. He's had his own way ever since he was born. The whole family simply adore him. His mother has always waited on him hand and foot, though she's sensible enough with the other children. If he looks sulky, she's perfectly miserable. I am really very fond of my mother-in-law, that is, I'm fond of her in spots. There are times when she understands how I feel about Peter better than anyone else, like that dreadful spring when he had pneumonia and I was nearly wild. I know she is dreadfully unselfish and kind, but she will think—they all do—that they know what Peter needs better than I do, and whenever they see me alone it's to hint that I ought to keep him from smoking too much and being extravagant, and that I should make him wear his overcoat and go to bed early and take medicine when he has a cold. And through everything else they hark back to that everlasting. If you'd only exert your influence, Lorraine, dear, to make Charles Edward take more interest in the business, his father thinks so much of that. If I were to tell them that Charles Edward perfectly detests the business and will never be interested in it and never make anything out of it, they'd all go straight off the handle. Yet they all know it just as well as I do. That's the trouble. You simply can't tell them the truth about anything. They don't want to hear it. I never talk at all any more when I go over to the big house, for I can't seem to without horrifying somebody. I thought I should die when I first came here. It was so different from the way it is at home, where you can say or do anything you please without caring what anybody thinks. Dad has always believed in not restricting individuality and that girls have just as much right to live their own lives as boys, which is a fortunate thing, for counting moms either are four of us. We never had any system about anything at home, thank goodness, we just had atmosphere. Dad was an artist, you know, and he does paint such lovely pictures, but he gave it up as a profession when we were little and went into business because he said he couldn't let his family starve, and we all think it was so perfectly noble of him. I couldn't give up being an artist for anybody no matter who starved, and Peter feels that way too. Of course we both realize that we're not living here in this whole, recently existing, and nothing matters very much until we get out of it. In six months when Charles Edward is twenty-five there's a little money coming to him, three thousand dollars, and then we're going to Paris to live our own lives, but nobody knows anything about that. One day I said something without thinking to my mother-in-law about that money. I'd forgotten what it was, but she looked so horrified and actually gasped. You wouldn't think of Charles Edward's using his principle Lorraine. And I said, why not, it's his own principle. Well, I just made up my mind afterward that I'd never open my mouth again while I live here about anything I was interested in, even about Peter. His father might have let him go to Paris that year before we met, when he was in New York at the Art League, just as well as not. But the family all consulted about it, Peter says, and concluded it wasn't necessary. That is the blight that is always put on everything we want to do, it isn't necessary. Oh, how Alice hates that word. She says she supposes it's never necessary to be happy. Well, Peter heard that when the Paris scheme came up, he'd written home that he couldn't work without the art atmosphere. Mother Everett said, Why, I'm sure he has the Metropolitan Museum to go to, and there's Wanamaker's Picture Gallery, too. Has he been to Wanamaker's? I thought I should throw a fit when Peter told me that. I know, of course, that the family pity Peter for living in a house that's all sixes and sevens, and for not having everything the way he has been used to having it. And I know they think I keep him from going to see them all at home when the truth is, although as usual I can't say it. Sometimes I absolutely have to hound him to go there, though of course he's awfully fond of them all and his mother especially. But he gets dreadfully lazy and says they're his own people anyway and he can do as he pleases about it. It's their own fault because they've always spoiled him, and if they only knew how he hates just that way of living he's always been used to, with its little petty cast iron rules and regulations and the stupid family meals where everybody is expected to be on time to the minute. My father-in-law pulls out his chair at the dinner table exactly as the clock is striking one, and if any member of the family is a fraction late, all the rest are solemn and strained and nervous until the culprit arrives. Peter says, the way he used to suffer, he was never on time. The menu for each day of the week is as fixed as fate no matter what the season of the year. Hot roast beef Sunday, cold roast beef Monday, beef steak Tuesday, roast mutton Wednesday, mutton pot pie Thursday, corn beef Friday, and beef steak again on Saturday. My father-in-law never eats fish or poultry, so they only have either if there is a steak company. There's one sacred apple pudding that's made every Wednesday for 19 years, and if you can imagine anything more positively dreadful than that, I can't. Every time, as soon as we sit down to the table, grandmother Everett's always begins officially. Well, Charles Edward, my dear boy, we don't have you here very often nowadays. I said to your mother yesterday that it was two whole weeks since you had been to see her. What have you been doing with yourself lately? And when he says, as he always does, nothing, grandmother, I know she's disappointed, and then she starts in and tells what she has been doing, and Maria, Maria always manages to be there when we are, Maria tells what she has been doing with little side digs at me because I haven't been pickling or preserving or cleaning. Once, when I first went there, Maria asked me at dinner what days I had for cleaning, and I said as innocently as possible that I hadn't any, that I perfectly loathed cleaning and that we never cleaned at home. Of course it wasn't true, but we never talk about it anyway. Peter said that he nearly shrieked with joy to hear me come out like that. It was almost as bad as the time I wore that sweet little yellow empire gown. It's a deer, and lime and wild simply raved over it when he painted me in it. Not that he can really paint, but he has a touch with everything he does. I noticed that everybody seemed solemn and queer, and I never dreamed that I was the cause until my mother-in-law came to me afterward, blushing, and told me that Mr. Talbert never allowed any of the family to wear mother-hubbered's around the house. Mother-hubbered's I could have moaned. Well, when I go round there now I never care what I have on, and I never pretend to talk at meals. I just sit and try and make my mind blank until it's over. You have to make your mind a blank if you don't want to be driven raving crazy by that dining-room. It has a hideous black walnut sideboard, an oil painting of pale, bloated fruit on one side, and pale, bloated fish on the other, and a strip of black-and-white marbled oil cloth below. I feel sometimes as if I could hardly live until my father-in-law rises from his chair and kisses his wife goodbye before going off to the factory. She always blushes so prettily when he kisses her, as if it were for the first time. Then everybody looks pained when Peter and I just nod at each other as he goes out. I cannot be affectionate to him before them. And then, thank heaven, the rest of us escape from the dining-room. How Peggy, who has been away from home and seen and done things, can stand it there now as it is, is a continual wonder to me. Peggy is a dear little thing. Peter has always been awfully fond of her, but she doesn't seem to have an idea in her head beyond her clothes and hairy-gowered, though she'll have to have something more to her if she's going to keep him. The moment I saw that boy, of course I knew that he had the artistic temperament I've seen so much of it. He's the kind that's always awfully gloomy until eleven o'clock in the morning and has to make love intensely to somebody every evening. What it must have been to that boy, after indulging in a romantic dream with poor little earnest, downright Peggy, to wake up and find the engagement taken seriously not only by her, but by all her relatives. Find himself being welcomed into the family, introduced to them all as a future member. What it must have been to him, I can't imagine. Meggy has no more temperament than a cow. The combination of Maria and Tom and Grandmother Everts and Billy with his face washed clean and Alice with three enormous bows on her hair, all waiting to welcome him. Standing by the pictorial lamp on the brown worsted mat on the centre-table made me fairly howl when I sat at home and thought of it, and that was before I'd seen Harry. The family were of course quite hurt that Peter and I wouldn't assist at the celebration. I cannot see why people will want you to do things when they know you don't care to. The next evening, however, we had to go when Peggy herself came around and asked us. Of course Mr. Goward was with Peggy most of the time. They certainly looked charming together, but rather conscious and stiff. Every member of the family was watching his every motion. Oh, I've been there, I know what it is. Some of the neighbours were there, too. Peter hardly ever plays on the big, old-fashioned grand piano, but that night he was so bored he had to. The family always think they're very musical. You can know the style when I tell you that after Peter has been rambling through bits of Shuman and Richard's Strauss, they always ask him if he won't play something. Well, after Peggy had gone into the other room with her mother to do the polite to Mrs. Temple, Mr. Goward