Maid and Wife

Chapter I

I wap “finished a finishing school,” as dad said, and had made my debut. I suppose in many ways my coming out party was like the formal introduction to society of hundreds of other girls, yet in some ways mine was the talk of the season. In the first place dad was scandalously rich, mother immensely popular. Quite a combination, you see. Mother really outdid herself. She gave the party at Maitland’s, and I led the cotillion with Bob Merrick, the best dancer in our set. If Bob had been as clever at one end as he was at the other he would have been a dear. Unfortunately he was not.

The favors were lovely—silk parasols, fans, and bonbon dishes for the girls; cigarette holders and quaint little match safes for the men. They cost a small fortune. I know, for I was hunting for something in mother’s desk and saw the bill.

A lot of girls came out that winter, so they were all there and we had a jolly time.

Two or three of the boys said they would rather dance with me than with the other girls, which didn’t make me enjoy myself less, especially when Graham Knowlton, the best society dancer in Chicago, told me I danced divinely.

The supper, all that anyone could wish for, was perfectly served. And I remember as we rode home in the small hours thinking that I was the happiest girl in the world. And again, as Minna undressed me and told me how lovely I looked in my silvertissue coming-out gown, I sensed a certain contentment, a satisfaction with myself and my surroundings that was unusual. I was so accustomed to luxuries that I seldom gave them any thought. ;

When I think of all this now it seems ages ago that it happened, yet it has been but a short time. I often feel like pinching myself as did the old woman who lived under the hill, to see if indeed it were I. Oh, if we only could look ahead! Only see just a little in advance what the fates have in store for us! If the gods, upon whose knees we perch in sublime faith, would be kind and whisper of what the future held for us, would we do better or differently? I wonder !

Being born with a silver spoon in one’s mouth certainly is pleasant; but just as certainly does it have its disadvantages. When the time comes that you have to use a pewter one, you forget what you are tasting, and remember only the spoon.

I have always been glad my parents called me “Sheila” instead of Mary, or Maud, or Florence. It is such an uncommon name, and there is no nickname that fits it; so I have always been called Sheila.

When I made my debut I was a tall, slender, butterfly sort of a girl. I knew I was pretty. My mirror as well as my friends told me so. I had wavy brown hair, lots of it, and a nice clear complexion. I seldom used powder. I really didn’t need it, and dad made an awful fuss if he saw any on my face; pretended he didn’t want to kiss me. I had brown eyes and nice long lashes—mother said that was because she kept them trimmed when I was little; and Bob Merrick said my eyes had little gold flecks in them. He should have known, he was always staring at me. One thing, though, used to bother me dreadfully. In all the stories of lovely women I had ever read a Cupid’s bow seemed to be the only kind of a mouth a beauty should have; and my mouth was as straight as could be, just like dad’s. Mother had a mouth which curled up at the corners in the most bewitching way, and a lovely dimple in her little round chin. But my chin was ‘square— that was like dad’s, too, and without even a suggestion of a dimple. I tried awfully hard to be contented. I reasoned that a girl couldn’t have everything. But it is discouraging to have such a fascinating mother. Sometimes I was tempted to go to a beauty doctor and have a dimple made, Florence Maybury did! But father would have been furious, so I didn’t dare.

I simply adored dancing, so when the craze for dancing struck town about three years ago I, to use my young brother’s expression, “nearly danced my fool head off.’ I didn’t, of course, although my feet used sometimes to feel as if they would drop off.

That was where Bob Merrick came in. Bob was a wonderful dancer, and he was handsome, too, even if he didn’t have many brains. <A girl likes to dance with a handsome man just as well as a man does with a pretty girl—other girls may not know he is a dunce, you know.

I’ve heard that girls get over such notions, and then they don’t care what a man looks like so long as he has money. But I don’t believe young girls ever feel like that. If Bob only had been as clever as he looked he would have been the ’nth wonder of the-world. It was sad that all his brains were where he stepped on them. Mother was real cross when I told her that the only time he didn’t bore me was when we were dancing.

I often used to wonder if I would be as popular, as sought after, if I weren’t pretty? I would look in the glass and think that being good to look at was about the nicest thing in the world, and wonder what I would do, how I would feel, if I were ugly. No wonder plain girls are usually intellectual, that they try to be clever and do all sorts of queer stunts. They have to if they are to get any attention. Poor things !

One night at a small dinner I met Howard Bell.

