VI
Brecky wheeled about, for some one had entered the room. It was the rebellious Kathleen herself. She seemed to him to have grown miraculously prettier overnight, and he was still less angry.
“Well, Johnny?” she demanded.
He resented that tone very much.
“Well!” he said affably.
There was a long silence.
“I’m taking the nine forty train home,” said Brecky. “Coming?”
“No,” said she.
Without another word, he picked up his cap and made for the door; but he was met by Charley Sands.
“Here! Here!” said he. “Stay and have some breakfast first, old son!”
“All right!” said Brecky.
He wanted breakfast badly. He also wanted to show Kathleen how unconcerned he was, that he was not hurt and bewildered and angry. He stood in the hall, talking to Charley. He was aware of Kathleen’s voice in a near-by room, talking to that vixenish young woman.
“Married life’s a great thing!” said Charley dismally.
“Sure is!” said Brecky.
He couldn’t imagine how any man could marry if he couldn’t marry Kathleen. He despised and hated Kathleen, but in common justice he had to acknowledge to himself that she was the prettiest and sweetest girl in the world, and utterly superior to all other women. She was—
Just then he heard her speaking. She had a clear voice that carried well.
“No,” she was saying. “I think I’ll make some pancakes for Johnny’s breakfast. But see here—you needn’t tell him I made ’em, Grace. I don’t want him to think—but he looks dead tired, and he does love pancakes!”
That did for Brecky. He ran down the hall and pushed open a door. It opened into the kitchen, and Kathleen, in an apron, stood at the table, before a large bowl. He paid no attention to the second cousin. He darted around the table and took Kathleen in his arms.
“Oh, come on home!” he said.
She began to cry at once, very comfortably, with her head buried in his coat.
“Don’t be silly!” he said anxiously. “See here, Kathleen! Listen! We’ll get a cook. We’ll go to the theater, and—”
His wife raised her head and kissed him vehemently.
“Oh, Johnny!” she began, but stopped short, dried her eyes, and went on with great dignity. “Johnny,” she said, “I wouldn’t mind cooking and all that, for you, if you didn’t—kind of expect it. That’s what made me mad last night. You just expect—”
“Well, I won’t any more,” he assured her. “You come home, and I’ll be darned surprised every time I get a meal!”
A few minutes later they all sat down to enjoy Kathleen’s matchless pancakes. Eating them, Brecky also partook of the fruit of knowledge.
“You’re one grand little cook, Kathleen,” he thought; “but this time I won’t say it!”
EDITORIAL NOTE—The short story entitled “The Strong Man,” published in the September number of this magazine, was the work of Robert T. Shannon, but by an unfortunate error the name of John D. Swain was given as the author. We apologize to both these popular writers for the accidental confusion of their names.
MUNSEY’S
MAGAZINE
MARCH, 1923
Vol. LXXVIII NUMBER 2
The Aforementioned Infant
THE STORY OF A YOUNG WOMAN WHO LOVED HER BABY
By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding
THE lawyer read the document aloud to her, but she did not understand.
“What was that?” she asked timidly. “Free—”
“‘Free access to the aforementioned infant,’” he repeated. “That means that you may see your child at any time—any reasonable time, of course,” he hastened to add.
It did not take Maisie long to discover that there was no reasonable time. No matter at what hour she came to the house, she had to wait in the hall, sitting in a high-backed chair against the wall, humble, patient, like a child herself. The servants passed and repassed as often as they could find pretexts, for the sake of staring at this creature who had trapped young Mr. Lester into a scandalous marriage. The fact that she had not been notably successful as an adventuress stirred no one to pity. They had married, and it must have been due to Heaven knows what beguilement on her part.
Maisie had little charm for the casual observer. She was small, fragile, with untidy black hair and gray eyes immense and sorrowful. She dressed like a schoolgirl in a blue sailor blouse and a short dark skirt. Her pale face had the rounded contour of extreme youth. If the reckless Mr. Lester had betrayed her, one might have felt compassion for her as a forlorn and lovely child; but the fact that he had married her proved her to be basely calculating.
After a long time she would be taken up to the nursery. If the baby was asleep, she would stand beside the crib, her hands clasped, tears raining down her face. She would wait patiently until it awoke. Then she would lift the sturdy little thing, strain it to her childish breast, kiss its faint, silky hair, and press her own cheek against its plump one. She scarcely dared to whisper her passionate endearments, for the trained nurse was always there, looking at her critically.
“I don’t like to see her pick up the baby,” the nurse said to Mrs. Tracy. “She doesn’t look healthy.”
“I dare say she’s not,” replied Mrs. Tracy, with a sigh; “and who knows what she’s been doing, or where she comes from? But I suppose it can’t be helped. She had a legal right to see the child, of course. My son is very strict about her rights, and so on—very generous.”
Her son himself was not always so sure of his generosity. He had moments when he thought himself little short of contemptible. Only moments, though; he was no rebel, and if his world was inclined to condone his offenses, or even to deny them, who was he to contradict it?
He was young himself—only twenty-two; a good-looking, silly, sweet-tempered boy. His life was one folly after another, always repaired by some one else. He did not imagine that he could do no wrong, but he felt pretty sure that any wrong that he might do could easily be undone by some one else.
He had found Maisie behind the counter of a candy shop, where he went to buy lavish presents for other girls. Her luminous and innocent eyes, her soft little English voice, had taken his fancy. She was quite alone in the world. She had come to America with her brother, a third-rate actor, a hard-working, ambitious fellow, for whom she was to keep house.
“But he died,” she said simply. “So I’m working here.”
She had been pitifully ready to love. She had taken all Lester Tracy’s extravagant speeches in perfect seriousness. She didn’t know how to conceal her sweet delight; and he had been very much touched[Pg 53] by her artless affection. There was no one like little Maisie.
He often took her out to dinner, and to save his life he could see nothing in her to find fault with. She was always gentle, quiet, appealing. What if she was a shop girl? He knew plenty of girls of his own sort who might have learned much from Maisie. She was no gold digger, for she demanded nothing, expected nothing. She was happy if he took her out, but she was quite as happy if he stood in the vestibule of the wretched apartment house where she lived, and talked to her and kissed her.
She cared nothing at all for his money. He had tried to explain that, but no one would believe it.
He couldn’t explain his marriage very well. He had come into the candy shop, one day, on his way home from a wedding breakfast, where he had had a good deal too much to drink. He had leaned across the counter and said to Maisie:
“Come on, Maisie, darling! Let’s go and get married!”
She had got her shabby little hat and walked out of the shop with him, and they had gone down to the City Hall. He had been well aware of his condition, and a little afraid that he wouldn’t be granted a license; but he had made a great effort, and had carried it off splendidly.
He had been very happy with Maisie. He had run away. For a time no one knew where he was or what he had done, and they had lived in a big seaside hotel, undisturbed by any thought of the consequences of the thing. He did not like to remember how sweet Maisie had been. He tried to forget the innocent gayety of that fortnight.
Of course he had been discovered, and the monstrousness of the escapade had been shown to him. He had been hectored and wept over and bribed, and he had given in, as he always did.
Maisie was no less docile. She had been told that she must give him up, and she did as she was told.
Her docility was a sore temptation to the Tracys’ lawyer, who saw no reason why they should throw money away on a girl who didn’t want it. He advised them to waive the question of a divorce for the present, but to ask her to sign an informal—and infamous—separation agreement, to accept a very small cash settlement, and to vanish. She saw clearly that no one on earth—alas, not even Lester—cared where she went, or what happened to her.
To the lawyer she seemed to be a singularly insensitive creature. Even Lester was surprised that she gave him up so readily, without even a word of farewell. She would have got more sympathy—and more money—if she had made a scene; but that never occurred to her. She accepted whatever life offered with the blind resignation of a child. She felt herself entirely helpless and ineffectual, and took refuge in a strange inner life of her own, in the most piteous dreams and fancies.