gravitated over to where I sat in the big bay window behind the piano. He had that, be good to me, won't you, heir that I know so well. Then we got to talking and listening in between wiles. He knows lots of girls in the art league, till Peter began playing that heartbreaking im-abst from the Franz songs, and then he said, You're going to be my sister, aren't you? Won't you let me hold your hand while your husband's playing that it makes me feel so lonely? I answered promptly, certainly, hold both hands if you like. And we laughed, and Peter turned around for a moment and smiled too. Oh, it was nice to meet somebody of one's own kind. You get so sick of having everything taken seriously. That night, after we left the house, Harry caught up with us at the corner on his way to the hotel and went home with us. And we all talked until three o'clock in the morning. We simply ate all over the house, goodness how hungry we were. At Peter's home it's an unheard of thing to eat anything after half past six, almost a crime unless it's a wedding or a state reception. We began now with coffee in the dining room, and jam and cheese, and ended by gradual stages at hot lobster in the chafing dish in the studio. The darkie was out all night, as usual. Then Harry and Peter concluded that it was too late to go to bed at all. It was really daylight, so they took bath towels and went down to the river and had a swim, and Harry slipped back to the house at six o'clock. He said we'd repeat it all the next night, but of course we didn't. He's the kind that as soon as he's promised to do a thing feels at once that he doesn't really want to do it. The next day, Peter's aunt Elizabeth came on the scene, and of course we stayed away as much as we could. She loves Peter, they all do. But she hasn't any use for me and shows it. She thinks I'm perfectly dumb and stupid. I simply don't exist. And I've never tried to undeceive her. It's too much trouble. She always wants to tell people how to do their hair and put on their clothes. Miss Elizabeth Talbert is a howling swell. She only just endures it here. I've heard lots of things about her from Bell Pickering who knows them in Rose. Lily Talbert they call her there. She thinks she's fond of art, but she really doesn't know the first thing about it. She doesn't like anything that isn't expensive and elegant and à la mode. The only time she ever came to see me she actually picked her way around the house when I was showing it to her. There's no other word to use. Just because there was a glass of jelly on the sofa and the painting things were all over the studio with Peter's clothes. I perfectly hated her that day. Yet I do love to look at her. And I can see how she might be terribly nice if you were anyone she thought worth caring for. There have been times when I've seen a look on her face like the clear ethereal light beyond the sunset that just pulled at me. She's very fond of Peggy. I know she would never do anything to injure Peggy. Poor little Peggy. When I think of this affair about Harry Gower and I don't believe she ever felt sure of him. That is why she's so worked up over this matter now. I know there was something that I felt from the first through all her excitement. Something that wasn't quite happy in her happiness. I feel atmosphere at once. I just can't help it. And when I get feeling other people's atmospheres too much I lose my own and then I can't paint. I began so well the other day with a picture of that Armenian peddler and now since Alice left I can't do a thing with it. His bare yellow knees look just like ugly grapefruit. I wish Sally was in. She can't cook but she can do a song and dance that's worth its weight in gold when you're down in the mouth. Just then I looked out the window and saw my mother-in-law coming in. For a minute I was frightened. I'd never seen her look like that before. So white and almost old. She seemed hardly able to walk and I ran to the door and helped her in and put her in a chair and her feet on a footstool and got her my dear little Venetian bottle of smelling salts with the long silver chain. It's so beautiful it makes you feel better just to look at it. I whisked Peter's shoes out into the hall and when I sat down by her she put her hand out to me and said, Dear child, and I got all throaty the way I do when anyone speaks to me like that. For, oh, I have been lonesome for Dad and Momzie and my own dear home, though no one ever seems to imagine it. And I said, Oh, can't I do something for you, Madonna? I usually just call her you, but once in a great while when there's nobody else around I call her Madonna. And I know she likes it, even if she does think it a little Romish or sacrilegious or something queer. But she said she didn't want anything, only to rest a few minutes, and that there was something she wanted me to tell Peter. She couldn't come in the evening to see him without everyone wanting to know why she came. There was some terrible trouble about Peggy's engagement. She flushed up and hesitated. And when I broke in to say, You needn't bother to explain, I know all about the whole thing. She didn't seem at all surprised or ask how I knew. She only seemed relieved to find that she could go right on. I never can be demonstrative to her before people, but I just put my arms around her now, and she said, It's a great comfort to be able to come to you, Lorraine, and speak out. At home your dear grandmother considers me so much, she only thinks of everything as it affects me. But it makes it so that I can't always show what I feel, for if I do, she gets ill. All I can think of is Peggy. If you knew what it was to me just now when my little Peggy went away from me and locked herself in her room, Peggy, who all her life has come to me for comfort. She stopped for a minute and I patted her. It was so unlike my mother-in-law to speak in this way. She's usually so self-contained that it made me sort of awestruck. After a moment she went on in a different voice. They all want me to tell Cyrus, your father, that Aunt Elizabeth has been trying to take Mr. Goward's affections away from Peggy. I'm afraid it's just what she has been doing, though it seems incredible that she should have any attraction for a young man. I was glad Elizabeth had gone away overnight, for Maria is in such a state I don't know what might have happened. And don't you want to tell Father, I gulped, but I knew I must say it. Why not, Madonna? She shook her head with that look that makes you feel, sometimes, that she isn't just the gentle and placid person that she appears to be. I seemed to catch a glimpse of something very clear and strong. If I could paint her with an expression like that I'd make my fortune. No, Lorraine, if it was about anybody but your Aunt Elizabeth I would. But I can't speak against her. It's her home as well as mine. I've always realized that. I made up my mind when I married that I would never come between brother and sister, and I never have. Aunt Elizabeth doesn't know how many times I have smooth matters over for her. How many times Cyrus has been provoked because he thought she didn't show enough consideration for me. I've always loved Aunt Elizabeth and I believe she loved us. But when I saw my Peggy today, Lorraine, I couldn't go and tell your father about Aunt Elizabeth while I feel as I do now. I couldn't be just. If I made him angry with her. She stopped and I didn't need to have her go on. My father-in-law is one of those big, kind, sensible, good-natured men, who when they do get angry go clear off the handle and are so absolutely furious and unreasonable you can't do anything with them. He got that way at Peter once, but it makes me so furious myself when I think of it that I never do. And Lorraine, Madonna went on quite simply. Bringing all this home to Aunt Elizabeth and making her pay up for it really has nothing to do with Peggy's happiness. It is my child's happiness that I want, Lorraine. There may be a misunderstanding of some kind. Misunderstandings are very cruel things sometimes, Lorraine. I cannot believe that boy doesn't care for her why he loved her dearly. It seems to me far the best and most dignified thing to just write to Mr. Goward himself and find out the truth. I think so too, said I. Oh, Madonna, you're a Jim Dandy. And so, she went on, I want you to ask Charles Edward to write tonight. I'll leave the address with you. As Peggy's brother it will be more suitable for him to attend to the matter. Charles Edward, I simply gasped. The idea of Peter's writing to Harry Goward to ask him the state of his affections. If Peter's mother couldn't realize how perfectly impossible it was for even me to make Peter do a thing that—well, I was knocked silly. Dear Madonna, is the survival of a period when a woman always expected some man to face any crisis for her. All I could do was to say resignedly. I'll give him the address. And when she got up I went to the gate with her. She was as dear as she could be. I just loved her until she happened to say— When I came in I thought you might be lying down, for I looked up and saw the shades were pulled down in your room as they are now. Oh, I said, I don't suppose anybody has been back in the room since we got up. And I was downright scared she looked at me so strangely and began to tremble all over. What is the matter, I cried, do come into the house again. But she only grasped my arm and said tragically, Lorraine, it isn't possible that you haven't made your bed at four o'clock in the afternoon. And I answered, Oh, I always make it up before I sleep in it. And then I knew that I'd said just the wrong thing. What difference it can make to anybody what time you make your own bed, I can't see. She tried to make me promise I'd always make it up before ten o'clock in the morning. Why, I wouldn't even promise to always feel fond of Peter at ten o'clock in the morning. I never have anything to do with the family without always feeling on edge afterward. Why, when she was so sweet and strong about Peggy and Aunt Elizabeth and all the rest, why should she get upset about such trifle? I stood there by the gate just glowering as she went off. I knew she thought I was going to perdition. I was sick of the engagement. What business was it of Peter's and mine anyhow? It had nothing to do with us really. Then I thought of the time Peter and I quarreled and how dear Lyman Wilde was about it, and how he brought Peter back to me. Just to say the name of Lyman Wilde always makes me feel better. I adore him and always shall, and Peter knows it. If I could only go back to the settlement and hear him say, little girl, in that coaxing voice of his. He is one of those men who are always working so hard for other people that you forget he hasn't anything for himself. Thinking of him made me quite chipper again, and I went in and got his picture, and stuck it up in the mantelpiece and put flowers in front of it. When Peter came in I told him about everything, and of course he refused to write to Harry Goward as I knew he would. He said it was all rot anyway, and that Harry was a nice boy but not worth making such a fuss over. He didn't know that he was particularly stuck on Peggy's marrying Harry Goward anyway, but there was no use in anyone's interfering. Peggy was the person to write. Finally, he said he'd telephone to Harry the next day to come out and stay at our house over Sunday, and then he and Peggy could have a chance to settle it. But Peter didn't telephone. He was late at the works the next day, though not nearly so late as he often is. But Mr. Talbert has a perfect fad about everyone's getting there on time. It's one of the things there's always been a tug about between him and Peter. I should think he'd have realized long ago that Peter never will be on time, and just make up his mind to it, but he won't. Well, Peter came back again to the house a little after nine, perfectly white. He said he'd never enter the factory again. His father was in the towering rage when Peter went in, and he spoke to Peter so that everyone could hear him. And then—oh, it was a dreadful time. Alice told me afterward that Maria had found her father in the garden before breakfast. She insinuated in her way all kinds of dreadful things about Harry Goward and Aunt Elizabeth, and there was a scene at the breakfast-table, and Peggy was taken so ill that they had to send for Dr. Denby. I don't know what will happen when Aunt Elizabeth comes home. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 of The Whole Family This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Heather Lawrence The Whole Family by Elizabeth Jordan Chapter 5 The Schoolgirl Except for Billy, who is a boy, and does not count. I am the youngest person in our family. And when I tell you that there are eleven of us, well, you can dimly imagine the kind of a time I have. Two or three days ago I heard Grandma Everett say something to the minister about the downtrodden and oppression of foreign lands, and after he had gone I asked her what they were. For a wonder she told me. Usually when Billy and I ask questions you would think the whole family had been struck dumb, but this time she answered, and I remember every word. For if ever anything sounded like a description of Billy and me, it was what Grandma Everett said that day. I told her so, too, but, of course, she only looked at me over her spectacles and didn't understand what I meant. Nobody ever does except Billy and Aunt Elizabeth, and they're not much comfort. Billy is always so busy getting into trouble and having me get him out of it and feeling sorry for himself that he hasn't time to sympathize with me. Besides, as I've said before, he's only a boy, and you know what boys are and how they lack the delicate feelings girls have and how their minds never work when you want them to. As for Aunt Elizabeth, she is lovely sometimes, and the way she remembers things that happened when she was young is simply wonderful. She knows how girls feel, too, and how they suffer when they are like Dr. Denbig says I am, very nervous and sensitive and high strong. But she admitted to me today that she had never before really made up her mind whether I am the sweet, un-sophisticated child she calls me, or what Tom Price says I am, the Eastridge animated and undaunted daily bugle and clarion call. He calls me that because I know so much about what is going on. And he says if Mr. Temple could get me on his paper as a regular contributor, there wouldn't be a domestic hearthstone left in Eastbridge. He says the things I drop will break every last one of them anyhow, beginning with the one at home. That's the way he talks, and though I don't always know exactly what he means, I can tell by his expression that it is not very complementary. Aunt Elizabeth is different from the others, and she and I have inspiring conversations sometimes. Serious ones, you know, about life and responsibility and careers. And then at other times, just when I'm revealing my young heart to her the way girls do in books, she gets absent-minded or laughs at me, or stares and says, you extraordinary infant, and changes the subject. At first, it used to hurt me dreadfully, but now I'm beginning to think she does it when she can't answer my questions. I've asked her lots and lots of things that have made her sit up and gasped, I can tell you, and I have more already as soon as I get the chance. There is another thing I will mention while I think of it. Grandma Everts is always talking about rules of life, but the only rule of life I am perfectly sure I have is to always mention things when I think of them. Even that doesn't please a family, though, because sometimes I mention things they thought I didn't know, and then they are annoyed and cross instead of learning a lesson by it and realizing how silly it is to try to keep secrets from me. If they'd tell me and put me on my honor, I could keep their old secrets as well as anybody. I've kept billies for years and years, but when they all stop talking the minute I come into a room and when Mama and Peggy go around with red eyes and won't say why, you'd better believe I don't like it. It fills me with the intelligent, discontent Tom is always talking about. Then I don't rest until I know what there is to know, and usually when I get through I know more than anybody else does because I've got all the different sides. Maria's and Tom's and Lorraine's and Charles Edwards and Mama's and Papa's and Grandma's and Peggy's and Antelizabeth's. It isn't that they intend to tell me things, either. They all try not to. Every one of them keeps her own secrets beautifully, but she drops things about the others. Then all I have to do is put them together like a patchwork quilt. You didn't think it's easy, though. For the very minute I get near any of the family, they waste most of the time we're together by trying to improve me. You see, they are also dreadfully old that they have had time to find out their faults and youthful errors, and every single one of them thinks she sees all her faults in me, and that she must help me to conquer them error it is too late. Antelizabeth says they mean it kindly and perhaps they do, but if you have ever had 10 men and women trying to improve you, you will know what my life is. Tom Price, who is married to my sister Maria, told Dr. Den Bigg once that every time a Talbert is unoccupied, he or she puts Alice or Billy or both on the family molding board and needs a while. I heard him say it, and it's true. All I can say is that if they keep on needing and molding me much longer, there won't be anything left but a kind of a pulpy mass. I can see what they have done to Billy already. He's getting pulpier every day, and I don't believe his brain would ever work if I didn't keep stirring it up. However, the thing I want to say while I think of it is this. It is a question, and I will ask it here, because there is no use of asking it at home. Why is it that grown-up men and women never have anything really interesting to say to a girl 15 years old? Then, if you can answer that, I wish you would answer another. Why don't they ever listen or understand what a girl means when she talks to them? Billy and I have one rule now when we want to say something serious. We get right in front of them and fix them with a glittering eye the way the ancient mariner did, you know, and speak as slowly as we can and little bits of words. To show them it's very important. Then sometimes they pay attention and answer us, but usually they act as if we were babies gurgling and cunning little cribs, and the rude way they interrupt us often and go on talking about their own affairs. Well, I will not say more, for dear mama has taught me not to criticize my elders, and I never do, but I watch them pretty closely, just the same, and when I see them doing something that is not right, my brain works so hard it keeps me awake nights. If it's anything very dreadful, like Peggy's going and getting engaged, I point out the error, the way they're always pointing errors out to me. Of course, it doesn't do any good, but that isn't my fault. It's because they haven't got what my teacher calls receptive minds. I'm telling you all this before I tell you what has happened, so you'll be sorry for Billy and me. If you are sorry already, as well indeed you may be, you will be a great deal more sorry before I get through, for if ever any two persons were downtrodden and oppressed, and struggling in darkness, and feeling the chill waters of affliction, it's Billy and me tonight. All because we tried to help Peggy and Lorraine and and Elizabeth after they had got everything mixed up. I told them I was just trying to help, and Tom Price said right off that there was only one thing for Billy and me to do in future, whenever the philanthropic spirit began to stir in us, and that was to get on board the suburban trolley car, and go as far away from home as our nickels would take us, and not hurry back. So you see, he is not a bit grateful for the interesting things I told Maria. I will now tell what happened. I began the day Billy heard the station agent, at Whitman, read Aunt Elizabeth's telegram to Harry Goward. The telegram had a lot of silly letters and words in it, so Billy didn't know what it meant, and of course he didn't care. The careless child would have forgotten all about it if I hadn't happened to meet him at Lorraine's after he got back from Whitman. He is always going to Lorraine's for some of Sally's cookies. She makes perfectly delicious ones, round and fat and crumbly, with currents on the top. Billy had taken so many that his pockets bulged out on the sides, and his mouth was so full he only nodded when he saw me. So of course I stopped to tell him how vulgar that was and pig-ish, and to see if he had anything left for me. And he was so anxious to divert my mind that as soon as he could speak he began to talk about seeing Aunt Elizabeth over in Whitman. That interested me, so I got the whole thing out of him, and the very minute he had finished telling it, I made him go straight and tell Peggy. I told him to do it delicately and not yell it out. I thought I would cheer and comfort Peggy to know that someone was doing something, instead of standing around and looking solemn, but alas it did not, and Billy told me with his own lips that it was simply awful to see Peggy's face. Even he noticed it, so it must have been pretty bad. He said her eyes got so big it made him think of the time she used to imitate the wolf in red riding hood and scare us most to death when we were young. When Billy told me that, I saw that perhaps we shouldn't have told Peggy. So the next day I went over to Lorraine's again to ask her what she thought about it. I stopped at noon on my way home from school, and I didn't ring the bell because I never do. I walked right in as usual, falling over the books and teacups and magazines on the floor, and I found Lorraine sitting at the tea table with her head down among the little cakes and bits of toast left over from the afternoon before. She didn't look up, so I knew she hadn't heard me, and I saw her shoulders shake, and then I knew that she was crying. I had never seen Lorraine cry before, and I felt dreadfully, but I didn't know just what to do or what to say, and while I stood staring at her I noticed that there is a photograph on the table with a lot of faded flowers. The face of the photograph was up, and I saw that it was a picture of Mr. Wilde, the one that usually stands on the mantelpiece. Lorraine is always talking about him, and she has told me ever and ever so much about how nice and kind he was to her when she was studying art in New York. But of course I didn't know she cared enough for him to cry over his picture, and it gave me the queerest feeling to see her do it, kind of wabbly ones and more legs, and strange sinking ones in my stomach. You see, I had just finished reading Lady Hermoyne's terrible secret. A girl at school lent it to me, so when I saw Lorraine crying over a photograph and faded flowers, I knew it must mean that she had learned to love Mr. Wilde with a love that was her doom, or would be if she didn't hurry and get over it. Finally, I crept out of the house without saying a word to her or letting her know I was there, and I leaned on the gate to think it over and try to imagine what a girl in a book would do. In Lady Hermoyne, her sister discovered the truth and tried to save the rash woman from the sad consequences of her love, so I knew that was what I must do, but I didn't know how to begin. While I was standing there with my brain going round like one of Billy's paper pinwheels, someone stopped in front of me and said, Hello, Alice. In a sick kind of way, like a boy began to recite a piece at school. I looked up. It was Harry Goward. You'd better believe I was surprised, for of course, when he went away, nobody expected he would come back so soon, and after all the fuss and the red eyes and the mystery, I hoped he wouldn't come back at all. But here he was in three days, so I said very coldly, How do you do, Mr. Goward, and bowed in a distant way, and he took his hat off quickly and held it in his hand, and I waited for him to say something else. All he did for a minute was look over my head. Then he said in the same queer voice, Is Mrs. Peter in? I want to have a little talk with her, and he put his hand on the gate to open it. I suppose it was dreadfully rude, but I stayed just where I was and said very slowly in icy tones that he must kindly excuse my sister-in-law, as I was sure she wouldn't be able to receive him. Of course, I knew she wouldn't want him or anyone else to come in and see her cry, and besides, I never liked Harry Goward, and I never expect to. He looked very much surprised at first, and then his face got as red as a baby's does, when there's a pin in it somewhere, and he asked if she was ill. I said, No, she's not ill, and then I saw it and looked off down the street as I would I were alone. He began to speak very quickly, but stopped and bit his lip. Then he turned away and hesitated, and finally he came back and took a thick letter from his pocket and held it out to me. He was smiling now, and for a minute he really looked nice and sweet and friendly. Say, Alice, he said in the most coaxing way. Don't you go down on me, too. Do me a good turn. There's the deer. Take this letter home and deliver it, will you? And say I'm at the hotel waiting for an answer. Now you can see for yourself that this was thrilling. The whole family was watching every mail for a letter from Harry Goward, and here he was offering me one. I didn't show how excited I was. I just took the letter and turned it over so I couldn't see the address and slipped it into my pocket and said coldly that I would deliver it with pleasure. Harry Goward was looking quite cheerful again, but he said in a worried tone that he hoped I wouldn't forget, because it was very, very important. Then I dismissed him with a haughty bow, the way they do on the stage, and this time he put his hat on and really went. Of course, after that, I wanted to go straight home with a letter, but I knew it wouldn't do to leave Lorraine bearing her terrible burden without someone to comfort her. While I was trying to decide what to do, I saw Billy, a block away with Sydney Tracy, and I whistled to him to come. I beckoned with both hands at the same time to show it was important. I had a beautiful idea. In that very instant, I planned my course of action, as they say in books. I made up my mind that I would send the letter home by Billy, and that would give me time to run over to Maria's and get something to eat and ask Maria to go and comfort Lorraine. Maria and Lorraine don't like each other very much, but a new trouble might bring them closer, for Grandma Everett says it always does. Besides, Maria is dreadfully old, knows everything, and is the one the family always sends for when things happen. If they don't send, she comes anyhow and tells everybody what to do. So I pinned the letter in Billy's pocket, so he couldn't lose it, and they ordered him to go straight home with it. He said he would. He looked queer, and I thought I saw him drop something near a fence before he came to me, but I was so excited I didn't pay close attention. As soon as Billy started off, I went to Maria's. She was all alone, for Tom was lunching with someone at the hotel. When we were at the table, I told her about Lorraine, and if ever anyone was excited and really listened this time, it was Sister Maria. She pushed back her chair and spoke right out before she thought, I guess. Charles Edward's wife crying over another man's picture, she said. Well, I liked that, but I'm not surprised. I always said no good would come of that match. Then she stopped and made herself quiet down, but I could see how hard it was, and she added, so that was the matter with Charles Edward when I met him this morning, rushing along the street like a cyclone. I got dreadfully worried then and begged her to go to Lorraine at once, for I saw things were even more terrible than I had thought. But Maria said, certainly not. I must consult with Father and Mother first. This is something that affects us all. After I have seen them, I will go to Lorraine's. Then she told me not to worry about it and not to speak of it to anyone else. I didn't either, except to Billy and Aunt Elizabeth, and when I told Aunt Elizabeth the man's name, I thought she would go up in the air like one of Billy's skyrockets. But that part does not belong here, and I'm afraid if I stop to talk about it, I'll forget about Billy in the letter. After luncheon, Maria put her hat on and went straight to our house to see Mother, and I went back to school. When I got home, I asked the first thing if Billy had delivered the letter from Harry Gowerd, and for the next 15 minutes, you would have thought everyone in our home had gone crazy. That wretched boy had not delivered it at all. They had not even seen him, and they didn't know anything about the letter. After that, they let me get enough breath to tell just how I had met Harry and exactly what he had said and done. Mother rushed off to telephone to Father, and Aunt Elizabeth came downstairs with a wild, eager face, and Grandma Everts actually shook me when she found I didn't even know whom the letter was for. I hadn't looked, because I had been so excited. Finally, after everybody had talked at once for a while, Grandma Evans told me Mama had said Billy could go fishing that afternoon, because the weather was so hot, and she thought he looked pale and overworked. The idea of Billy Talbert being overworked. I could have told Mama