“Be nice to him, dear. He’s quite the smartest man, and greatest catch I know,” Clarice’s mother, who was giving the dinner, said to me. She told me afterward that he belonged to one of the old Knickerbocker families of New York, and was enormously

rich. ‘ 3

“But he’s old!” I grumbled. ;

“Only thirty-five, Sheila. That’s not old for a man.”

“Almost old enough to be my father,” I pouted. Dad was just forty-one.

‘He dances wonderfully well,”’ she added, smiling.

“Oh, if his feet are all right I don’t care how old he is,” I answered saucily. “I’ll not look at his face.”

Really, Howard Bell was a fine looking man. He was rather serious, and I was surprised that he cared for dancing.

He complimented me upon my looks, the becomingness of my gown, a pale pink affair, that cost a pile, but was so perishable it would rag out in no time.

Even if I did think him old, it made me feel good to be admired. It always gave me a little cuddly feeling toward myself when people said nice things to me. I guess it does to most girls if they would own up and tell the truth about themselves. That’s what I am going to try to do—to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing sur the truth about myself.

I used to wonder how on earth anyone got along without a maid—a personal maid. Once Minna was sick for nearly a week, and I had to get along with the little assistance mother’s maid could give me. It was awful—so I thought then. If people think that because a girl has wealthy parents, a fine home, and motor cars, she has nothing to do, why, they have another think coming. The year I came out I was the busiest little mortal you ever saw. I never had an | idle minute. Mother used to worry for fear I would lose my looks with so much dissipation. But I didn’t! Really, though, it was one continual round of luncheons, matinees, teas and dances. Between times I had to see dressmakers, manicures and hairdressers, to say nothing of the little charity work I tried to do. A society girl can put it all over a working girl, as far as keeping busy goes. I know!

Of course I was expected to make a brilliant marriage. ‘That is, mother and all our relatives expected it. Father was in no hurry to get rid of me and often said:

“Have your fling, little girl, but remember that marriage is not a tea party. It is a very serious obligation.”

I recall the various men I liked best. Most of them were quite young. Several of them I liked very well indeed—quite well enough, no doubt, had I been ready to marry, to live in the same house with, and see regularly at the opposite side of the table when I entertained. They all were reasonably intelligent, one or two even amusing. They would, I felt sure, be kind, and make life as smooth and pleasant as they could.

But I loved none of them. None of them qualified, jadged by the standard I had set up in my own mind. There was not a single one of them whose near presence stirred me in the slightest. I wanted to be thrilled, and the only thrills I ever experienced were when I had an exceptional partner in dancing; or at some play which verged on melodrama.

After Christmas, Maud Harden was married. I was one of the bridesmaids. There were eight of us. Maud looked lovely in her white satin dress with some old lace of her grandmother’s worn as a veil and to trim her corsage. I wished we had some old lace in our family, but we were not old enough for lace. All the bridesmaids wore violet tulle with big picture hats, and carried sweet peas, immense bouquets of them.

Keith Wilson, who was one of the ushers, told me I “had the bride beaten to a frazzle as far as looks went.” I didn’t of course. Maud is quite handsome, but I was glad he said it just the same.

Keith introduced me to Clark Cummings, an outof-town man, one of the ushers.

That afternoon I went home literally walking on air. I had had a glorious day; had been admired to my heart’s content, and had met a man who from the first attracted me, not because he could dance— he told me at once that he knew absolutely nothing of the new dances—but because he had a virile, vibrant personality. It fairly obtruded itself upon one.

I was in a fair way to get some of the thrills I so longed for.

Clark Cummings and I talked together longer than was au fait at a wedding reception. The girls looked curiously at me. Some of them, I knew, were envious ; others wondering how I managed to monop-_ olize the fascinating stranger.

He talked seriously, quietly, in a deep, musical voice:

“TI love the open places. I have lived in them all my life. I couldn’t breathe in the city for long. I should stifle”? he told me when I confessed I loved dancing. Then he said, without appearing at all embarrassed, that he couldn’t even dance the onestep.

“And I couldn’t live in the country,” I replied. “I don’t see how anyone can endure the monotony of it—except, of course, for a few weeks in the summer. Even then I prefer the seashore or the mountains. The country is so lonely.”

