“No, I’m not,” Jeannette defended herself. “I’m only trying to run things economically and systematically, and to do that you’ve got to plan ahead. The trouble with you, Mart, is that you never do!”
The raise led to the appearance of Hilda in the kitchen. Hilda was a big-boned, good-natured Swedish girl, willing, but a careless cook, often exasperatingly stupid. Jeannette paid her fifteen dollars a month, and established her in the vacant bedroom not hitherto furnished, which involved an outlay of nearly a hundred dollars.
In spite of the additional income, money continued to be a problem. Jeannette still felt that she and Martin were living too extravagantly, and that her husband did not do his share in helping to retrench. She had been entirely satisfied in the old days before she married to go to the theatre in gallery or rear balcony seats, but Martin scorned these locations. When he went to a show, he said, he wanted to enjoy himself, and sitting in the cheap seats robbed him of any pleasure whatsoever. It was the same whenever they went downtown to dinner; he preferred the expensive hotels and restaurants; when he bought new clothes he went to a tailor and had the suit made to order; he tipped everywhere he went far too generously. If there was any economizing to be done, it was always Jeannette who must do it, and what made it all the harder was that he did not thank her for the self-denial. He spent,—his wife had no way of knowing how much,—a great deal for drinks, and for the gin and vermuth he brought home. Once a week, sometimes oftener, he would arrive with a bottle of each, carefully wrapped up in newspaper, under his arm. Every time they entertained, she knew it meant more gin and more vermuth for cocktails. Martin was not a tippler. Frequently several days or a week would go by without his even suggesting a cocktail. He did not seem to want one, unless there was company, or he happened to come home specially tired. Jeannette had never seen him intoxicated, although on the last day of the year a number of the men at his office had gathered in the late afternoon at a neighboring bar, and wished each other “Happy New Year” over and over. Martin arrived home, glassy-eyed and noisy, wanting her to kiss and love him. She hated him when he had been drinking; she even loathed the odor of liquor on his breath; it made it strong and hot like the breath of a panther. Another expense was his cigars of which he consumed half-a-dozen a day. She knew they cost money, and she knew Martin well enough to feel sure that the kind he liked was not the inexpensive variety.
There was also his card playing to be taken into account. Sandy MacGregor had a circle of friends who played poker together generally once a week, on Friday nights. At first Jeannette had urged Martin to go when Sandy had rung him up, asking if he would like to “sit in.” She considered it part of a good wife’s rôle: a man should not be expected to give up masculine society, or an occasional “good time with the boys” merely because he was married. She did not entirely approve of poker, but Martin loved it. Whenever he won, he woke her up when he came home and announced it triumphantly; when he lost he said nothing about it, and she felt she had no right to ask questions. She suspected he did not tell her the truth about the size of the stakes for which he played, realizing she would worry, so she never inquired, and if Martin came home and put seven or eight dollars on her dressing-table, exultingly telling her that it was half his winnings, she thanked him with a bright smile and a kiss for his generous division, even though she was confident he had won a great deal more.
On the first and fifteenth of the month he gave her sixty-two dollars and fifty cents. She had to apportion the money among the tradespeople, the bills “downtown,” and keep enough for Hilda’s wages and incidental table expenses for the ensuing fortnight. It left her very little to spend on herself, for clothes and amusements,—far from enough. For years she had been independent, her own mistress, with the disposal of her entire earnings; it was hard for her now to have to economize and compromise and resort to makeshifts because of her husband’s indifference and improvidence. It brought back disturbing memories of old days when she and Alice and their mother had had to skimp and struggle in order to eke out the simplest order of existence. It was just what she feared might happen when she had considered marrying.
A month arrived when Jeannette found upon her grocer’s bill a charge for gin and vermuth and for half a box of cigars: nine dollars and twenty-five cents! It precipitated an angry quarrel between her husband and herself. Martin had been encroaching in various ways upon her half share of his salary, and she proposed now to put a stop to it. He argued that the cocktails and cigars had been for her friends when invited to dinner; she retorted that neither cocktails nor cigars had had any share in the entertainment she provided, and if he chose to have them on hand and offer them, it was his own affair. She taxed him with the whole score of his extravagance, while Martin chafed and twisted under her sharp criticisms, swore and grew sulky. He hated unpleasantness and tried to evade the issue: he’d pay for the booze and cigars and buy her a hat or anything else she fancied, if she’d only “forget it” and quit “ragging” him. But Jeannette felt that the question of an equal division of their financial responsibility was vital to the success of their marriage, the happiness of both, and she refused to be deflected. He finally stormed himself out of the apartment, viciously banging the door shut behind him. Two days of misery followed for them both, when they met with the exchange of monosyllables only, though their thoughts pursued one another through every hour. Their reconciliation was terrific, each willing to concede everything, eager to make promises and to assure the other of utter contriteness.
From Jeannette’s point-of-view matters improved. Twice Martin gave her an extra ten dollars out of his half of his salary.
§ 3
When the year’s lease on the apartment neared its end, Martin was not for renewing it. Herbert Gibbs had been talking to him about Cohasset Beach, urging him to move there. Summer was approaching, Gibbs pointed out, with all its good times of swimming and boating, and even in winter, he assured Martin, there was plenty of outdoor sport: skating, tobogganing, even skiing. In particular, his employer counselled, there was a remarkable little house,—a bungalow,—with floors, ceilings and inside trim of oak that had just become vacant through the death of its owner, which could be had for fifty dollars a month. It was a great bargain for the money. Martin was enthusiastic. Gibbs had promised he would be at once elected to the Family Yacht Club, and had described the good times its members had: dances every Saturday night and in summer, swimming, yachting, picnics. The “bunch,” he assured the young man, was a “live” one,—the pick of “good fellows.”
Jeannette listened to her husband’s glowing recital with a cold tightening at her heart.