Tom’s advance in the social world was synchronous. The ladies who give teas are the sort who care for unattached young men. They are unhappily married, or at least unsatisfyingly so: if they have children they wish to get free of loving them too much. Grown sons can be admired safely in a surrogate: grown daughters can be restrained from mastery in a fierce competition. The smart young man may be a weapon and a drug for the woman nearing forty with social honors to defend. He serves to protect her from life and to supply her with it. The relation has its hazards. It must run the course of the golden mean. The man must not really love, not really win his lady. For her sake, as for his. If she gives herself consciously to him, she will begin at once to bully him like a son or to use him up like a husband. He will become both son and husband instead of the escape from them. She will simply repeat her family failures concentratedly upon him. He will no longer provide a cure for her life. He will stand on the brink of disaster or dismissal.
Through no prescience and no conscious cunning; rather by the balance of his nature, Tom was made for such a rôle. And Laura Duffield needed him.
Meantime had come the climax of her troubles, Mrs. Duffield was getting a divorce. It was being borne in on her that her husband was nearly bankrupt and that her alimony would be in ironic contrast to the demands of her position. Her way of living was no small part of her “morality.” It was menaced.
Deems Duffield was a broker. For fifteen years he had made a debauch of his life and won from it a rare measure of content. When at last Mrs. Duffield decided on divorce, his fortune—his last fortune—had gone the way of his self-respect. It was plain that there would be difficulty in keeping Farge at College. Fortunately, Marcia had no educational conceits. She was at ease with a few lovely gowns: she was informed with a spirit of shrewd economy that amazed her improvident mother. Duffield seldom saw his children: which Marcia considered rather silly. “Why not? He’s delightful company.” She had the wit to enjoy him, perhaps potentially the depravity not to be concerned with his. But Farge was dully loyal and not on speaking terms with his prodigal father. Duffield’s ruinous irresponsibility had broken his son’s spirit. In the example of his father’s evil charm, Farge lost that brusque approach to the demands of life which mark off certain men from the hordes of the mediocre. His cynicism was inept, his anger impotent: his confidence was gone. Adversely, her father’s nature went toward the making of Marcia. It taught her to swim nimbly between rocks, love danger, understand the world. Her cynicism became a deadly intuition of the channels of success: her anger was a sheath preventing the incisions of sentiment and pity: her break with childish faith marked the emergence of a design based on that faith’s falsity. It seemed to her a trait far too emotional in her mother to be angry at the man who had ruined them all.
“Leave him be! You know he’s amusing to talk to. Never worry, Mamma. Soon as I’m tired of this I’ll get married and fix you for life.”
There was no slightest doubt in Mrs. Duffield of Marcia’s capacity to keep her promise.
From her confidence in part came the inspiration to bear up, to borrow dangerous sums of money. For years the Duffields had been spending twice what came in: he on his Broadway favorites, she on her social equipage. But even after Duffield’s strike against paying for his wife’s affairs, even after the first skirmishes of the divorce with their cold proof that the clever broker would be able to escape with a scant alimony, her social functions remained brilliant, her head remained high. Laura Duffield was playing the rôle her faith, her one faith, sanctified. She needed the confessional of youth for the strength to do so.
One last time, her husband called on her. A smooth, stout, suave man: smartly groomed, full of sweet words, twinkling of eye.
“Laura,” he said, “it will be bad business for us both if you insist on this divorce. And the worst goes to you. I can weigh in to a mighty small income, of which half, dear, will be yours. Most of my winnings are of a sort, my dear, that it would make Justice blush to have to rule on. So, considerate gentleman that I am, I must hide from the Judge what might prove embarrassing. Hand in hand, you and I can bear up and have no fear. For all that is mine is thine. But, dear, if you insist on this legal separation you must be satisfied with what will turn out to be your legal separation from my money. You would faint, beloved, if I told you what you may expect.”
Mrs. Duffield saw the very grim reality in his threat: knew as alone the social officer knows what misery of deceit and sordidness the want of funds must bring to the fulfillment of the one life she could live. She answered: