The Widow [To Say Nothing of the Man]

by Helen Rowland

  XI

  THE WIDOW'S DEAL.

  "WHO is the ideal woman?" asked the widow pensively, laying down herembroidery hoop and clasping her hands behind her head.

  The bachelor blew a smoke ring reflectively and squinted through it atthe widow.

  "You've got powder on your nose!" he remarked disapprovingly.

  The widow snatched up a diaphanous lace handkerchief and began rubbingher nose.

  "Have I got too much on?" she asked anxiously.

  "Any," replied the bachelor, with dignified scorn, "is too much--in aman's eyes."

  The widow laughed and stopped rubbing her nose.

  "But it isn't in his eyes," she protested, "if it is put on soartistically that he doesn't see it. Getting it on straight is such anart!" and the widow sighed.

  "Black art, you mean," exclaimed the bachelor disgustedly. "A made-upwoman is like paste jewelry and imitation bric-a-brac. She looks cheapand unsubstantial and as though she wouldn't wear well. Even grantingthat you aren't half good enough for us----"

  "What!"

  "And that you don't come up to our standards----"

  The widow dropped her embroidery hoop and sat up with blazing eyes.

  "You flatter yourself, Mr. Travers!"

  "No, I don't!" retorted the bachelor. "It's you who flatter us, when youthink it necessary to plaster over your defects and put additions onyour figures and rouge on your cheeks and frills on your manners. As amatter of fact," he added decisively, "a man's ideal is a natural womanwith a natural complexion and natural hair and natural ways and naturalself-respect."

  The widow sighed and took up her embroidery hoop again.

  "I used to think so, too," she said sadly.

  The bachelor lifted his eyebrows inquiringly.

  "Before I discovered," she explained, "that it was just as often awoman with butter-colored hair and a tailor-made figure and a 'past' anda manufactured 'bloom of health.' The truth is," she concluded, stabbingher needle very carefully into the centre of an unhealthy looking greensilk rose, "that no two men admire the same woman, and no one manadmires the same thing in two women. Now, there's Miss Gunning, whowears a sweater and says 'damn' and is perfectly natural andself-respecting and----"

  "No man gets ecstatic over a bad imitation of himself!" expostulated thebachelor.

  "Then why," said the widow, laying down her needle and fixing thebachelor with a glittering eye, "do you spend so much time on the golflinks, and out driving and hunting and walking with her?"

  "Because," explained the bachelor, meekly, "she sometimes hits the ball,and she can sit in her saddle without being tied there, and she doesn'tgrab the reins nor call a 'hoof' a 'paw.' But," he added fervently, "I'dtake my hat and run if she asked me to spend my life with her."

  "Oh, well," the widow tossed her head independently. "She won't. MissGunning can take care of herself."

  "That's just it!" pursued the bachelor. "The very fact that she can takecare of herself and get across gutters alone and pick up things forherself and handle her own horse and beat me at golf and tennis, takesaway that gratifying sense of protection--"

  "And superiority," interposed the widow softly.

  "That a man likes to feel toward a woman," concluded the bachelor,ignoring her. "Muscle and biceps and a 32-inch waist," he added, "are'refreshing,' but in time they get on your nerves. It may not be immoralfor a dear little thing to say 'damn,' but it affects a man just as itwould to hear a canary bird squawking like a parrot. When a chap isgoing for a walk cross country he may pick out the girl with the strideand the strong back, who can leap a fence and help herself over puddles,to accompany him, but when he is ready for a walk to the altar henaturally prefers somebody who understands the art of leaning gently onthe masculine arm and who hasn't any rough edges or----"

  "Sharp points of view," suggested the widow.

  "Or opinions on the equality of the sexes," added the bachelor.

  "Or on politics."

  "Or the higher life."

  "Or on anything but the latest way to curl her hair and make over ahat," finished the widow. "Isn't it funny," she added thoughtfullytwisting a French knot into the centre of the sickly green rose, "howmany men idealize a fool?"

  The bachelor started.

  "I---I beg your pardon," he stammered.

