John Strange Winter

When we are in trouble we often take means to comfort ourselves that we should utterly despise in others.

Mrs. Whittaker in no way faltered in her resolve to win back Alfred to his old allegiance. The dinner was excellent.

“A very good bit of salmon,” said Alfred, looking inquiringly at his wife as he held the fish server and fork suggestively toward the dish; “you will have a bit more, dearest?”

“A little bit more,” said Regina.

In spite of the blow which had fallen upon her she was honestly and genuinely hungry. To a woman who lives well and eats her three meals a day, to say nothing of a very good tea thrown in, the loss of a meal is a very serious matter. Muffins, though consoling, are not possessed of much staying power, and Regina was, in spite of being so upset, genuinely famished.

“Cook is improving in her sharp sauce,” Alfred went on cheerfully as he helped himself a second time. “I often think,” he continued, “what a lucky thing it is that salmon is a summer fish, it is such a refreshing dish in hot weather.”

“Yes, I confess I like a bit of salmon myself,” said Regina, rather tamely.

Julia looked up. Something in her mother’s tone struck her as unusual. “Don’t you feel well to-day, mother?” she asked.

Alfred looked up sharply. “Don’t you feel all right?”

“Yes, quite all right,” she replied; “I think I want to get away.”

“You’re over-doing it,” said Alfred in genial yet uneasy tones. “Why don’t you take a little rest—not a holiday, but a rest from your outside work? You’re over-doing it.”

“I think so too,” said Regina. “I went down to the offices to-day and told them to prepare my resignation as President of the S.R.W.”

“Mother!” cried Julia in sharp staccato accents.

“Oh, come, come, you needn’t say ‘mother’ in that tone. It is the best bit of news I have heard for a long time. My dear, I look toward you—Stay, we’ll have a glass of fizz on the strength of it. Margaret, here, take my keys, go down to the cellar, look in bin marked number three and bring up a bottle.”

“Large or small, sir?”

“Oh, a large one.”

“If you did not like it, Alfred, I wish you had told me before,” said Regina, as the door closed behind Margaret.

“It isn’t that I did not like it, or that I grudged your amusing yourself in your own way, or making your life interests in your own way, but when I see you looking so worn and harried, so pulled down and fagged out—well, I naturally begin to wonder where it is going to end.”

“I’m getting older,” said Regina.

“Nonsense, nonsense, fiddle-faddle! we’re all getting older, as a matter of fact, but you are still a young woman in the very prime of life. When you have had a good change and a little sea air, when you give yourself a little more ease and a little more personal indulgence, you’ll look ten years younger, my dear child, ten years younger.”

Regina only replied by a smile. At that moment Margaret came back carrying, with the care of a thoroughly well-trained parlor-maid, the bottle of champagne in which they were to drink, as Alfred put it five minutes later, to the degeneration of Mrs. Whittaker.

“They’ll be very angry, they’ll never replace you,” he went on, leaning back in his chair and nursing his stomach in the manner peculiar to elderly gentlemen who do not despise their dinner; “I think they ought to give you a diamond star to show their appreciation of the star you have been to them.”

“I hope not,” said Regina, decidedly.

“Don’t fuss yourself,” put in Julia, whose fears for her mother were somewhat allayed; “they won’t. I notice that when women give things to women it is generally something they’ve got cheap. They’ll give you an illuminated address, no doubt, and you can frame it and hang it in the hall.”

“Not in the hall,” said Regina, who was not strong in the point of humor, “not in the hall, Julia darling.”

After that the evening passed over very quietly. Julia ran over to the house of Marksby and was seen no more till bed-time. Alfred sat down in his own special easy-chair in the cool, pleasant drawing-room, and, over a pretence of reading the newest art journal, gently dosed off into slumber, and Regina, in her corresponding chair in the big bow window, sat and thought she would leave nothing to chance. As for fate, she would brave it. Like her husband, she was making a pretence of reading, and as she sat thinking things over she became conscious that she was looking at the portrait of a very beautiful woman, exquisite in face, elegant in figure, luxuriously gowned. The journal she was holding in her hand was one devoted to feminine interests, and this was an interview with a lady very highly placed in Society. Some impulse made Regina turn to the beginning of the article and read it. “Devoted mother, idolized wife, adored chÂtelaine, the lady bountiful of her village, her highest aim is gratified in being her husband’s countess.” There was a portrait of the husband, who, in Regina’s eyes, was not to be named in the same twelvemonth with the noble Alfred sleeping on the other side of the room. There were pictures of the children, of her ladyship’s boudoir, of her village school and her cottage hospital. “The world has but little attraction for the beautiful subject of our sketch,” the article ended; “she is seen occasionally at Court and at great functions, as a part of her duties, but that is all. Her heart is in her beautiful country home with her husband and her children, and there she shares the joys and sorrows of all who are brought in touch with the great historic name which she bears.”

