Evening Republican, Volume 18, Number 207, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 2 September 1914 — Page 3

Human Documents of Married Life

Intimate and Human, Intensely Alive, Each Story Presenting a Problem Which Might Occur to Any One of Us at Any Time

WHY I LEFT HOME ®WAS an only child. This in itself would seem to be a' sufficient reason for a daughter to live at home. In my case it was not My mother was a sweetfaced, soft-spoken woman. One of my earliest recollections is of watching h,er making my dainty clothes, for she was deft with her fingers. I fancy I had a happy childhood, as childhoods go. There is a popular fiction that the happiest time of one’s life is when one is so young that one is absolutely under the control of one’s “governors, teachers, pastors and masters.” Perhaps it is, but as a small girl I longed often to have my own way. ’I told my father this once when I was but ten years of age. He smiled whimsically and patted my head. “Ah, little girl,” he expostulated, “how foolish you are! Here is your dad wishing that he need never decide what is right and what is wrong for himself, but that there was some one in whom he had perfect confidence who would say to him ’you x-ust do this,’ or ’you must not do that’ ” I was fond of novel-reading, but read only such books as my parents approved. I have wondered often since how it happened that I was in such complete subjectlbn to my father and mother. F know that there were at school girls who read what they pleased, but when I left home my mother had asked me to peruse only such books as she, my father, or the school principal recommended. I promised and kept the promise. My roommate was a singularly sweet, pureminded girl, and I cared for no other Intimates, although I was on pleasant terms with many of the other scholars. But I think all of them thought me too prim and particular to be much fun. So when I returned to my home at the end of my school career my fastidious mother and my anxious father found me as childlike and unsophisticated as when they had sent me from them. They had decided that I was not to go to college. I knew there had been a little discussion about this matter, but my father had very strong convictions along these lines. He wanted his daughter to be "all womanly,” and had a contempt, founded more upon prejudice than upon knowledge, of the typical college woman. While my mother’s views did not coincide in Svery particular with his, she was so anxious to keep me with her .that she readily accepted his decision against college. She needed me,* she said. She had been “so lonely” since I left and wanted me for her “very own friend and companion now and always." She told me this the night after I returned to the little home and the pretty room that had been “done over” for me. "So many of the girls I know are going to ’do things’ of some kind," I. informed her. “Mother, dear, is there any special line of work you Want me to take up? Do you want me to have some way of earning my living?” “No!” she said impulsively. “What I want is to have you to myself as long as I live, at least,” she added, “until you marry. And perhaps you may not do that Even then I would want you to live near me. I have sacrificed myself, and my own wishes, for the sake of having you educated, and I feel that I have the right to enjoy you now.”

“But,” I hesitated as I asked the question, “suppose that the time should come when I had to support myself—what could I do then?” “It won’t come, I hope,” she insisted. "And If it did —why, you write a beautiful hand. You can be a secretary—or something!” ' k Several years later I remembered that speech. The following evening my father and I had a long talk as we sat together on the veranda. Mother had a headache and had gone to hdr room early,'insisting, however, that I help her undress and see her comfortably in bed before joining my father where tye sat alone, smoking. “What have- you been doing?” he asked as I came out softly upon the veranda after leaving my mother in a peaceful sleep, soothed thereto by my gentle stroking of her aching head. When I told him he drew me down to a chair beside him. “Poor little girl,” he said banteringly, "you are already getting broken into work, aren’t you?” "Work!” I exclaimed, almost indignantly. "I don’t call it work to make poor, dear mother comfortable when she is’ill.” “It may get monotonous after a while,” he remarked dryly. And then he sighed. I asked no questions, but again in my heart was the old familiar ache for him and for my mother and the old puzzling question as to which I should sympathise with. Soon our talk drifted to my schqpl days, and, tentatively, I' said to him just what I had said to my mother the evening before about my acquiring some* way of earning a living. What did he think of it? He smoked for several minutes be-