  "All a woman has got to know in order to wear a halo," went on thewidow, calmly fastening the French knot with a jerk of her needle, "ishow to keep it on straight. All a man demands of her is the negativevirtues and the knowledge of how not to do things; how not to think, hownot to argue, how not to nag, how not to theorize, how not to beathletic, how not to spend money, how not to take care of herself, hownot----"

  "You've got your ideas into a French knot!" broke in the bachelordesperately. "You're all tangled up in the thread of your argument. Itisn't how not to do things but how to do them that is important to awoman. It isn't what she does but how she does it that matters. She maycommit a highway murder or low down burglary; and if she does it in aruffled skirt and a picture hat any man will forgive her. Her moralsmay be as crooked and dark as a lane at midnight; but if her manners aresmooth and gentle and guileless and tender she can deceive the cleverestman alive into believing her a nun. It isn't what she says but how shesays it that counts. There are some women who could read your deathwarrant or repeat the multiplication table in such a confiding voice andwith such a tender glance that you would want to take them in your armsand thank them for it. It isn't what a woman wears but how she wears it;it's not her beauty nor her talents nor her frocks that make herfascinating, but her ways, the little earmarks of femininity that Godput on every creature born to wear petticoats; and if she's got thoseshe may be a Lucretia Borgia or a Bloody Mary at heart; she may bebrown or yellow or pale green; she may be old or young, big or little,stupid or clever, and still wear a beautiful halo. The trouble," headded, flicking the end of his cigar thoughtfully, "is not with man'sideal but with woman's deal. She holds all the cards, but she plays thembadly. When a two-spot of flattery would win her point, she deals a chapthe queen of arguments; when the five of smiles would take the trick forher, she plays the deuce of a pout. When the ace of sympathy or the tenof tact would put the whole game of love into her hands, she thinks itis time to be funny and flings a man the joker."

  The widow laid her work on the table beside her, folded her hands inher lap and smiled at the bachelor sweetly.

  "That's just what I said," she remarked, gently.

  "What you said!"

  The widow nodded and rubbed her nose reminiscently with the end of herhandkerchief.

  "Yes," she replied, "it isn't putting powder on your nose or rouge onyour cheeks or perfume on your petticoats or a broad 'A' on your accentthat shocks a man, but putting them on inartistically. It isn't thethings you do but the things you overdo that offend masculine taste.It's the 'over-done' woman that a man hates--the woman who isover-dressed or overly made-up, or overly cordial or overly flattering,or overly clever, or overly good, or overly anything. He doesn't wantto see how the wheels go around at the toilet table or in a woman's heador her heart; and it's the subtle, illusive little thing that he doesn'tnotice until he steps on her and finds her looking up adoringly at himunder his nose that he idealizes."

  "And marries," added the bachelor conclusively.

  "And then forgets," sighed the widow, "while he goes off to amusehimself with the obvious person with peroxide hair and a straight-frontfigure. I don't know," she added tentatively, "that it's much fun beingan ideal woman."

  "Who said you were?" demanded the bachelor suddenly.

  The widow started and turned pink to her chin.

  "Oh--nobody--that is, several people, Mr. Travers."

  "Had you refused them?" asked the bachelor thoughtfully.

  The widow blushed a deeper pink and bent over her pale green rose so lowthat the bachelor could not see her eyes.

  "Why--that is--I don't see what that has to do with it."

&n
bsp; "It has everything to do with," replied the bachelor positively.

  "And you haven't told me yet," continued the widow, suddenly changingthe subject, "whom you consider the ideal woman."

  "Don't you know?" asked the bachelor insinuatingly.

  The widow shook her head without lifting her eyes.

  "Well, then, she is--but so many of them have told you."

  "You haven't," persisted the widow.

  The bachelor sighed and rose to go.

  "The ideal woman," he said, as he slipped on his gloves, "is--the womanyou can't get. Is that the firelight playing on your pompadour?" headded, looking down upon the widow through half-closed eyes. "Do youknow--for a moment--I thought it was a halo."

  XII

  NEW YEAR'S IRRESOLUTIONS.

  "ISN'T it hard," said the widow, glancing ruefully at the holly-wreathedclock above the mantel-piece, "to know where to begin reformingyourself?"

  "Great heavens!" exclaimed the bachelor, "you are not going to doanything like that, are you?"

  The widow pointed solemnly to the hands of the clock, which indicated11.30, and then to the calendar, on which hung one fluttering leafmarked December 31.

