“Sure,—have ’em made,” he had agreed genially.
The dining-room had puzzled Jeannette for a long time, but after the dark blue carpet had been selected and made into a rug to fit the room, she had found a blue madras that just matched its tone. It cost a great deal more than she felt she ought to pay, but she had bought the twelve yards she needed, nevertheless, and had determined she could save something by cutting and hemming the curtains herself; she could take them out to Alice’s and use her sewing-machine.
It was all finished now, Jeannette reflected, pushing the big brass bed into place against the wall. They had been a little reckless perhaps, but now they were ready to settle down, begin to live quietly and to save. They owed about two hundred dollars at Wanamaker’s but would soon manage to pay that off.
She went on calculating expenses as she ran the carpet sweeper about the room. Martin liked a good deal of meat, so she doubted if she could manage the table on less than twelve or maybe, thirteen dollars a week; that would take half of what he gave her on Saturdays. She needed so much for this, so much for that, and she would have to get herself some kind of a silk dress for the hot weather; still she thought she could save five or six dollars a week and Martin ought to be able to do the same; they would have the Wanamaker bill paid in a few months. As she went on running the sweeper under the bed and pushing it gingerly into corners so as not to mar the paint of the baseboards, she reflected that, as a matter of fact, Martin had really no right to expect her to pay anything out of her weekly money on what they owed Wanamaker; every cent of that bill had been for house furnishing, and it had been clearly understood between them that her money was for the table and herself. Still it had been she who had wanted the curtains; she ought to help pay for them.
§ 2
When the bathroom was cleaned, Martin’s bath towel spread along the rim of the tub to dry, his dirty shirt and collar put into the laundry basket, his shoes set neatly on the floor of the closet, the ash receiver in the living-room emptied and the cushions on the davenport straightened, Jeannette settled herself in a rocking-chair at the window, her basket of sewing in her lap. She hated sewing; the basket was in tangled confusion, but it was always that way. Spools and yarn, papers of needles, pins, buttons, threads, tape, and scraps of material were all mixed up together in a fine snarl. She found a certain degree of satisfaction in its confusion. To-day she had a run in one of her silk stockings to draw together, and a button to sew on Martin’s coat.
She caught the coat up first and as she held it in her hands, the song that she had been humming all morning died upon her lips. She looked at the garment with softening eyes; then she raised its rough texture to her cheek and kissed it. It smelled of its owner,—a smell that was fragrance to her,—an odor scented faintly with cigars but even more redolent of the man, himself; it was strong, it was masculine, it was Martin. There was no smell like it in the world or one half so sweet.
She mused as she searched for a black silk thread, needle and thimble. When Alice had extolled to her the wonderful happiness of marriage, how right she had been! Jeannette pitied all unmarried women now. There was a Freemasonry among wives, and all spinsters, old and young, were debarred from the mystic circle. She wondered what made the difference. Unmarried women were all buds that had never opened to the full beauty of the mature flower. They were of the uninitiated and as long as they remained so would never attain their full powers. Miss Holland, now, was a fine woman, efficient, capable, executive, but how much more able and efficient and remarkable if she had married! She might be divorced, she might be a widow. That did not make a difference, it seemed to Jeannette in the full bloom of her own wifehood; it was marrying that counted; it was that “Mrs.” before a woman’s name, that gave her standing, poise, position in the world, broadened her sympathies, increased her capabilities.
She thought her own marriage perfection; she considered herself the happiest, most fortunate of wives; her pretty home enchanted her, and Martin was the most satisfactory of adoring husbands. He had his faults, she presumed, and she, no doubt, had hers, but there were never woman and man so happy together, so ideally congenial. She thought of her honeymoon,—the few days at Atlantic City. She had never learned to swim, but Martin was an expert. He had looked stunning in his bathing-suit,—straight, clean-limbed, with his big chest and shoulders and his slim waist,—the figure of an athlete, as she indeed discovered him to be when he struck out into the sea with the freedom of a seal, flinging the water from his black mop of hair with a quick head-toss now and then, his arms working like flails. They had plunged through the breakers together, and Martin had held her high up as the curling water crashed down upon them. It had been cold but exhilarating, and a group had gathered on the boardwalk and down on the beach to watch the two battling with the waves. Then there had been the quiet rolling up and down the boardwalk in the big chair while the tide of Easter visitors sauntered past them in all their gay clothing. The weather had been warm, the sunshine glorious. She thought of their room at the hotel and the intimate times of dressing and undressing in each other’s presence. It had been emotional, exciting, a little frightening, but there had been the discovery of perfect comradeship, and all the other phases of marriage,—pleasant and unpleasant,—had been forgotten. Companionship,—wholehearted, unreserved, constant,—that was the outstanding feature of marriage for Jeannette.
Her mind carried her on to contemplate the future and what it held in store for them. Her marriage with Martin must be a success. There must be no quarrelling, no disagreements, no bickerings. There must never, never be any talk of divorce between them.... Ah, how she hated the word divorce now! She had never given the subject any particular consideration heretofore; it was merely an accepted proceeding by which unhappily married people won back their freedom. But how differently she felt about it to-day! She would die rather than ever consent to a divorce from Martin! She’d forgive him anything! He was a little spoiled, perhaps; he liked to have his own way, and he hated anything unpleasant. It must be her duty to humor and educate him; she must give a little, exact a little. A successful marriage, she believed, depended upon that. A husband and wife must become adjusted to one another. If necessary, she resolved, she would give more than she received. Oh, yes, she would give and give and give!