By Virginia T. Van de Water

| fore he answered. Then he spoke slowly. “Well, daughter dear, I hope that I will be able to support you as long as I live, and when I die leave you enough i insurance to keep the wolf from the door.” "That’s what mother thinks,” I ex-plained,-“but how can you know what may happen? Mother says that all she wants me to do is to live at home and be company for her, and, while that sounds lovely for me, I do feel that one never knows when one may have to support herself.” "So your mother said that, did she?" he mused. Then, as If to himself: “That would be about all she would want, I suppose. And yet, it sounds a bit selfish.” I hastened to vindicate my mother. "Indeed, Daddy, she is not selfish! She only meant that she loves me so much.” i ' are many klhds of love, and some kinds are selfish," he insisted gravely. “And you are willing to have me live right ion here, unless, of course, something happens?” “I suppose that ’something' means your getting married,” he remarked, somewhat gruffly. “If I have my way that so-called happy event will not occiir for many years yet On this point at least your mother and I agree. Ido not believe she will ever want you to marry, eveiTwhen you are old enough, which you are not yet, thank heaven!"

An inexplicable impulse emboldened me to ask, "Why doesn’t mother want me to marry some time?” "Because she does not consider marriage a success,” he declared; then, as an afterthought, he said, “at. least most marriages.” "Hers is an exception/’ I suggested timidly. My father made no reply, but he pressed suddenly the hand he held, and I had difficulty in repressing an exclamation of -pain. Then he changed the subject, and talked of indifferent matters until, as the clock struck ten, my mother’s pleading voice called:’ ‘ “Bessie! Where are you? Won’t you get me a drink of water, dear?” I rose at once, but not so quickly that I did not hear my father’s impatient sigh. "I.„am sorry you have to go,” he said ruefully. "J find it pleasant to sit here and chat with you, Elizabeth.” ■ ‘ '• "I kissed him affectionately.. “Thank you for calling me Elizabeth, Daddy!” I said softly. “At school everybody called me that, but I just can’t get mother to do it” “One ‘just can’t get’ your mother to do anything she Is not in the habit of doing,” replied my father. I hurried away upstairs, wishing that he had not spoken that last sentence. Somehow It almost spoiled my memory of our evening together. My mother had never been very strong, but after my home-coming she succumbed more often than of old to her sick headaches and nervous attacks. Therefore almost all of the housekeeping tasks devolved upon me. My father used to say that it was too bad that this was the case, but that, nevertheless, he believed it was a good thing for a girl to know how to manage a household, and I voiced no complaint. I soon saw, however, that he did not fancy my taking the part of a slck-nurse. In fact, he protest ed vigorously against it within a few months after my return from school. It was a glorious October day, and when he came home from business he found me in my mother’s room, reading to her. After asking about her head, and regretting that she was “sick again,” he turned to me. “Have you been out today, daughter?" he asked.

“No, sir.” “Why not?” “I did not want to leave mother alone when she was suffering,” I explained. To me the reason seemed all-sufficient. But his face darkened. “Alone!” he exclaimed. “Isn’t Nora downstairs?” “My mother interposed. “Yes, Tom, of course she is; but downstairs isn’t up here. And what good is a servant when one is in?” “Just as much good as she has been for the five years that she has lived with us,” declared my father. "When Elizabeth was away you managed to survive comfortably with Nora’s ministrations. Now this ctyld is always doing duty as a sick-nurse. It is not fair.” i f I interrupted him with: “Daddy! That is not fair! I love to be with mother, and would stay even if she insisted on my going out” . My mother closed her eyes and lay very still for a moment Then she put her hand to her head and moaned. “Is the pain so bad?” I queried anxiously. “ . “Awful!” she whispered.” This kind of thing is hilling me. If it wasn’t for you I would want to die.” I knelt by her and put my arms around her. “Can I do anything for you before I go downstairs?” I asked her gently. “Oh, no! I don’t wish to detain you from your father for a moment I know you want to get down to him

THE EVENING REPUBLICAN, RENSSELAER, IND.