  "It is time," she sighed, "to begin our mental housecleaning, to sweepout our collection of last year's follies, and dust off our petty sinsand fling away our old vices and----"

  "That's the trouble!" broke in the bachelor. "It's so hard to know justwhat to throw away and what to keep. Making New Year's resolutions islike doing the spring housecleaning or clearing out a drawer full of oldletters and sentimental rubbish. You know that there are lots of thingsyou ought to get rid of, and that are just in the way, and that youwould be better off without, but the minute you make up your mind topart with anything, even a tiny, insignificant vice, it suddenly becomesso dear and attractive that you repent and begin to take a new interestin it. The only time I ever had to be taken home in a cab was the dayafter I promised to sign the pledge," and the bachelor sighedreminiscently.

  "And the only time I ever overdrew my bank account," declared thewidow, "was the day after I had resolved to economize. I suppose," sheadded pensively, "that the best way to begin would be to pick out theworst vice and discard that."

  "And that will leave heaps of room for the others and for a lot of newlittle sins, besides, won't it?" agreed the bachelor cheerfully. "Well,"he added philosophically, "I'll give up murdering."

  "What!" The widow started.

  "Don't you want me to?" asked the bachelor plaintively, rubbing his baldspot. "Or perhaps I might resolve not to commit highway robbery anymore, or to stop forging, or----"

  "All of which is so easy!" broke in the widow sarcastically.

  "There'd be some glory and some reason in giving up a big vice," sighedthe bachelor, "if a fellow had one. But the trouble is that most of usmen haven't any big criminal tendencies, merely a heap of little folliesand weaknesses that there isn't any particular virtue in sacrificing orany particular harm in keeping."

  "And which you always do keep, in spite of all your New Year's vows,"remarked the widow ironically.

  "Huh!" The bachelor laughed cynically. "It's our New Year's vows thathelp us to keep 'em. The very fact that a fellow has sworn to foregoanything, whether it's a habit or a girl, makes it more attractive. I'vethrown away a whole box of cigars with the finest intentions in theworld and then gotten up in the middle of the night to fish the piecesout of the waste basket. And that midnight smoke was the sweetest I everhad. It was sweeter than the apples I stole when I was a kid and thanthe kisses I stole when----"

  "If you came here to dilate on the joys of sin, Mr. Travers," began thewidow coldly.

  "And," proceeded the bachelor, "I've made up my mind to stop flirtingwith a girl, because I found out that she was beginning to--to----"

  "I understand," interrupted the widow sympathetically.

  "And by jove!" finished the bachelor, "I had to restrain myself to keepfrom going back and proposing to her!"

  "How lucky you did!" commented the widow witheringly.

  "But I wouldn't have," explained the bachelor ruefully, "if the girl hadrestrained herself."

  "Nevertheless," repeated the widow, "is was lucky--for the girl."

  "Which girl?" asked the bachelor. "The girl I broke off with or the girlthat came afterward?"

  "I suppose," mused the widow, ignoring the levity and leaning over toarrange a bunch of violets at her belt, "that is why it is so difficultfor a man to keep a promise or a vow--even a marriage vow."

  "Oh, I don't know." The bachelor leaned back and regarded the widow'scoronet braid through the smoke from his cigar. "It isn't the marriagevows that are so difficult to keep. It's the fool vows a man makesbefore marriage and the fool promises he makes afterward that hestumbles over and falls down on. The marriage vows are so big and vaguethat you can get all around them without actually breaking them, but ifthey should interpolate concrete questions into the service such as, 'Doyou, William, promise not to growl at the coffee'----"

  "Or 'Do you, Mary, promise never to put a daub of powder on your noseagain?'" broke in the widow.

  "Nor to look twice at your pretty stenographer," continued the bachelor.

  "Nor to lie about your age, or your foot or your waist measure."

  "Nor to juggle with the truth whenever you stay out after half pastten."

  "Nor to listen to things that--that anybody--except your husband--maysay to you in the conservatory--oh, I see how it feels!" finished thewidow with a sympathetic little shudder.

  "And yet," reflected the bachelor, "a woman is always exacting vows andpromises from the man she loves, always putting up bars--for him to jumpover; when if she would only leave him alone he would be perfectlycontented to stay within bounds and graze in his own pasture. A manhates being pinned down; but a woman doesn't want anything around thatshe can't pin down, from her belt and her theories to her hat and herhusband."

