Now and then an uneasy qualm stirred the would-be comfortable soul of the wife as to how much or how little Arthur speculated within his sober soul upon the probable cost of her new outfit. There were two thousand dollars deposited in her name, and drawing interest in a Brooklyn Savings Bank. The rich aunt had given her namechild three-quarters of it from time to time. The young couple had saved the rest, and it was tacitly understood that it should not be touched except of necessity. No landmark in her new career was more pronounced than Susie’s resort to this fund for the equipment without which her dawning social success would, she felt, lapse into obscurity more ignominious than that from which she had emerged. She must have the things represented by the money, and intoxicated though she was, she had still too much sense and conscience to deplete her husband’s purse to the extent demanded by the exigency. He would have opened an artery to gratify her, had heart’s blood been coin, but she knew he would look grave and pained did he suspect her visits to the Bank and their result.
He was sober enough, nowadays, without additional cause of discomfort. When questioned, he averred that all was going right at the Bank, and that he was well. Nor would he confess to loneliness on the evenings when she was obliged to leave him in obedience to Kitty’s summons to rehearsal or consultation in some of the countless schemes of amusement the two were all the while concocting.
“Don’t trouble yourself to come for me or to sit up for me, dear,” the pleasure-monger would entreat in bidding him “good-by.” “I’ll have one of the maids call for me,” or “I have a carriage,” or—and after a time this was most frequent of all—“Jack Hitt is always very obliging about bringing me home.”
With a smile upon his lips and gravity she did not read in his eyes, he would hand her to the carriage, or commit her to the spruce maid, hoping that she would have a pleasant evening, and having stood upon the steps until she was no longer in sight, would go back—as she supposed—to sitting room or book. Whereas, it grew to be more and more a habit with him to turn into the nursery instead, and sit there in the dark until he heard the bustle of her return below-stairs. He invariably sat up for her—she never asked why or where. The fire burned cheerily to welcome her, and the offices of maid, assumed, in the beginning in loverly supererogation, half jest, half caress, were now duty and habit. Upon one point he was resolute. If she went to bed late, she must sleep late next morning. This was a matter of health, a concession she owed those to whom her health was all-important.
The two older children had breakfasted with their parents for a year, and he made much of their company when their mother was not the fourth of the party. Sometimes he sent for the baby as well, holding her on his knee with one hand, while the other managed coffee cup and toast.
Susie surprised him thus one morning, having awakened unsummoned, and dressed hastily that she might see him before he went out.
“Arthur Cornell!” The ejaculation was the first intimation he had of her presence. “You spoil the children and make a slave of yourself! Where is their nurse?”
“Don’t blame Ellen, dear!” checking her motion toward the bell. “I sent for the children. They are very good, and I enjoy their company.”
Mrs. Cornell flushed hotly; her lips were compressed.
“I understand! After this, I will make a point of giving you your breakfast. It was never my wish to lie in bed until this hour.”