and that he will be waiting for you. I am used to being alone." I hesitated. "Dear," I pleaded, "you know that I will not leave you if you are lonely and suffering. I will wait for my dinner until you feel better." But she shook her head. “No, child, go down. It will only make it harder for me if you don’t But do not send me up anything to eat until you have finished. Then bring it up to me yourself. And if your father goes out tonight will you mind sitting up here with me? I shall be lonely." “I will comfe up whether he goes out or not” I said. ' I had told my mother that I had been invited to spend the evening With Mary lane, a girl friend living near u/, but she had evidently forgotten the fact. I would not remind her of it

Nevertheless, being young, I was * disappointed. I bad anticipated a jolly evening, for half a dozen girls and young men had been asked to Mary’s house, and her parents always made her friends welcome. I did not entertain, for my mother was made nervous by the thought of company, and my father, being a mere man, did not appreciate how much girls like good times in their own homes. But he did want me to have simple pleasures and, strangely enough, recollected just as we finished dinner that I had “said something about some affair for tonight.” I hastened to state that unless mother was better I would not leave her. I tried to speak as if it made no difference, but he must have fancied a wistful note in my voice, for he said quickly: "You must go, Elizabeth. I be at home all the evening, and will listen for your mother.” He glanced at his watch. “What time are you due at Mrs. Lane’s?” "At half-past eight” "Well, run awdy and dress at once," he commanded. "But mother’s dinner —” I began. "Norah will attend to that,” he said. "She doesn’t want Norah to take it up, daddy,” I expostulated. “I told her I would do it” “And I tell you you will not,” he said firmly. “It is time this nonsense stopped.” , I looked at him, startled. “I mean,” he explained, “that when a servant and a husband are on hand to fetch and carry there is no need of you sacrificing yourself both day and night And while lam here you shall not do it. I will carry your mother’s dinner to her.” Although the evening at Mary Lane’s was pleasant, the memory of what had gone before it lurked in the depths of my consciousness all the while. My father came for me at the time appoinred to take me home. When I Inquired how my mother was he replied briefly that she was asleep, and T asked no more questions. But as he kissed me good night at the door of my room he drew me to him in a sudden embrace. "Dear little girl,” he said, "but for you I should be very lonely!" The words were those used by my mother that afternoon. They repeated themselves to me until I fell asleep.

I went out little that year and the next. I found that my mother really needed me; at least, that she was cheerful when I remained with her, but that, when I had been out of the house for a few hours, she was sure to be depressed, and that her depression almost invariably culminated in a sick headache. But I also learned that my father had little patience with this depression, and, to keep the peace, I pretended to him that society bored me, and that I did not care for teas, receptions, and the like. Sometimes when my mother would speak slightingly ,of my father I tried to call her attention to his many good characteristics, but I was always met by a frigid silence or the remark: ‘•You are but a girl. How should you know what men are?” Thus matters stood for eighteen months after my graduation. On my second Christmas as a home-daughter there occurred a scene which made upon my mind and feelings a lasting impression. My father had learned from Mary Lane that she was again planning for an evening of merriment at her home, and he Insisted on my attending the festivities. This he did in my mother’s presence a few days before Christmas, adding that as he had an engagement himself that night he would stop and bring me home on his return. My mother compressed her lips, but said nothing. I had an intuition that she was awaiting developments, and I felt vaguely uncomfortable. Then the matter passed from my mind, until at supper on Christmas evening she said to my father, as if to test him: “Have you a very Important engagement tonight?* /He started slightly. "Only a call I am going* to make," he said. "Upon whom?" she asked. He met her gaze as directly as she met his. “On Mrs.. Framingham,” he answered. * "I was sure of that," she asserted coldly. “Then why did yon ask?” quired my father, with a sarcastic smile. > “Because I oould hardly believe '

