From the Housetops

by George Barr McCutcheon

"Never have quite got over loving him, as a matter of fact," said he, watching her closely.

She drew a long breath. "You're right, Simmy. I've never ceased to care for him. That's what makes it so hard for me to see him going to the dogs, as you say."

"I said 'going to the devil,'" corrected Simmy resolutely.

She laid her hand upon his arm. Her face was white now and her eyes were dark with pain.

"I shiver when I think of him, Simmy, but not with dread or revulsion. I am always thinking of the days when he held me tight in those big, strong arms of his,—and that's what makes me shiver. I adored being in his arms. I shall never forget. People said that he would never amount to anything. They said that he was too strong to work and all that sort of thing. He didn't think much of himself, but I know he would have come through all right. He is the best of his breed, I can tell you that. Think how young he was when we were married! Little more than a boy. He has never had a chance to be a man. He is still a boy, puzzled and unhappy because he can't think of himself as anything but twenty,—the year when everything stopped for him. He's twenty-five now, but he doesn't know it. He is still living in his twenty-first year."

"I've never thought of it in that light," said Simmy, considerably impressed. "I say, Lutie, if you care so much for him, why not—" He stopped in some confusion. Clearly he had been on the point of trespassing on dangerous ground. He wiped his forehead.

"I can finish it for you, Simmy, by answering the question," she said, with a queer little smile. "I want to help him,—oh, you don't know how my heart aches for him!—but what can I do? I am his wife in the sight of God, but that is as far as it goes. The law says that I am a free woman and George a free man. But don't you see how it is? The law cannot say that we shall not love each other. Now can it? It can only say that we are free to love some one else if we feel so inclined without being the least bit troubled by our marriage vows. But George and I are still married to each other, and we are still thinking of our marriage vows. The simple fact that we love each other proves a whole lot, now doesn't it, Simmy? We are divorced right enough,—South Dakota says so,—but we refuse to think of ourselves as anything but husband and wife, lover and sweetheart. Down in our hearts we loved each other more on the day the divorce was granted than ever before, and we've never stopped loving. I have not spoken a word to George in nearly three years—but I know that he has loved me every minute of the time. Naturally he does not think that I love him. He thinks that I despise him. But I don't despise him, Simmy. If he had followed his teachings he would now be married to some one else—some one of his mother's choosing—and I should be loathing him instead of feeling sorry for him. That would have convinced me that he was the rotter the world said he was when he turned against me. I tell you, Simmy, it is gratifying to know that the man you love is drinking himself to death because he's true to you."

"That's an extraordinary thing to say," said Simmy, squinting. "You are happy because that poor devil is—"

"Now don't say that!" she cried. "I didn't say I was happy. I said I was gratified—because he is true to me in spite of everything. I suppose it's more than you can grasp, Simmy,—you dear old simpleton." Her eyes were shining very brightly, and her cheeks were warm and rosy. "You see, it's my husband who is being true to me. Every wife likes to have that thing proved to her."

"Quixotic," said Simmy. "He isn't your husband, my dear."