“Lonely!” he cried. “Why, I never knew the meaning of that word out there in God’s country!” He waved his hand toward the west. “It is the loneliness of the city that appals me. You read a lot about the loneliness of the country; but what is it compared to that of a crowded city where you can walk the streets for hours and never see a familiar face; never receive a greeting? In the city you are _ just one of a multitude, a mob! I tell you; Miss Andrews, there is no loneliness in the world like it!”

~~ ar

Then he smiled at me. There was a sort of boyish sweetness in that smile in spite of his firm mouth and chin. I guess he thought he had been too serious.

For the first time in my life I felt a slight stirring of something new and strange within me, and unconsciously I commenced to fight against it.

“Oh, Sheila!’ Clarice Dutton said the next day when we met for tea, “Isn’t he handsome? You were a little pig to monopolize him. Why, he’s as handsome as—an actor! and Maud told me he was only twenty-three.”

No wonder [I liked him better than thirty-five-yearold Keith Wilson.

“But he’s from the country, Clarice, and says he doesn’t like cities,” I explained.

“T wouldn’t care if he came from Timbuctoo, if he would look at me the way he did at you, Sheila. Honest, I thought he was going to swallow you. What will the ‘shadow’ say, I wonder? I saw him watching you.” Bob Merrick being the “shadow” she referred to. One of the girls gave him that name because he was always trailing after me. It had stuck to him ever since.

“Oh, I don’t care what Bob says, and you know it!”? I quickly returned. It always annoyed me when the girls took it for granted that I belonged to Bob in any way.

Clark Cummings called almost immediately. I had a heavenly time, and I actually said some clever things. Almost clever enough for a homely girl to have said. Clark seemed to know how to draw me out. I like to talk to men who can do that; it makes me sort of proud of myself. Anyway, he was a perfect dear.

I met him on Michigan avenue a few days afterward. It was a glorious day, and he turned and walked with me. Then he persuaded me to take luncheon with him. I knew very well that mother would not approve, but I just couldn’t resist him.

He took me to a cheap little table @héte place. He was terribly masterful. It was great fun to be bossed for an hour or two, although I feared it might grow irksome if one had to stand it all the time. Most of the men I knew were absolutely servile in their deference.

Clark seemed not to realize the cheapness, the tawdryness of the restaurant. He appeared perfectly happy. Once he held my hand a moment when I reached for the salt, and said—right out loud— I’m sure the waiter heard him:

“TI wonder if you know how sweet you are to a man like me who hasn’t met many girls of your kind.”

We talked about serious things all through our luncheon. Perfectly wonderful things they seemed to me. We hadn’t been the least bit sentimental, yet I felt like crying when it was time to go.

I never had known time to pass so quickly.

I insisted that Clark call a taxi. I knew mother would be anxious about me, if she were at home. When it came Clark jumped in beside me. The thrills I had so longed for were coming then all right. I was so happy that my breath caught in little gasps in my throat.

How I wished we lived further out! We reached home altogether too soon. When Clark helped me out and paid the cabby he said he would walk back. I noticed he didn’t carry a big roll of money like Bob did, and I wondered if he walked to save money.

I saw Clark several times in the next two weeks, Of course he was invited everywhere, as he was a guest of the Hardens. I constantly thought of him as my ideal of a man.

Then one day he proposed. I saw it coming and at first thought I would try and stop him. Then I just couldn’t resist letting him go on. He was very earnest and quiet. He told me he couldn’t live without me; that he loved me with all his soul. For the first time since I had met him I saw him as a suppliant. He was humble. If he had kept his old masterful manner I don’t believe I could have refused him. But just the moment he became humble his power to move me was gone. It just evaporated, not that I did not still like him a lot. But he gave me time to think about what mother said about his being poor. Whatever should I, Sheila Andrews, do as a poor man’s wife? I thought of what it would mean to me to work in his kitchen, cooking his meals, and washing the dishes. I decided it would kill me in a month. I often had pitied the girls who had to work in stores and offices, but this:would be worse, much worse.

Once I went to see Lill Carpenter. She ran away and married a poor man, a clerk, or something equally horrid. She had a perfect love of a baby, but her house was small and mean. The furniture, too, was ugly and cheap. Her father was cross with her because she married Ed, and gave her nothing, not even his blessing, although he was rich. Lill had on a cheap cotton dress, and her nails didn’t look as if they had been manicured in months. I thought of her and her mean little house while Clark was talking, and just thinking of her made it easier for me to say no.