something about that. Well, I saw through the whole thing then. Billy hadn't told me, for fear I would want to go along. So he had sneaked off with Sydney Tracy, and if he hadn't forgotten all about the letter, he had made of his mind it would do as well to deliver it when he came home. That's the way Billy's mind works. Like Tom Price's stopwatch, it goes up to a certain instant, and then it stops short. You'd better believe I was angry, and it didn't make it any easier for me to remember that while I was having this dreadful time at home, and being reproached by everybody, Billy and Sydney Tracy were sitting comfortably under the willows on the edge of the river, pulling little minnows out of the water. I knew exactly where they would be. I'd been there with Billy often enough. Just as I thought of that, I looked at poor Peggy, sitting in her wrapper in Papa's big easy chair, leaning against a pillow grandma Everett's had pushed behind her back, and trying to be calm. She looked so pale, and worn, and worried, and sick, that I made up my mind I'd follow those boys to the river and get that letter and bring it home to Peggy. For of course, I was sure it was for her. I wish you could have seen her face when I'd said I'd do it, and the way she jumped up from her chair and then blushed and sank back and tried to look as if it didn't matter, with her eye shining all the time, with excitement and hope. I got on my bicycle and rode off, and I made good time until I crossed the bridge. Then I had to walk along the river, pushing the bicycle, and I came to those two boys so quietly that they'd ever saw me until I was right behind them. They were fishing still, but they had both been swimming. I could tell that by their wet hair, and by the damp musty look of their clothes. When Billy saw me, he turned red, and began to make a great fuss over his line. He didn't say a word. He never does when he's surprised or ashamed. So he doesn't speak very often anyhow, but I broke the painful silence by saying a few words myself. I told Billy how dreadful he had made everybody feel, and how they were all blaming me, and I said I'd thank him for that letter to take home to his poor suffering sister. Billy put down his rod, and all the time I talked, he was going through his pockets, one after the other, and getting redder and redder. I was so busy talking that I didn't understand at first just what this meant. But when I stopped and held out my hand, and looked at him hard, I saw in his guilty face the terrible, terrible fear that he had lost that letter. And I was so frightened that my legs gave way under me, and I sat down on the grass in my fresh blue linen dress, just where they had dripped and made it wet. All this time, Sydney Tracy was going through his pockets too, and just as I was getting up again in a hurry, he took off his cap and emptied his pockets into it. I wish you could have seen with that cap held then, worms and sticky chewing gum, and tops and string and hooks and marbles, and two pieces of molasses candy all soft and messy, and a little bit of a turtle and a green toad and a slice of bread and butter, and a dirty, soaking handkerchief that he and Billy had used for a towel. There was something else there too, a dark, wet, pulpy, soggy looking thing with pieces of gum and molasses and other things sticking to it. Sydney took it out and held it towards me in a proud, light-hearted way. There's your letter all right, he said, and Billy gave a whoop of joy and called out, Goodbye Alice, is a hint for me to hurry home. I was so anxious to get the letter that I almost took it, but I stopped in time. I hadn't any gloves on, and it was just too dreadful. If you could have seen it, you would never have touched it in the world. I got near enough to look at it though, and then I saw that the address was so dirty and so covered with gum and bait and candy that all I could read was a capital M and a small S at the beginning and an ert at the end. The name between was hidden. I covered my eyes with my hand and gasped out to the boys that I wanted the things taken off it that didn't belong there. And when I looked again, Sydney had scraped off the worst of it and was scrubbing the envelope with this wet handkerchief to make it look cleaner. After that, you couldn't tell what any letter was, so I just groaned and snatched it from his hands and left those two boys in their disgusting dirt and degradation and went home. When I got back, Mama and Grandma Everts and Tom Price and Peggy and Anne Elizabeth were in the parlor, looking more excited than ever because Maria had been there telling the family about Lorraine. Then she had gone on to Lorraine's and Tom had dropped in to call for her and was waiting to hear about the letter. They were all watching door when I came in and Peggy and Anne Elizabeth started to get up but sat down again. I stood there hesitating because, of course, I didn't know who to give it to and Grandma Everts shot out, well Alice, well, well, as if she was blowing the words at me from a little pea shooter. Then I began to explain about the address but before I could say more than two or three words, Mama motioned to me and I gave the letter to her. You could have heard an automely fall in that room. Mama put on her glasses and puzzled over the smear on the envelope and Peggy drew a long breath and jumped up and walked over to Mama and held out her hand. Mama didn't hesitate a minute. Certainly it must be for you, my dear, she said and then she added in a very cold, positive way. For whom else could it possibly be intended? No one spoke but just as Peggy had put her finger under the flap to tear it open Anne Elizabeth got up and crossed the room to where Mama and Peggy stood. She spoke very softly and quietly but she looked queer and excited. Wait one moment, my dear, she said to Peggy. Very probably the letter is for you but it is just possible that it may be for someone else. Wouldn't it be safer, wiser, for me to open it? Then Peggy cried out, Oh Anne Elizabeth, how dreadful! How can you say such a thing? Mother had hesitated an instant when Anne Elizabeth spoke but now she drew Peggy's head down to her dear comfy shoulder and Peggy stayed right there and cried as hard as she could. With little gasps and moans as if she felt dreadfully nervous. Then for once in my life I saw my mother angry. She looked over Peggy's head and Anne Elizabeth and her face was so dreadful it made me shiver. Elizabeth, she said, and she brought her teeth right down hard on the word. This is the climax of your idiocy. Have you the audacity to claim here before me that this letter from my child's defiant husband is addressed to you? Anne Elizabeth looked very pale now but when she answered she spoke as quietly as before. If it is Ada, she said, it is against my wish and my command. But it may be. Then her voice changed as if she were really begging for something. Let me open it, she said. If it is for Peggy, I can tell by the first line or two. Even if he does not use the name. Surely it will do no harm if I glance at it. Mother looked even angrier than before. Well, she said, it could do no harm, you think, if you read a letter intended for Peggy. But you don't dare to risk letting Peggy read a letter addressed by Harry Gower to you. This is intolerable, Elizabeth Talbert. You have passed the limit of my endurance and of my husband's. She brought out the last words very slowly, looking Anne Elizabeth straight in the eyes and Anne Elizabeth looked back with her head held very high. She has a lovely way of using such expressions as, for the rest, stand as to that. And she did it now. As to that, she said, my brother must speak for himself. No one regrets more bitterly than I do this whole most unpleasant affair. I can only say that with all my heart I am trying to straighten it out. Grandma Everts sniffed us then so loudly that we all looked at her. And then, of course, Mama suddenly remembered that I was still there, regarding the scene with wide intelligent young eyes. And she nodded towards the door, meaning for me to go out. My, but I hated to. I picked up Grandma's ball of wool and drew the footstool close to her feet, and looked around to see if I couldn't show her some other delicate, gruelish attention, such as old lady's love, but there wasn't anything, especially as Grandma kept motioning for me to leave. So I walked towards the door very slowly. And before I got there, I heard Tom Price say, oh come now, we're making a lot of fuss about nothing. There's a very simple way out of all this. Alice says Goward's still at the hotel. I'll just run down there and explain, and ask him to whom the letter belongs. Then I was at the door, and I had to open it and go out. The voices went on inside for a few minutes, but soon I saw Tom come out, and I went to him and slipped my arm inside of his and walked with him across the lawn and out to the sidewalk. I don't very often like the things Tom says, but I thought it was clever of him to think of going to ask Harry Goward about the letter, and I told him so, to encourage him. He thanked me very politely, and then he stopped and braced his back against the lamppost on the corner, and fixed me with a stern gaze, as writers say. Look here, Clary, he said. Clary is short, he says, for daily bugle and clarion call, which is too lengthy for frequent use. You're doing a lot of mischief today, with your rural delivery system for Goward, and your news extras about Lorraine. What's this cock-and-bull story you've got up about her anyway? I told him, just what I had seen. When I got through, he said there is nothing in it. That bit about her head, being among the toast and cake he went on, would be convincing circumstantial evidence of a tragedy if it had been any other woman's head, but it doesn't count with Lorraine. I mean, it doesn't represent the complete abandonment in grief, which would