.what my woman’s Instinct warned me was true," replied my mother. I looked from one to the other, puzzled. I knew Mrs. Framingham', a graceful, attractive widow, at least forty-five years old, who had often called at our house and whose busband, dead now for tWo years, had been my father’s friend. What more natural, I thought, than that my tether should run in to see her in her loneliness on this holiday night? Father evidently thought as I did, and said as much. J‘No explanations are necessary," affirmed my mother, "at least,” she added, with a glance at me, “where your young and innocent daughter is." My father sprang to his feet. His face was pale and his eyes as hard as steel. "Since you have made that speech,” he declared, “where your ‘young and innocent daughter* is, you will please explain it to her.” v “I decline to do anything of the kind,” said my mother. “When she is older she will understand only too well, I fear, what life and men are. Until then, if she can love yo»fT will let her do so.” A wave of angry contempt swept over me. I looked from one to the other as if I had never really known dither before. -Yet, in the turmoil of emotions that possessed me, I found it within me to see the justice of my father’s stand. My mother, not he, had started the discussion in my presence. I pushed my chair back from the table with a brief, “Excuse me!” and started to leave the room. My mother stopped me. “Stay where you are!" she commanded. “You always champion your tether just because I have never told you my side of any trouble between us. Now, since your father seems not to object to your knowing the truth, you may see for yourself how things stand.” "I do not care to see or hear either side," I- insisted, frightened at my own temerity. "You are right, Elizabeth,” said my father gravely. “As your mother has just said, you will know life soon enough without being dragged into painful scenes In which you have no concern. You may leave the room now if you want to.” But, as I passed my mother's chair she held out her arms to mo with a moan: "Oh, Bessie, Bessie! my only comfort, don’t go like this! It will kill me if you, too, turn against me!” I threw my arms about her and began to cry. When I lifted my head from her shoulder my father’s chair was empty. He had quietly left the room. I know that he did not make the proposed call that evening for, an hour later, when

I went downstairs to telephone to Mary Lane that my mother was too far from well for me to go out, I saw under his door a streak of light, and heard him walking up and down for a long time afterward. All that evening I sat by my mother’s couch, stroking her aching head, and letting her talk out her griefs. I entered her room a girl, simple hearted and trustful; I came out of it at bedtime a puzzled, distrustful, disappointed woman. And it was my own mother who had wrought this change In me, for she had told me that my father cared more for another woman than for her or for me. She spoke of “love passages” between him and Mrs. Framingham. At first I was too sick at heart to ask any questions. Then my better self asserted Its rights to learn what evidence she had against the man who had been a tender father to me, and I asked: “How do you know these things? What proofs have you?” “I am no fool,” she retorted, “and I have kept my eyes open, and have watched, as any wife should do if she would keep her husband’s love." In.the dark I smiled bitterly. Is this the way women keep love? I wondered. “But, mother,” I pleaded, "suspicions are not proof." ' My mother laughed sarcastically. "It is my fault, I suppose, that you are so unsophisticated. It is because of my mistaken loyalty to your father that I have held my peace and kept you In ignorance. Now it is your right to know the truth.” '.‘Why?” I queried again. “So that; you may appreciate just what kind of a man he is," she declared, with such absolute lack of logic that I asked no more. Then she went on to say that since I would not believe what she told me I might watch developments myself, if I could not take the word of my own mother. But she had never thought that her “own child would take sides against her." As usual, weak fear gripped me at the thought of displeasing her. I told her that I did not mean to wound her, that J “only wanted to be just” “I should think you might trust me in this matter," she complained. “After all I have borne for you, after all I have done for you and sacrificed for you from babyhood, my word ought to go for something!” I felt conscience-smitten. Peace lay in accepting her statements, and under the stress of her reproaches and tears I found myself yielding weakly and assuring her that I was sorry that I had seemed lacking in sympathy, and that I would "do anything to make her hap-py—-anything!” Little by little I quieted her, but I did not leave her until after the clock had struck twelve and she had sunk into a deep sleep. Then I stole away to my own room and lay awake through the remainder of the night The next morning, after breakfast to which my mother did not descend, my father told me that he wished to see me alone in the library. He said, as he closed the door behind us, that he did not wish to drag me into any discussions between himself and my r « ' -

mother. "The man who tells anybody, even his own daughter, of his quarrels with bls wife is a bounder and cad,” he stated. “Moreover, I love you too much to wish to make you unhappy by touching upon any question of which you have not already heard enough to make you uncomfortable. But, child, all I ask is that you will trust me until you see reason for distrust" , I could hold my peace no longer. “But, tether, mother is so unhappy! Forgive me, but why do you do the things she hates to have you do?" “Such as what?” he asked gently. I stammered and flushed. “I hardly know what some of them are,” I admitted confusedly. "But Ido know that mother does .not like you to go to see Mrs. Framingham.” “Why?” The question staggered me. I did not know just why, and I spoke timidly. “Well, I think she feels that you belong to her, that you are married to her, and that you should give all your time to her." “She would be bored to death if I did,” he rejoined. I shook my head sadly. I was puzzled and miserable, and went out of the room without further comment. This condition of affairs at home decided me to accept an alluring invitatlon received the following day. A girl whom I had known at boarding school had married a wealthy man and had a handsome home In New York. We lived in a suburban town an hour from the metropolis. Edith Warren wrote asking me to spend several days with her, and although, when at school, she and I had had few tastes in common, I gladly embraced the opportunity of getting away from home and its problems. As I have said before, my mother was fond of providing pretty clothes for me, and had always taken a certain pride In my appearance. So, while my wardrobe was not elaborate, it was dainty, and I had no need to be ashamed of my costumes in the midst of the more elegantly gowned company in which I found myself at the Warrens’. I recognized at once the fact that, what my hostess called “the crowd” that frequented her home were what, might be termed a rich Bohemian set —not the refined kind of persons whom I had met In the limited circle chosen for me by my parents. Perhaps because I was unhappy I did not object to the unconventional manners of these people. They made me laugh, they gave me a good time —that was all I cared about I met one man who encouraged me to talk freely to him when we were alone together. Gradually he learned that I was not cbntent at home, although I did not tell him why. I acknowledged to him that of late I had been longing to be independent, to earn my own living, to come and go freely, as did many women. He listened • with sympathy, then asked me what Ficould do. I told him that all I was fitted for was to be some sort of a secretary. He sup* gested that he needed in his office a person who could write well. Perhaps If, later, I wanted this position I would let him know. I was half frightened at the offer, but promised to remember it The salary he mentioned took away my breath, but I tried not to look astonished. I knew nothing of the remuneration received by secretaries without experience, so I expressed no surprise.

On the last night of my visit to New York we all went to the play. The piece was a rollicking musical comedy, and I enjoyed it thoroughly. But as we were leaving the theater, and I was laughing at some witty remark of my escort, the laugh suddenly died on my lips. In the crowd surging out of the doors in front of us I saw my. father and with him, chatting gaily, was Mrs. Framingham. Even as I watched I saw father hail* a passing cab and help Mrs. Framingham into it, then get in himself. I was near enough to hear him name the restaurant to which he wished to be driven; I heard him call out, "Hurry, for we have a train to make at twelvethirty!” My mother was excitedly glad to see me back, but she listened to my account of my visit with what I saw was but half-hearted Interest As I sat in my usual place by her couch —for she had another headache—l wondered if she suspected that my father had taken another woman to the theater and to supper, and had not reached home until the early morning hours, while she lay there suffering with nervousness and, perhaps, wondering where he was. I could not forgive my father this deception. Why did people marry, anyhow? I had forgotten thus far in my musings when my mother’s sharp tone startled me from iqy seeming calm- ' ness. > “I have the proof that you asked for the other night,” she said suddenly. "I can show you now what your father is.” She drew from the pocket of her wrapper a letter addressed to my father. Pulling It from the envelope that held it, she read it to me so rapidly that she was half-way through ft before I attempted to check her. Then my protest was in vain, for, with a sharp "Be quiet!” she continued. The letter was signed "Ida.” I knew that was Mrs. Framingham’s first name, but I did not know anyone except the members of her family called her that —least of all my father. began "Dev Tom,” and said that "the suggested plan” suited bar perfectly, that she would be ready at the time he named, and added, "You are too good to, Yours gratefully, Ida." "You see," exclaimed my mother triumphantly, “what kind of a man he Is! Now will you defend him?" “Did he show you that letter?” I asked, perplexed. She looked at me with amazement