In justice to Lill I must tell you that she claimed to be perfectly happy, and said she wouldn’t change places with anyone in the world. That her only real trouble was the loss of her father’s love. Her mother died before she ran away with Ed Carpenter.

Clark seemed to feel dreadfully. He turned as white as a ghost. He didn’t urge me one bit; he appeared to know it would do no good. But just before he left he said:

“I am going back home to-morrow, Sheila, and perhaps never shall see you again. Should you ever really need a friend, no matter what the conditions, I will be that friend. Here is my address.”

I almost cried as he gave me a card with his name and address. He talked just like the hero in a play

I had just seen. ‘You can reach me there if I am alive. I never leave the ranch that someone does not know where to reach me, or to forward any communication. You are sure you understand, Sheila? If you ever need me I will come,” he repeated, in the very words of the stage lover. “

I scarcely could restrain my tears, he spoke sO solemnly, yet I knew I never should send for him, never let him know how near I came to saying yes. But I couldn’t marry a poor man. It would be perfectly ridiculous for me to think of such a thing.

After Clark left I took up my dancing again in a way that called forth a reprimand from dad. I was restless, uncertain of myself. Still, I didn’t grieve for Clark. I hadn’t time. Neither had he impressed himself upon me strongly enough to cause me sorrow. Bob Merrick was delighted that Clark had “at last taken himself off” and we haunted thé dansants almost every day, the same as we had before he came.

Bob proposed to me on an average of once a week. He had done so ever since my coming out party. I laughed at him and treated his protestations of love as a joke, which peeved him.

I didn’t tell mother every time Bob proposed, because she favored him. I don’t think I have mentioned that he was disgustingly rich, and that he ‘paraded the fact. Not that I objected to his money ; “far be it from me,” as he would say, but I hated the plebeian way he made a show of it.

SE

Howard Bell also proposed. It was one night at a supper-dance. I was going to tell him he was too old, when he saved me the trouble.

“T know I am older than you are, Sheila, but I will know all the better how to care for you. I love you very dearly, and I am sure I can make you happy if you will marry me.”

It was hard work, but I finally made him understand that I didn’t want to marry him. That I didn’t love him. Why, he never had given me even the tiniest, weeniest sort of thrill. When I told mother she looked and acted disappointed. But dear old dad said:

“That’s right, dear, don’t marry any man unless you love him. Money and position are all right, but they never take the place of love, even though some people do claim that it is out of date.”

Father often made me laugh, he said such original things. I gave him a good hug and told him I was going to wait until I found someone just like him. Mother then said:

‘“‘You won’t find anyone like your father, Sheila, so you may as well make up your mind to it.”

Chapter II

My meeting with John Lawrie and mother’s treatment of him, before she discovered who he was, were simply delicious. I met him in the most unconventional way. It was on an awfully windy day, and just as I came out of a shop my hat blew off. He chased it and brought it back to me, then walked home with me, “for fear I might lose it again.”

I was the “only girl,” the “ideal woman,” and “his mate,” from that moment. At least that was what he said; and strangely enough I think he meant it.

He actually made love to me every minute he was with me. He was not handsome in the least; yet was good to look at. He was not a large man, but tall, quick, and springy, and muscled like a panther. He had won honors in college athletics. He had a broad, high cheeked face, and deep gray eyes. You never could tell whether he was going to talk sense or Bernard Shaw. But he was making real love. There was no doubt about that.

I said I was going to be perfectly frank and tell the truth, in this, my own story. But I will not attempt to recount all the wild and lawless thoughts which often scurried through my mind. Every girl has them. But I found out things about John; and my little toy balloon of romance that I had been so gaily floating on a string of sentiment was pricked to nothing in a minute.

I found that now I was filled with feminine longings and desires which heretofore had not troubled me. I had taken all the young men of my acquaintance, their attentions, as a matter of course. Marriage, when I thought of it at all, meant only more freedom, and a place in society no young unmarried girl could hope to hold. I never gave a thought to the duties and obligations a girl assumes when she marries, neither to what would be due the man. Ever since I had sent Clark Cummings away I had given up all idea of having thrills with a husband. He— the husband—would perhaps be an inconvenience. I hoped he would be an amusing one.

I was sort of sick and sore whenever I thought of Clark. Yet I was filled with a strange new zest for the puzzle of life. I longed to fit the pieces

ogether to see if I could construct something worth while.