be implied if it happened in the case of anyone else. You must remember that when Lorraine wants to have a comfortable cry, she's got to choose between putting her head in the jam on the sofa, or among the wet paint and brushes in the easy chair, or among the crumbs in the tea table. As for that photograph, it probably fell off the mantelpiece to the tea table, instead of falling as usual into the coal-hod. To sum up, my dear Clary, if you had remembered the extreme emotionalism of your sister Lorraine's temperament and the, er, eccentricity of her housekeeping, you would not have permitted yourself to be so sadly misled. Not remembering as you've done a lot of mischief. All these things being so, no one will believe them. And tonight, when you are safely tucked into your little bed, if you hear the tramping of many feet on the asphalt walks, you may know what it will mean. It will mean that your father and mother and Elizabeth and Grandma Everts and Maria and Peggy will be dropping in on Lorraine, each alone and quite casually, of course, to find out what there really is in this terrible rumor, and some of them will believe to their dying day that there was something in it, while that may feel very unhappy. For I could see the under Tom's gay exterior and funny way of saying things that he really meant every word. Of course, I told him I had wanted to help Lorraine and Peggy because they were so wretched, and he made me promise on that spot that if I ever wanted to help him, I'd tell him about it first. Then he went off to the hotel looking more cheerful, and I was left alone with my sad thoughts. When I had gotten to the house, the first thing I saw was Billy sneaking out of the back door. I had meant to have a long and earnest talk with Billy the minute he got home, and point out some of his serious faults. But when I looked at him, I saw that Mama and Grandma had just done it. He looked red-eyed and miserable, and the minute he saw me, he began to whistle. Billy never whistles, except just before or just after a whipping. So my heart sank, and I was dreadfully sorry for him. I started after him to tell him so, but he made a face at me and ran. And just then Anna Lismouth came along the hall and dragged me up to her room and began to ask me all over again about Mr. Goward and all that he had said, whether I was perfectly sure he didn't mention any name. She looked worried and unhappy. Then she asked about Lorraine, but in an indifferent voice, as if she was really thinking about something else. I told her all I knew, but she didn't say a word or pay much attention, until I mentioned that the man in the photograph was Mr. Lyman Wilde. Then, well, I wish she had seen Anna Lismouth. She made me promise afterwards that I'd never tell a single soul what had happened, and I won't. But I do wish sometimes that Billy and I lived on a desert island where there wasn't anybody else. I just can't bear being home when everybody is so unhappy and when not a single thing I do helps the least little bit. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 The Son-in-Law On the whole, I'm glad our family is no larger than it is. It is a very excellent family as families go, but the infinite capacity of each individual in it for making trouble and adding to complications already sufficiently complex surpasses anything that has ever before come into my personal or professional experience. If I handle my end of this miserable affair without making a break of some kind or other, I shall apply to the Secretary of State for a high place in the diplomatic service. For mere international complications are child's play compared to this embroglio in which Goward and Aunt Elizabeth have landed us all. I think I shall take up politics and try to get myself elected to the legislature anyhow and see if I can't get a bill through providing that when a man marries it is distinctly understood that he marries his wife and not the whole of his wife's family from her grandmother down through her maiden aunts, sisters, cousins, little brothers, etc., including the latest arrival in kittens. In my judgment, it ought to be made a penal offense for any member of a man's wife's family to live on the same continent with him. And if I had to get married all over again to Maria and I do it with as much delighted happiness as ever, I should insist upon the interpolation of a line in the marriage ceremony. Do you promise to love, honor, and obey your wife's relatives? And when I came to it, I'd turn and face the congregation and answer no through a megaphone so loud that there could be no possibility of a misunderstanding as to precisely where I stood. If anybody thinks I speak with an unusual degree of feeling, I beg to inform him or her, as the case may be, that in the matter of wife's relations, I have an unusually full set. And as my small brother-in-law says when he orates about his postage stamp collection, they're all uncanceled. Into all lives a certain amount of mother-in-law must fall, but I not only have that, but a grandmother-in-law as well, and maiden aunt-in-law, and the Lord knows what else in-laws besides, I must say that as far as my mother-in-law's concerned, I've had more luck than most men, because Mrs. Talbert comes pretty close to the ideal in mother-in-legal matters. She's gentle and unoffending. She prefers minding her own business to assuming a trust control of other people's affairs. But her mother, well, I don't wish any ill to Mrs. Everts, but if anybody's ambitious to adopt an orphan lady with advice on tap at all hours in all matters, from winter flannels to the conversion of the hot-in-tots, I will cheerfully lead him to the goal of his desires, and with alacrity surrender to him all my right, title and interest in her. At the same time, I will give him a quick-claim deed to my maiden aunt-in-law. Not that Aunt Elizabeth isn't good fun, for she is, and I enjoy talking to her, and wondering what she will do next fills my days with a living interest, but I'd like her better if she belonged in some other fellow's family. I don't suppose I can blame Maria under all the circumstances for standing up for the various members of her family when they are attacked, which she does with much vigorous and at times aggressive loyalty. We cannot always help ourselves in the matter of our relations. Some are born relatives, some achieve relatives, and others have relatives thrust upon them. Maria was born to hers, and according to all rules of the games, she's got to like them. Nay, even cherish and protect them against the slings and arrows of outrageous criticism. But on the other hand, I think she ought to remember that while I achieved some of them with my eyes opened, the rest were thrust upon me when I was defenseless, and when I find some difficulty in adapting myself to circumstances, as is frequently the case, she should be more lenient to my incapacity. The fact that I'm a lawyer makes it necessary for me to toe the mark of respect for the authority of the courts all day, whether I am filled with contempt for the court or not. And it's pretty hard to find, when I return home at night, that another set of the judiciary in the form of Maria's family, a sort of domestic supreme court, controls all my private life, so that except when I am rambling through the fields alone, or I'm taking a bath in the morning, I cannot give my feelings full and free expression without disturbing the family entente. And there isn't much satisfaction in skinning people to a lonesome cow, or whispering your indignant sentiments into the ear of a sponge already soaked to the full with cold water. I've tried all my married life to agree with every member of the family in everything he, she, or it has said, but now that this Goward business has come up, I can't do that, because every time anybody says boo to anybody else in the family circle, regarding this duplex love affair, a family council is immediately called, and boo is discussed, not only from every possible standpoint, but from several impossible ones as well. When that letter of Gowards was rescued from the chewing gum contingent with its address left behind upon the pulpy surface of Sydney Tracey's daily portion of peptonized paste, it was thought best that I should call upon the writer at his hotel and find out to whom the letter was really written. My own first thought was to seek out Sydney Tracey and see if the superscriptions still remained on the chewing gum, and I had the good fortune to meet the boy on my way to the hotel. But on questioning him I learned that in the excitement of catching a catfish shortly after Alice had left the lads, Sydney had incontinently swallowed the rubber-like substance, and nothing short of an operation for appendicitis was likely to put me in possession of the mixing exhibit. So I went on to the hotel, and ten minutes later found myself in the presence of an interesting case of nervous prostration. Poor Goward. When I observed the wrought-up condition of his nerves, I was immediately so filled with pity for him that if it hadn't been for Maria, I think I should at once have assumed charge of this case, and, as his personal counsel, sued the family for damages on his behalf. He did not strike me as being either old enough or sufficiently gifted in the arts of philandry to be taken seriously as a professional heartbreaker, and to tell the truth, I had to restrain myself several times from telling him that I thought the whole affair a tempest in a teapot, because, in wanting consciously to marry two members of the family, he had only attempted to do what I had done unconsciously when I, and the whole tribe of Talberts, remotely and immediately connected, became one. Nevertheless, I addressed him coolly. Mr. Goward, I said, when the first greetings were over, this is the most unfortunate affair. This is terrible, he groaned, pacing the thin carpeted floor