Poor, Dear Margaret Kirby

by Kathleen Norris

　　I

　　"You and I have been married nearly seven years," Margaret Kirbyreflected bitterly, "and I suppose we are as near hating each otheras two civilized people ever were!"

　　She did not say it aloud. The Kirbys had long ago given up anydiscussion of their attitude to each other. But as the thought cameinto her mind she eyed her husband--lounging moodily in her motor-car, as they swept home through the winter twilight--with hopeless,mutinous irritation.

　　What was the matter, she wondered, with John and Margaret Kirby--young, handsome, rich, and popular? What had been wrong with theirmarriage, that brilliantly heralded and widely advertised event?Whose fault was it that they two could not seem to understand eachother, could not seem to live out their lives together in honorableand dignified companionship, as generations of their forebears haddone?

　　"Perhaps everyone's marriage is more or less like ours," Margaretmused miserably. "Perhaps there's no such thing as a happymarriage."

　　 Almost all the women that she knew admitted unhappiness of one sortor another, and discussed their domestic troubles freely. Margarethad never sunk to that; it would not even have been a relief to anature as self-sufficient and as cold as hers. But for years she hadfelt that her marriage tie was an irksome and distasteful bond, andonly that afternoon she had been stung by the bitter fact that thestate of affairs between her husband and herself was no secret fromtheir world. A certain audacious newspaper had boldly hinted thatthere would soon be a sensational separation in the Kirby household,whose beautiful mistress would undoubtedly follow her first unhappymarital experience with another--and, it was to be hoped, a morefortunate--marriage.

　　Margaret had laughed when the article was shown her, with the easyflippancy that is the stock in trade of her type of society woman;but the arrow had reached her very soul, nevertheless.

　　So it had come to that, had it? She and John had failed! They wereto be dragged through the publicity, the humiliations, that precedethe sundering of what God has joined together. They had drifted, asso many hundreds and thousands of men and women drift, from thewarm, glorious companionship of the honeymoon, to quarrels, totruces, to discussion, to a recognition of their utter difference inpoint of view, and to this final independent, cool adjustment, thatleft their lives as utterly separated as if they had never met.

　　Yet she had done only what all the women she knew had done, Margaretreminded herself in self-justification. She had done it a littlemore brilliantly, perhaps; she had spent more money, worn handsomerjewels and gowns; she had succeeded in idling away her life in thatutter leisure that was the ideal of them all, whether they werequite able to achieve it or not. Some women had to order theirdinners, had occasionally to go about in hired vehicles, had toconsider the cost of hats and gowns; but Margaret, the envied, hadher own carriage and motor-car, her capable housekeeper, her yearlytrip to Paris for uncounted frocks and hats.

　　All the women she knew were useless, boasting rather of what theydid not have to do than of what they did, and Margaret was moresuccessfully useless than the others. But wasn't that the lot of awoman who is rich, and marries a richer man? Wasn't it what marriedlife should be?

　　"I don't know what makes me nervous to-night," Margaret said toherself finally, settling back comfortably in her furs. "Perhaps Ionly imagine John is going to make one of his favorite scenes whenwe get home. Probably he hasn't seen the article at all. I don'tcare, anyway! If it should come to a divorce, why, we know plenty ofpeople who are happier that way. Thank Heaven, there isn't a childto complicate things!"

　　Five feet away from her, as the motor-car waited before crossing thepark entrance, a tall man and a laughing girl were standing, waitingto cross the street.

　　"But aren't we too late for gallery seats?" Margaret heard the girlsay, evidently deep in an important choice.

　　"Oh, no!" the man assured her eagerly.

　　"Then I choose the fifty-cent dinner and 'Hoffman' by all means,"she decided joyously.

　　Margaret looked after them, a sudden pain at her heart. She did notknow what the pain was. She thought she was pitying that younghusband and wife; but her thoughts went back to them as she enteredher own warm, luxurious rooms a few moments later.

　　"Fifty-cent dinner!" she murmured. "It must be awful!"

　　To her surprise, her husband followed her into her room, withoutknocking, and paid no attention to the very cold stare with whichshe greeted him.