Bob, tired of asking me, had gone to father. Dad told him that it was something I must decide for myself. He would not interfere. I know dad looked upon Bob as a perfect nincompoop, but mother was getting anxious to see me settled, and she liked the idea of having Bob’s money in the family. Not that we needed it—then. But that’s the funny thing about money; the more you have the more you want.

It seemed a prodigiously long time since Clark had left me, yet often I had a feeling that he was close to me. Ridiculous though it was, I felt it was proof that I still reigned in his heart, and, because I was selfish, I was glad.

My brother was fifteen years old, and quite a nice boy—as boys of his age go. I guess that fifteen, or around there, is a “trying age”—mother’s expression. He certainly tried my patience, especially during his vacations. He teased me, made fun of my beaux, or played practical jokes on me until I was nearly wild. Father used to try to make him stop, but mother always made excuses for him. I have learned mothers are like that with boys.

Maud Harden gave a dinner. It was the first big affair she had given since she had returned from her wedding trip.

“I am going to have the honor of taking you in, Miss Sheila,” Keith Wilson said to me. “Our hostess has issued special commands to that effect.”

So ae er

“My request,” he interrupted.

“Isn’t that jolly?” I returned, really pleased. “T’ve not seen you for an age.”

“Do you know, Sheila, I have such an appetite for talk with you that I am convinced I sha’n’t eat a thing. If I had known the pleasure in store for me I should have eaten my dinner before I came, then I should have had nothing to distract me.”

Really that was quite a nice speech for Keith, He wasn’t noted for flattery.

“Do you know, Sheila, I think you have changed. I don’t quite know how to take you,” he remarked later.

“T’ll tell you a secret,” I laughingly returned. - “T’ve begun to think I am not to be taken at all.”

“Oh, yes, you will! By force if in no other way. You can’t escape your fate; so don’t try.”

That winter we went to Palm Beach, Miami, then Hot Springs. I had a perfect time. I just adored Palm Beach. Most girls do. Dad gave me a wonderful wardrobe. I danced and bathed and rode, went yachting, and then did it all over again to my heart’s content. I met a lot of new young men who were, or seemed to be, devoted to me.

Dad didn’t care much for Palm Beach, but was keen for Hot Springs. He was a wonderful horseman and the rides at the Springs appealed to him. Mother and I were neither of us quite ready to leave the Beach, but we gave in when dad said he didn’t feel up to form and thought his riding would set him up again.

But I should have enjoyed myself much more had Bob Merrick remained in Chicago instead ‘of following me. He sauntered into the hotel dining room one morning looking very much at home in his flannels, also very handsome. He acted surprised that I wasn’t glad to see him. :

“Town is a dreadful bore when you are away,

Sheila,” he told me. ‘Then, too, I thought a couple of weeks at the Springs would do me good. I’ve been feeling rather seedy.”

“Do him good!” I was disgusted. He was as fat and, sleek as a Jersey cow, and I told him so, Mother said I wasn’t ladylike. I guess I wasn’t, but I was cross at him for coming.

I had met Clarence White at Palm Beach, and he too joined us at the Springs. Wasn’t Bob jealous and cross! But I didn’t mind. I rather enjoyed it. We rode and played golf or tennis all day long, Clarence and I. But Bob had his innings at night. He was too fat to ride, he pretended; too lazy to golf, or play tennis, but, as I have said before, he could dance. I had lovely evening dresses and the dandiest sport clothes. I often heard people make remarks anent “that smart Miss Andrews,” which amused as well as flattered me. But everything has an end, so about the middle of March we returned home.

Bob had gone on a day or two before we did. He was cross, said I had treated him shamefully, and had flirted disgracefully with Clarence White. I only laughed at his ravings, so he got mad and left for home. Mother scolded me, but I guess he didn’t feel so badly after all, for about an hour after we arrived a messenger brought me a big box of roses with his card, and “Welcome back to our windy city” scribbled in his handwriting.

In a day or two he called up and asked mother to the opera, and me, too, of course. He had a dandy box, one where you could see and be seen. Sometimes I was ashamed of myself I treated Bob so badly, and wished I could care for him. But they say “Love goes where it is sent,” and mine never had been sent to Bob’s address.

We had a lovely evening. Keith Wilson, Howard Bell, and John Lawrie all came into the box at different times during the evening, much to my delight and Bob’s discomfiture. 'They were so nice and friendly. I think that is the way it should be. Just because you don’t want to sit opposite a man three hundred and sixty-five days in the year is no sign you never want to talk to him.