Regina’s heart was stirred by new and conflicting emotions. She had, all her life, thought much of those who could be credited with working for eternity, whose toil was to benefit the whole world, to whom the personal touch had but small value. The picture of this great lady with her indisputable charms of beauty and disposition, came to her with an alluring sense of restfulness; here was one who wished to be far removed from the struggles of a contentious world, and somehow there came a second picture which linked itself with the first in a strange sweetness, the picture of an anxious, busy housewife, eager to honor the great guest, and through the summer night there seemed to float to Regina’s disturbed senses that simple, soft and sweet reproach, that was only a little bit of a reproach, “she hath chosen the better part and it shall not be taken away.” Yes, she was glad that she had laid the train for the resignation of her presidential office, she was glad that she was going to be all in all to her husband and children—well, husband and child. Perhaps before long Julia would take wings and fly away from the old nest as her sister had done before her. But Alfred would remain, and she determined in that soft summer evening hour that for Alfred’s sake she would choose the better part, and her title to honor should be within rather than without doors. Having arrived at this point in her thoughts, she began idly turning over the leaves of the journal in her hand. It contained nothing of particular interest to Regina; there were accounts of entertainments given by people to whom she was unknown; there was a page devoted to fashionable weddings, including a portrait of her own girl and of Harry Marksby, and a glowing account of the wedding just gone by; and then she came to a column of answers to correspondents which appeared under the heading of “Feminine Wants.” Regina’s heart gave a sick thrill as she saw the two words, “Feminine Wants.” The woes of womanhood seemed to crowd in upon her in an overwhelming wave of sorrow and desolation. Doubtless other women had suffered more than she had done. The first answer ran, “Humming Bird. I am so sorry for you, poor little thing, bravely struggling along in your little flat without a servant to do the rough work. Keep a brave heart, little wife, and always make a toilette for dinner. I know this may sound ridiculous, and I do not mean you to put on a low-necked dress, or commit any folly of that kind, but when you have set your dinner in train, go and dress yourself. Change your day dress for a silk blouse, do your hair smartly and neatly, have a smile ready for ‘him’ when he comes home, for he is just as tired and ready for refreshment as you are. You will enjoy your dinner twice as well if you have a little change in your gear, and you can easily put the dinner things on one side to be washed up in the morning. Be sure, after doing any dirty work, to wash your hands thoroughly with a spoonful of Lux in the water, then rub in a mixture of equal parts of glycerine and lemon juice. This will keep your hands soft and white. Write to me again if there is any way in which I can help you.”

Regina drew a long breath. It was hard on the little soul to have no servant, but, after all, they were boy and girl together; no hussy had crept in to dispute her kingdom. At that moment Regina would cheerfully have consented to wash dishes and clean doorsteps for the price of Alfred’s undivided affection.

“Sad Maudie,” was the next reply. “Yes, you are, indeed a sad Maudie, and I am truly sorry for you, for I well know the trouble that acne gives.” “Acne—that’s something to do with the skin,” said Regina to herself. “Send me a stamped and addressed envelope, and I will send you a prescription which will do wonders for this troublesome complaint. I would insert it here, but my editor does not like me to deal with medical matters in this column.”

“Cheerful Sally. It is not etiquette to introduce callers when they meet in your drawing-room. Life would become utterly impossible if one were liable to meet one’s next-door neighbor, whom one had taken infinite pains to avoid, when merely paying a call. I should be very strict on this point if I were you, particularly as you are a newcomer in your neighborhood.”

Regina gave a sniff of disgust and passed on.

“Delia W. My dear Delia, you can’t be old and faded at your age, but you have let anxiety and worry get the better of you, and you should remedy these ill-effects at once. Go to Mrs. Vansittant, the famous beauty specialist, and put yourself unreservedly in her hands. It will cost you a few guineas, but to win your heart’s love, what is that?”

A sudden resolution seized hold of Regina. She would write to the editress of “Feminine Wants.” She got up softly and went to her writing-table.