　　"Sit down a minute, Margaret, will you?" he said, "and let yourwoman go. I want to speak to you."

　　Angry to feel herself a little at loss, Margaret nodded to the maid,and said in a carefully controlled tone:

　　"I am dining at the Kelseys', John. Perhaps some other time--"

　　Her husband, a thin, tall man, prematurely gray, was pacing thefloor nervously, his hands plunged deep in his coat pockets. Hecleared his throat several times before he spoke. His voice wassharp, and his words were delivered quickly:

　　"It's come to this, Margaret--I'm very sorry to have to tell you,but things have finally reached the point where it's--it's got tocome out! Bannister and I have been nursing it along; we've done allthat we could. I went down to Washington and saw Peterson, but it'sno use! We turn it all over--the whole thing--to the creditors to-morrow!" His voice rose suddenly; it was shocking to see the controlsuddenly fail. "I tell you it's all up, Margaret! It's the end ofme! I won't face it!"

　　He dropped into a chair, but suddenly sprang up again, and began towalk about the room.

　　"Now, you can do just what you think wise," he resumed presently, inthe advisory, quiet tones he usually used to her. "You can alwayshave the income of your Park Avenue house; your Aunt Paul will beglad enough to go abroad with you, and there are personal things--the house silver and the books--that you can claim. I've lain awakenights planning--" His voice shook again, but he gained his calmafter a moment. "I want to ask you not to work yourself up over it,"he added.

　　There was a silence. Margaret regarded him in stony fury. She wasdeadly white.

　　"Do you mean that Throckmorton, Kirby, & Son have--has failed?" sheasked. "Do you mean that my money--the money that my father left me--is gone? Does Mr. Bannister say so? Why--why has it never occurredto you to warn me?"

　　"I did warn you. I did try to tell you, in July--why, all the worldknew how things were going!"

　　If, on the last word, there crept into his voice the plea that evena strong man makes to his women for sympathy, for solace, Margaret'seyes killed it. John, turning to go, gave her what consolation hecould.

　　"Margaret, I can only say I'm sorry. I tried--Bannister knows how Itried to hold my own. But I was pretty young when your father died,and there was no one to help me learn. I'm glad it doesn't meanactual suffering for you. Some day, perhaps, we'll get some of itback. God knows I hope so. I've not meant much to you. Your marriagehas cost you pretty dear. But I'm going to do the only thing I canfor you."

　　Silence followed. Margaret presently roused herself.

　　"I suppose this can be kept from the papers? We needn't be discussedand pointed at in the streets?" she asked heavily, her face a maskof distaste.

　　"That's impossible," said John, briefly.

　　"To some people nothing is impossible," Margaret said.

　　Her husband turned again without a word, and left her. Afterward sheremembered the sick misery in his eyes, the whiteness of his face.

　　What did she do then? She didn't know. Did she go at once to thedressing-table? Did she ring for Louise, or was she alone as sheslowly got herself into a loose wrapper and unpinned her hair?

　　How long was it before she heard that horrible cry in the hall? Whatwas it--that, or the voices and the flying footsteps, that broughther, shaken and gasping, to her feet?

　　She never knew. She only knew that she was in John's dressing-room,and that the servants were clustered, a sobbing, terrified group, inthe doorway. John's head, heavy, with shut eyes, was on hershoulder; John's limp body was in her arms. They were telling herthat this was the bottle he had emptied, and that he was dead.

　　II

　　It was a miracle that they had got her husband to the hospitalalive, the doctors told Margaret, late that night. His life could beonly a question of moments. It was extraordinary that he should livethrough the night, they told her the next morning; but it could notlast more than a few hours now. It was impossible for John Kirby tolive, they said; but John Kirby lived.

　　He lived, to struggle through agonies undreamed of, back to days ofnew pain. There were days and weeks and months when he lay, merelybreathing, now lightly, now just a shade more deeply.

　　There came a day when great doctors gathered about him to exult thathe undoubtedly, indisputably winced when the hypodermic needle hurthim. There was a great day, in late summer, when he mutteredsomething. Then came relapses, discouragements, the bitter retracingof steps.