  "Well," protested the widow, studying the toe of her slipper, "it is asatisfaction to know you've got your husband fastened on straight byhis promises and held in place by his vows and that he loves you enoughto----"

  "Usually," interrupted the bachelor, "a man loves you in inverse ratioto his protestations. The lover who promises all things without reserveis too often like the fellow who doesn't question the hotel bill nor askthe price of the wine, because he doesn't intend to pay it anyway. Thefellow who is prodigal with vows and promises and poetry is generallythe one to whom such things mean nothing and, being of no value, can beflung about generously to every girl he meets. The firm with the biggestfront office is likely to be the one with the smallest deposit in thesafe. The man who swears off loudest on New Year's is usually the onethey have to carry home the morning after. And the chap who promises agirl a life of roses is the one who will let her pick all the thorns offfor herself."

  "Perhaps," sighed the widow, chewing the stem of a violet thoughtfully,"the best way to cure a man of a taste for anything, after all, is tolet him have too much of it, instead of making him swear off. If youwant him to hate the smell of a pipe insist on his smoking one all thetime. If you want him to sign the temperance pledge serve him wine withevery course. If you want him to hate a woman invite her to meet himevery time he calls, and tell him how 'suitable' she would be."

  "And if you want him to love you," finished the bachelor, "don't askhim to swear it, but tell him that he really ought not to. The best wayto manage a donkey--human or otherwise--is to turn his head in the wrongdirection, and he'll back in the right one."

  "Then," said the widow decisively, "we ought to begin the New Year bymaking some irresolutions."

  "Some--what?"

  "Vows that we won't stop doing the things we ought not to do," explainedthe widow.

  "All right," agreed the bachelor thoughtfully, "I'll make anirresolution to go on making love to you as much as I like."

  "You mean as much as I like, Mr. Travers," corrected the widow severely.

  "How mu
ch do you like?" asked the bachelor, leaning over to look intothe widow's eyes.

  The widow kicked the corner of the rug tentatively.

  "I like--all but the proposing," she said slowly. "You really ought tostop that----"

  "I'm going to stop it--to-night," said the bachelor firmly.

  The widow looked up in alarm.

  "Oh, you don't have to commence keeping your resolutions until to-morrowmorning," she said quickly.

  "And you are going to stop refusing me--to-night," continued thebachelor firmly.

  The widow studied the corner of the rug with great concern.

  "OH don't. In a moment we'll be making promises." _Page177_]

  "And," went on the bachelor, taking something from his pocket and toyingwith it thoughtfully, "you are going to put on this ring"--he leanedover, caught the widow's hand and slipped the glittering thing on herthird finger. "Now," he began, "you are going to say that you will----"

  The widow sprang up suddenly.

  "Oh, don't, don't, don't!" she cried. "In a moment we'll be makingpromises."

  "We don't need to," said the bachelor, leaning back nonchalantly, "wecan begin by making--arrangements. Would you prefer to live in town orat Tuxedo? And do you think Europe or Bermuda the best place forthe----"

  "Bermuda, by all means," broke in the widow, "and I wish you'd have thathideous portico taken off your town house, Billy, and----" But the restof her words were smothered in the bachelor's coat lapel--and somethingelse.

  "Then you do mean to marry me, after all?" cried the bachelortriumphantly.

  The widow gasped for breath and patted her hair anxiously.

  "I--I meant to marry you all the time!" she cried, "But I never thoughtyou were really in earnest and----"

  "'Methinks'," quoted the bachelor happily, "'that neither of us didprotest too much.' We haven't made any promises, you know."

  "Not one," rejoined the widow promptly, "as to my flirting."

  "Nor as to my clubs."

  "Nor as to my relatives."

  "Nor my cigars."

  "And we won't make any vows," cried the widow, "except marriage vows."

  "And New Year's irresolutions," added the bachelor.

  "Listen," cried the widow softly, with her fingers on her lips.

  A peal of a thousand silver bells rang out on the midnight air.

  "The chimes!" exclaimed the widow. "They're full of promises!"

  "I thought it sounded like a wedding bell," said the bachelor,disappointedly.

  "Maybe," said the widow, "it was only Love--ringing off."

  * * * * *

  Transcriber's Notes:

  Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

  Page 11, "irresistable" changed to "irresistible" (alluring andirresistible)

  Page 21, "Appollo" changed to "Apollo" (face of an Apollo)

  Page 51, "bachelor" changed to "bachelors" (bachelors successfullyresist)

  Page 53, "etherial" changed to "ethereal" (and ethereal, and)

  Page 120, "as the" added to the text (as the purple plume)