“Show it to me, child? He, * guilty man, show hi* wife a letter like that? Never!” I rose to my feet and stood looking at her. "Then," I asked slowly “where did you get it?" Her eyes did not fall before my questioning gaze. Her habit of selfjustification kept her from any sensation of shame. "The postman handed it to me several days ago. -Norah was out, and I went into the kitchen and steamed the envelope over the teakettle, read the letter, then, while the mucilage was still damp, sealed it again, putting it under a book to press It tight shut. I took it out just before your father came home. I handed it to him, and he did not have the grace to blush. Afterward I looked In the pocket of the eoat he wore that day and got It out to show to you.” I still stood looking at her. She held out her hand to me. "You look sick, darling!” she exclaimed. "No wonder you do, confronted with such proof as that against the father you have loved!" I wet my dry lips with my tongue before I could speak. My voice sounded harsty and.lifeless. I did not take a step toward my mother. “The proof against my father is not all that hurts* me,” I said. “To think that you, his wife and my mother, should steal his mail, open it, read it, give it to him in an innocent way, then steal it again to prove to me that he is as bad as you paint him —oh, I cannot stand it!” With a groan, I burled my face in my hands. At this moment the door opened and my father entered. He stopped short at sight of me, and his eyes fell upon the letter lying on the floor between my mother and myself. Darting forward, he snatched it up. “Where did this come from?” he asked quickly. Then, a* no one answered, he turned sharply to his wife. “You stole this, did you?” he sneered. “I took it to show your daughter just what you are,” my mother said sullenly. “The time ha* come for her to choose between us.” My father glanced at the letter, then thrust it into his pocket. He laid his hand on my arm. “Child,” he said, "there is nothing evil in that letter. I asked a woman friend to go out with me. She accepted, and we went That is all there is to it I Swear it before Heaven!” He caught my hand* in hl* apd drew them from my face. "I saw you with her,” I said dully. "Where?" exclaimed my mother, starting to her feet. “Tell me where you saw him? Where did ho take that woman?” She sprang at me and shook me as she used to do when I was a little child four years old. Her face wa* transfigured with rage, her eye* blazed. My tether laid his bated on her arm, but she jerked away from him. “I will have the truth!” she shrilled. "You despise me because I read your father's letter, and yet you aid and abet him in all hl* evil! Oh, Godt Aad this i* the child that I loved!" I tried to calm her. “Mother!" I expostulated. "Be reasonable! Listen to me! I knew nothing of where father was going, except that I saw him the other day on the street in New York" I checked myself. Already she wa* making me lie. What had become of my sense of honor, of my clear idea* of right and wrong? I caught my father’s eye and was silent My riiother turned to him. "Aren’t you ashamed of yourself!” she gasped. “But of course you aren’t! Not satisfied with ruining my happiness, you hide behind this child’* skirts! Now is the chance to tell me the truth, if you ever do ten it How far has this thing gone?" . “What thing?" he asked, as if to gain time. "This affair between you and —that woman!" she sneered. "What does that note mean?" ''That she and I are good friends," he said coldly, without any spark of excitement. “That she had a legal matter to attend to in New York, and that I offered to take her to the office of a lawyer who could fix It up for her.” "I wonder if tfiat is true,” my mother muttered, looking from my father to me. . ’ "Believe it or not as you please," said he, turning away. I stood silent until he reached the door. In the moment since he had finished speaking I had made .up my mind.

“Father and mother,” I said, “I think it is as well to tell you now that I have accepted a position as secretary Un New York. I am twenty-one, you know, and old enough to be caring far myself. And I want to leave home.” My mother died five years ago. She never knew the truth of that first fearful year in New York, nor guessed that the man who engaged me as secretary was as bed as he was attractive. I acquired my knowledge of life and evil from personal experience when I was a woman grown. After my mother’s death my father camo to live with me in my tiny apartment, the rent of which I paid from my salary as social secretary to a wealthy society woman who had been kind to me. When those first hideous experiences were dead and buried, and were only a sickening memory, I told my father a part of the pitiful story. He could not understand how such dreadful things could happen to a girl who had .been “so carefully brought * up.” (Copyright by Moffat, Yard A Co.) A great exposition will be held at Dusseldorf in 1915 to show what Germany has. accomplished in the last century in almost every field of hu- -