　　On Christmas Day he opened his eyes, and said to the grave, thinwoman who sat with her hand in his:

　　"Margaret!"

　　He slipped off again too quickly to know that she had broken intotears and fallen on her knees beside him.

　　After a while he sat up, and was read to, and finally wept becausethe nurses told him that some day he would want to get up and walkabout again. His wife came every day, and he clung to her like achild. Sometimes, watching her, a troubled thought would darken hiseyes; but on a day when they first spoke of the terrible past, shesmiled at him the motherly smile that he was beginning so to love,and told him that all business affairs could wait. And he believedher.

　　One glorious spring afternoon, when the park looked deliriouslyfresh and green from the hospital windows, John received permissionto extend his little daily walk beyond the narrow garden. With aninvalid's impatience, he bemoaned the fact that his wife would notbe there that day to accompany him on his first trip into the world.

　　His nurse laughed at him.

　　"Don't you think you're well enough to go and make a little call onMrs. Kirby?" she suggested brightly. "She's only two blocks away,you know. She's right here on Madison Avenue. Keep in the sunlightand walk slowly, and be sure to come back before it's cold, or I'llsend the police after you."

　　Thus warned, John started off, delighted at the independence that hewas gaining day after day. He walked the two short blocks with thecare that only convalescents know; a little confused by the gay,jarring street noises, the wide light and air about him.

　　He found the address, but somehow the big, gloomy double housedidn't look like Margaret. There was a Mrs. Kirby there, the maidassured him, however, and John sat down in a hopelessly uglydrawing-room to wait for her. Instead, there came in a cheerfullittle woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Kippam. She was of thechattering, confidential type so often found in her position.

　　"Now, you wanted Mrs. Kirby, didn't you?" she said regretfully."She's out. I'm the housekeeper here, and I thought if it was just aquestion of rooms, maybe I'd do as well?"

　　"There's some mistake," said John; and he was still weak enough tofeel himself choke at the disappointment. "I want Mrs. John Kirby--avery beautiful Mrs. Kirby, who is quite prominent in--"

　　"Oh, yes, indeed!" said Mrs. Kippam, lowering her voice and growingconfidential. "That's the same one. Her husband failed, and all butkilled himself, you know--you've read about it in the papers? Shesold everything she had, you know, to help out the firm, and thenshe came here--"

　　"Bought out an interest in this?" said John, very quietly, in hiswinning voice.

　　"Well, she just came here as a regular guest at first," said Mrs.Kippam, with a cautious glance at the door. "I was running it then;but I'd got into awful debt, and my little boy was sick, and I gotto telling her my worries. Well, she was looking for something todo--a companion or private secretary position--but she didn't findit, and she had so many good ideas about this house, and helped meout so, just talking things over, that finally I asked her if shewouldn't be my partner. And she was glad to; she was just aboutworried to death by that time."

　　"I thought Mrs. Kirby had property--investments in her own name?"John said.

　　"Oh, she did, but she put everything right back into the firm," saidMrs. Kippam. "Lots of her old friends went back on her for doingit," the little woman went on, in a burst of loyal anger. "However,"she added, very much enjoying her listener's close attention, "Ideclare my luck seemed to change the day she took hold! First thingwas that her friends, and a lot that weren't her friends, came hereout of curiosity, and that advertised the place. Then she slaves dayand night, goes right into the kitchen herself and watches things;and she has such a way with the help--she knows how to manage them.And the result is that we've got the house packed for next winter,and we'll have as many as thirty people here all summer long. I feellike another person, "the tears suddenly brimmed her weak, kindeyes, and she fumbled with her handkerchief. "You'll think I'm crazyrunning on this way!" said little Mrs. Kippam, "but everything hasgone so good. My Lesty is much better, and as things are now I canget him into the country next year; and I feel like I owed it all toMargaret Kirby!"

　　John tried to speak, but the room was wheeling about him. As heraised his trembling hand to his eyes, a shadow fell across thedoorway, and Margaret came in. Tired, shabby, laden with bundles,she stood blinking at him a moment; and then, with a sudden cry oftenderness and pity, she was on her knees by his side.

　　"Margaret! Margaret!" he whispered. "What have you done?"

　　She did not answer, but gathered him close in her strong arms, andthey kissed each other with wet eyes.

　　III

　　A few weeks later John came to the boarding-house, nervous,discouraged, still weak. Despite Margaret's bravery, they both feltthe position a strained and uncomfortable one. As day after dayproved his utter unfitness for a fresh business start in the cruel,jarring competition of the big city, John's spirits naggedpitifully. He hated the boarding-house.

　　"It's only the bridge that takes us over the river," his wifereminded him.

　　But when a little factory in a little town, half a day's journeyaway, offered John a manager's position, at a salary that made themboth smile, she let him accept it without a murmur.

　　Her courage lasted until he was on the train, travelling toward thenew town and the new position. But as she walked back to her ownbusiness, a sort of nausea seized her. The big, heroic fight wasover; John's life was saved, and the debt reduced to a reasonableburden. But the deadly monotony was ahead, the drudgery of days anddays of hateful labor, the struggle--for what? When could they evertake their place again in the world that they knew? Who could everwork up again from debts like these? Would John always be the weak,helpless convalescent, or would he go back to the old type, thebored, silent man of clubs and business?

　　Margaret turned a grimy corner, and was joined by one of herboarders, a cheerful little army wife.

　　"Well, we'll miss Mr. Kirby, I'm sure," said little Mrs. Camp, asthey mounted the steps. "And by the way, Mrs. Kirby, you won't mindif I ask if we mayn't just now and then have some of the new towelson our floor--will you? We never get anything but the old, thintowels. Of course, it's Alma's fault; but I think every one ought totake a turn at the new towels as well as the old, don't you?"

　　"I'll speak to Alma," said Margaret, turning her key.

　　A lonely, busy autumn followed, and a winter of hard and thanklesswork.

　　"I feel like a plumber's wife," smiled Margaret to Mrs. Kippam, whenin November John wrote her of a "raise."

　　But when he came down for two days at Christmastime, she noticedthat he was brown, cheerful, and amazingly strong. They were as shyas lovers on this little holiday, Margaret finding that her oldmaternal, half-patronizing attitude toward her husband did not fitthe case at all, and John almost as much at a loss.

　　In April she went up to Applebridge, and they spent a whole dayroaming about in the fresh spring fields together.

　　"It's really a delicious little place," she confided to Mrs. Kippamwhen she returned. "The sort of place where kiddies carry theirlunches to school, and their mothers put up preserves, and everybodyhas a surrey and an old horse. John's quite a big man up there."

　　After the April visit came a long break, for John went to Chicago inthe July fortnight they had planned to spend together; and when heat last came to New York for another Christmas, Margaret was in bedwith a bad throat, and could only whisper her questions. So anotherwinter struggled by, and another spring, and when summer cameMargaret found that it was almost impossible to break away from herincreasing responsibilities.

　　But on a fragrant, soft October day she found herself getting offthe early train in the little station; and as a big man waved hishat to her, and they turned to walk down the road together, theysmiled into each other's eyes like two children.

　　"Were you surprised at the letter?" said John.

　　"Not so much surprised as glad," said Margaret, coloring like agirl.

　　They presently turned off the main road, and entered a certain gate.Beyond the gate was an old, overgrown garden, and beyond that ahouse--a broad, shabby house; and beyond that again an orchard, andbarns and outhouses.

　　John took a key from his pocket, and they opened the front door.Roses, looking in the back door, across a bare, wide stretch ofhall, smiled at them. The sunlight fell everywhere in clear squareson the bare floors. It brightened the big kitchen, and glinted inthe pantry, still faintly redolent of apples stored on shelves. Itcrept into the attic, and touched the scored casement where yearsago a dozen children had recorded their heights and ages.

　　Margaret and John came out on the porch again, and she turned to himwith brimming eyes. It suddenly swept over her, with a thankfulnesstoo deep for realization, that this would be her world. She wouldsit on this wide porch, waiting for him in the summer afternoons;she would go about from room to room on the happy, commonplacejourneys of house-keeping; would keep the fire blazing againstJohn's return. And in the years to come perhaps there would be othervoices about the old house; there would be little shining heads tokeep the sunlight always there.