like a poor caged beast in the narrow confines of the zoo. You don't need to tell me how unfortunate it all is. As a matter of fact, I went on. I don't exactly recall a similar case in my experience. You will doubtless admit yourself that it is a bit unusual for a man, even of your age, to flirt with the maiden aunt of his fiancée, and possibly you realize that we would all be very much relieved if you could give us some reasonable explanation of your conduct. I'll be only too glad to explain, said Goward, if you will only listen. In my own judgment, the best solution of the tangle would be for you to elope with a third party at your earliest convenience, I continued, but in as much as you have come here, it is evident that you mean to pursue some course of action in respect to one of the two ladies, my sister or my aunt. Now what is that course, and which of the two ladies may we regard as the real object of your vagrone affections? I tell you frankly, before you begin, that I shall permit no trifling with Peggy. As to Aunt Elizabeth, she's quite able to take care of herself. It's Peggy, of course, said Goward. I admire Miss Elizabeth Talbert very much indeed, but I never really thought of being seriously engaged to her. Ah, I said icely, and did you think of being frivolously engaged to her? I not only thought of it, said Goward, but I was. It was at the Abercrombie's, Mr. Price. Lily, that is to say, Aunt Elizabeth. Excuse me, Mr. Goward, I interrupted. As yet the lady is not your Aunt Elizabeth. And the way things look now, I have my doubts if she ever is your Aunt Elizabeth. Miss Talbert, then, said Goward, with a heart-rending sigh. Miss Talbert and I were guests at the Abercrombie's last October. Maybe she's told you. And on Halloween we had a party. Apple bobbing, and the mirrored trick, and all that. And somehow or other, Miss Talbert and I were thrown together a great deal. And before I really knew how or why, we became engaged for the week anyhow. I see, I said dryly. You played the farce for a limited engagement. We joked about it a great deal, and I, well, I got into the spirit of it. One must at house parties, you know, said Goward, depreciatingly. I suppose so, I said. I got into the spirit of it. And Miss Talbert christened me, young Lachenvarr Jr., Goward went on. And I did my best to live up to the title. Then at the end of the week I was suddenly called home. And I didn't have any chance to see Miss Talbert alone before leaving. And, well, the engagement wasn't broken off. That's all. I never saw her again, until I came here to meet the family. I didn't know she was Peggy's aunt. So that in reality you were engaged to both Peggy and Miss Talbert at the same time, I suggested. That much seems to be admitted. I suppose so, groaned Goward, but not seriously engaged, Mr. Price. I didn't suppose she would think it was serious, just a lark. But when she appeared that night and fixed me with her eyes, I suddenly realized what had happened. It was another case of the woman tempted me and I did eat it. Was it, Goward? I asked. Goward's pale face hushed, and he turned angrily. I haven't said anything of the sort, he retorted. Of all the unmanly sneaking excuses that ever were offered for wrongdoing, that first of Adams has never been beaten. You evidently didn't think that Adam was a gentleman, I put in, with a feeling of relief at the boy's attitude toward my suggestion. Not according to my standards, he said with warmth. Well, I ventured, he hadn't had many opportunities, Adam hadn't. His outlook was rather provincial, and his associations, not broadening. You wouldn't have been much better yourself brought up in a zoo. Nevertheless, I don't think myself that he told the mark as straight as he might have. He was a coward, said Goward, with a positiveness born of conviction. And with that remark, Goward took his place in my affections. Whatever the degree of his seeming offence, he was at least a gentleman himself, and his unwillingness to place any part of the blame for his conduct upon Aunt Elizabeth showed me that he was not a cad. And I began to feel pretty confident that some reasonable way out of our troubles was looming into sight. How old are you, Goward? I asked. Twenty-one, he answered, counting the years. If you count the last week by the awful hours it is contained, I'm older than Methuselah. At last I thought I had it. And a feeling of wrath against Aunt Elizabeth began to surge up within me. It was another case of that intolerable, only a boy, habit, that so many women of uncertain age and character, married and single, seemed nowadays to find so much pleasure in. We find it too often in our complex modern society, and I'm not sure that it is not responsible for more deviations from the path of rectitude than even the offenders themselves imagine. Callow Youth, just from college, is susceptible to many kinds of flattery, and at the age of adolescence, the appeal which lovely woman makes to inexperience is irresistible. I know whereof I speak, for I've been there myself. I always tell Maria everything that I conveniently can. It is not well for a man to have secrets from his wife. And when I occasionally refer to my past flames, I find myself often growing more than pridefully loquacious over my early affairs of the heart. But when I thought of the serious study that I once made in my twentieth year of the dozen easiest, most painless methods of committing suicide because Miss Matabelle Flanders, at 38, whom I had chosen for my life's companion, had announced her intention of marrying old Colonel Barrington, one of the wisest matches ever as I see it now, I drew the line at letting Maria into that particular secret of my career. Miss Matabelle was indeed a beautiful woman, and she took a very deep and possibly maternal interest in Callow Youth. She invited confidence, and managed in many ways to make a strong appeal to youthful affections. But I don't think she was always careful to draw the line nicely between maternal love and that other, which is neither maternal, fraternal, paternal, nor even filial. To my eye she was no older than I, and to my way of thinking nothing could have been more imminently fitting than we should walk the primrose way hand in hand forever. While I will not say that the fair Metabelle trifled with my young affections, I will say that she let me believe, nay induced me to believe, by her manner, that even as I regarded her she regarded me, and when at the end she disclaimed any intention to smash my heart into the my raid-atoms into which it flew, which have since most happily reunited upon Maria, and asserted that she had let me play in the rose garden of my exuberant fancy because I was only a boy. My bump upon the hard world of fact was an atrociously hard one. Some women, pour passer l'outon, find pleasure in playing thus with young hopes and hearts, as carelessly as though they were tennis balls, to be whacked about and rallied, and volleyed hither and yon, without regard to their constituent ingredients. And when trouble comes, and a catastrophe is imminent, the refuge of only a boy is sought as though it really afforded a sufficient protection against responsibility. The most of us would regard the hopeless infatuation of a young girl committed to our care, either as parents or guardians, for a middle-aged man of the world, with such horror that drastic steps would be taken to stop it. But we are not so careful of the love affairs of our sons, and view with complacence their devotion to some blessed damsel of uncertain age, comforting ourselves with the reflection that he is only a boy, and will outgrow at all in good time. There's another mem for my legislative career, a bill for the protection of boys and the suppression of old maids who don't mean anything by it. I don't mean in saying all this to reflect in any way upon the many helpful friendships that exist between youngsters developing into manhood and their elders among women who are not related to them. There have been thousands of friendships, no doubt, that have worked for the upbuilding of character, for the inspiring in the unfolding consciousness of what life means in the young boy's being of a deeper, more lasting respect for womanhood than would have been attained under any other circumstances. But that has been the result, only when the woman has taken care to maintain her own dignity always, and to regard her course as one wherein she has accepted a degree of responsibility, second only to a mother's, and not a bypass leading merely to pleasure and for the idling away of an unoccupied hour. Potential manhood is a difficult force to handle, and none should embark upon the powerless enterprise of arousing it without due regard for the consequences. We may not let loose a young lion from its leash, and when dire consequences follow, excuse ourselves on the score that we thought the devastating feature was only a cub. These things flashed across my mind as I sat in Goward's room, watching the poor youth in his nerve-distracting struggles, and when I thought of the tangible evidence in hand against Aunt Elizabeth, I must confess, if I had been juryman sitting in judgment of the case, I should have convicted her of kidnapping without leaving the box. To begin with, there was the case of Ned Temple. I haven't quite been able to get away from the notion that however short-sighted and gouache poor Miss Temple's performance was in going over to the Talberts. To make a scene because of Aunt Elizabeth's attention to Temple, she thought she was justified in doing so, and Elizabeth's entire innocence in the premises, in view of her record as a mansnature, has not been proven to my satisfaction. Then there was that liman-wild business which I never understood, and haven't wanted to until they tried to mix poor Lorraine up in it. Certain it is that Elizabeth and Wilde were victims of an affair of the heart, but what Lorraine had to do with it I don't know, and I hope the whole matter will be dropped, at least until we have settled poor Peggy's affair. Then came Goward and this complication, and through it all Elizabeth has had a weather eye open for Dr. Denby, a rather suggestive chain of evidence that proving that Elizabeth seems to regard all men as her own individual property. As Miss Everts says, she perks up even when Billy comes into the room, or Mr. Talbert either, and is for me, well, in the strictest confidence, if Aunt Elizabeth hasn't tried to flirt even with me, then I don't know what flirtation is. And there was a time, long before I was married of course. When I possessed certain well-developed gifts in that line, I know this, that when I was first paying my addresses to Maria, Aunt Elizabeth was staying at the Talberts, as usual, and Maria and I had all we could do to get rid of her. She seemed to be possessed with the idea that I came there every night to see her, and not a hint in the whole category of polite intimations seemed capable of conveying any other idea to her mind. Although she showed at times that even a chance remark fell upon heeding ears, for once when I observed that pink was my favorite color, she blossomed out in at the next day and met me, looking like a peach tree in full bloom on Main Street, as I walked from my office up home. And while we're discussing other people's weaknesses, I may as well confess my own and say that I was so pleased at this unexpected revelation of interest in my taste, that when I called that evening, I felt vaguely disappointed to learn that Aunt Elizabeth was dining out, and I was twenty-seven at the time too, and loved Maria into the bargain. And after the wedding, when we came to say goodbye and I kissed Aunt Elizabeth, I kissed everybody that day in the hurry to get away, even the hired man at the door, and said, Goodbye, Auntie. She pouted and said she didn't like the title a little bit. Now, of course I wouldn't have anybody think that I think Aunt Elizabeth was ever in love with me, but I mention these things to show her general attitude towards members of the so-called stronger sex. The chances are that she does not realize what she's doing and assumes this coy method with the whole masculine contingent as a matter of thoughtless habit. What she wants to be to man, I couldn't for the life of me even guess—mother, sister, daughter, or general manager—but that she does wish to grab every male's being in sight and attach them to her train is pretty evident to me. And I have no doubt that this is what happened in poor Harry Gower's case. She has a bright way of saying things, is unmistakably pretty, and has an unhappy knack of making herself appear ten or fifteen years younger than she is if she needs to. She's a chameleonic as-to-age, and takes on always something of the years of the particular man she's talking to. I saw her talking to the Dominique the other night, and a more spiritual-looking bit of demure, middle-aged piety you never saw in a nunnery. On the very next day, when she was conversing with young George Harris, a freshman at Yale, at the barber's reception you'd have thought she was herself a vassar undergraduate. So there you are, with Goddard she had assumed that same youthful manner, and back by all the power, other thirty-seven years of experience, he was mere putty in her hands, and she played with him, and he lost, just as any other man from St. Anthony down to the boney-astosified man of today would have lost. And it wasn't until she saw Peggy again, and realized the difference between the real thing and the spurious, that he waked up. Well, all these facts marshaled and flashing through my brain much more rapidly than I can tell them, like the quick succession of pictures in the cinematograph, I made up my mind to become Goddard's friend, in so far as circumstances would permit. With Aunt Elizabeth out of the way, it seemed to me that we would find all plain sailing again. But how to get rid of the other was the awful question. Poor Peggy could hardly be happy with such a Richmond in the field, and nothing short of Elizabeth's engagement to some other man would help matters any. She had been too long unmarried anyhow. Maiden-aunthood is an unhappy estate, and grows worse with habit. If I could only find Lyam Wilde and bring him back to her, or perhaps Dr. Denby. That was the more immediate resource, and surely no sacrifice should be too great for a family physician to make for the welfare of his patients. Maria and I would invite Dr. Denby to dinner, and have Aunt Elizabeth as the only other guest. We could leave them alone on some pretext or other after dinner, and leave the rest to fate, aided and abetted by Elizabeth herself. Meanwhile, there was Goward still on my hands. Well, boy, I said patting him kindly on the shoulder. I hardly know what to say to you about this thing. You've got yourself in the dickens of a box. But I don't mind telling you. I think your heart is in the right place. And whatever has happened, I don't believe you have intentionally done wrong. Maybe at your age you do not realize that it is not safe to be engaged to two people at the same time, especially when they belong to the same family. Scientific heartbreakers, as a rule, take care that their fiancés are not only not related, but live in different sections of the country. And as I have no liking for preaching, I shall not dwell further upon the subject. I think I realize my position keenly enough without putting you to the trouble, said Goward, gazing gloomily out of the window. What I will say, however, said I, is that I'll do all I can to help you out of your trouble, as one son-in-law to another, eh? You're very kind, said he, gripping me by the hand. I will go to Mrs. Talbert. She's the best one to talk to, first. And tell her just what you have told me. And it is just possible that she can explain it to Peggy, I went on. I—I think I could do that myself if only I had the chance, he said ruefully. Well, then. I'll try to make the chance. I won't promise that I will make it, because I can't answer for anybody but myself. Someday you will find out that women are peculiar. But what I can do I will, said I, and furthermore. As the general attorney for the family, I will cross-examine on to Elizabeth, put her through the third degree, as it were, and try to show her how foolish it is for her to make so serious a matter of a trifling flirtation. I wouldn't if I were you, said Goward with a frown. She needn't be involved in the affair any more than she already is. She is not in the least to blame. Nevertheless, said I, she may be able to help us to an easy way out. She can't, said Goward positively. Excuse me, Mr. Goward, said I, chilling a trifle in my newly acquired friendliness. But is there any real reason why I should not, questioned Miss Talbert? Oh no, not at all, he hastened to reply, only I see no particular object in vexing her further in a matter that must have already annoyed her sufficiently. It's very good of you to take all this trouble on my account, and I don't wish you to add further to your difficulties, either, he added. I appreciated his consideration, with certain reservations. However the latter were not of such character as to make me doubt the advisability of standing his friend. And when we parted a few minutes later, I left him with the intention of becoming his advocate with Peggy and her mother, and at the same time of having it out with Aunt Elizabeth. I was detained at my office by other matters, which our family troubles had caused me to neglect, until suppertime. And then I returned to my own home, expecting to have a little chat over the affair with Maria, before acquainting the rest of the family with my impressions of Goward and his responsibility for our woe. Maria is always so full of good ideas. But at half past six she had not come in, and at 6.45 she phoned me that she was at her father's, and would I not better go there for tea? In the Talbert family a suggestion of that sort is the equivalent of a royal command in Great Britain, and I at once proceeded to accept it. As I was leaving the house, however, the thought flashed across my mind that in my sympathy for Harry Goward I had neglected to ask him the question I had sought him out to ask. To whom was the letter addressed? So I returned to the phone, and ringing up the Eagle Hotel inquired for Mr. Goward. Mr. Goward, came the answer. Yes, said I, Mr. Henry Goward. Mr. Goward left for New York on the 5.40 train this afternoon, was the reply. The answer was so unexpected on settling to my plans, stunned me first, and then angered me. Bah! I cried impatiently, with a little fool, an attack of cold feet I guess, he had to spell his name with a C. I hung up the receiver with a cold chill, for frankly I hated to go to the Talberts with the news. Moreover it would be humiliating confession to make that I'd forgotten to ask Goward about the letter. When everybody knew that that was what I had called upon him for, and when I thought of all the various expressions in the very expressive Talbert eyes that would fix themselves upon me as I stumbled out my confession, I would have given much to be well out of it. Nevertheless, since there was no avoiding the ordeal, I resolved to face the music, and five minutes later entered the dining-room at my father-in-law's house, with as stiff an upper lip as I could summon to my aid in the brief time at my disposal. They were all seated at the table already, supper's not a movable feast in that well-regulated establishment, save on to Elizabeth. Her place was vacant. Sorry to be late, said I after respectfully saluting my mother-in-law, but I couldn't help it. Things turned up at the last minute, and they had to be attended to. Where's Aunt Elizabeth? She went to New York, said my mother-in-law, on the 540 train.