　　"Well, Margaret, do you like it?" said John, his arm about her, hisface radiant with pride and happiness.

　　"Like it I" said Margaret. "Why, it's home!"

　　IV

　　So the Kirbys disappeared from the world. Sometimes a newcomer atMargaret's club would ask about the great portrait that hung overthe library fireplace--the portrait of a cold-eyed woman withbeautiful pearls about her beautiful throat. Then the history ofpoor, dear Margaret Kirby would be reviewed--its triumphs, itsglories, Margaret's brilliant marriage, her beauty, her wit. Theseonly led to the final tragic scenes that had ended it all.

　　"And now she is grubbing away dear knows where!" her biographerwould say carelessly. "Absolutely, they might as well be buried!"

　　But about seven years after the Kirbys' disappearance, it happenedthat four of Margaret's old intimates--the T. Illington Frarys andthe Josiah Dunnings--were taking a little motor trip in theDunnings' big car, through the northern part of the State. Justoutside the little village of Applebridge, something mysterious andannoying happened to the car, which stopped short, and after somediscussion it was decided that the ladies should wait therein, whilethe men walked back in search of help.

　　Mrs. Dunning and Mrs. Frary, settling themselves comfortably in thetonneau for a long wait, puzzled themselves a little over the nameof Applebridge.

　　"I can just remember hearing of it," said Mrs. Dunning, sleepily,"but when or where or how I don't know."

　　They opened their books. A brilliant May afternoon throbbed, hummed,sparkled all about them. The big wheels of the motor were deep ingrass and blossoms. On either side of the road, fields were gay withbees and butterflies. Larks looped the blackberry-vines with quickflights; mustard-tops showed their pale gold under the apple-blossoms.

　　Here and there a white cloud drifted in the deep, clear blue of thesky. There had been rains a day or two before, and in the fragrantair still hung a little chill, a haunting suggestion of wet earthand refreshed blossoms. Somewhere near, but out of sight, a floodedcreek was tumbling noisily over its shallows.

　　Suddenly the Sunday stillness was broken by voices. The two women inthe motor looked at each other, listening. They heard a woman'svoice, singing; then a small boyish voice, then a man's voice. Thespeakers, whoever they were, apparently settled down in the meadow,not more than a dozen yards away, for a breathing space. A tangle ofvines and bushes screened them from the motor-car.

　　"Mother, are me and Billy going to turn the freezer?" said a child'svoice, and a man asked:

　　"Tired, old lady?"

　　"No, not at all. It's been a delicious walk," said the woman. Thetwo sitting in the motor gasped. "Yes, yes, yes, lovey," the woman'svoice went on, "you and Bill may turn, if Mary doesn't mind. Becareful of my fern, Jack!" And then, in German: "Aren't they lovelyin all the grass and flowers, John?"

　　"Margaret!" breathed Mrs. Frary. "Poor, dear Margaret Kirby!"

　　"I hope they don't go by this way," whispered Mrs. Dunning, after anastounded second. "One's been so rude--don't you know--forgettingher!"

　　"She probably won't know us," Mrs. Frary whispered back, adjustingher veil in a stealthy way.

　　Mrs. Frary was right. The Kirbys presently passed with only acursory glance at the swathed occupants of the motor-car. They werelaughing like a lot of children as they scrambled through the hedge.John--a big, broad John, as strong and brisk as a boy--carried atiny barefoot girl on his shoulder. Margaret, her beauty morestartling than ever under the sweep of a gypsy hat; her splendidfigure a little broader, but still magnificent under the cottongown; her arms full of flowers and ferns, was escorted by two morechildren, sturdy little boys, who doubled and redoubled on theirtracks like puppies. The tiny barefoot girl, in her father's arms,was only a tangle of blue gingham and drifting strands of silkyhair; but the boys were splendidly alert little lads, and their highvoices loitered in the air after the radiant, chattering littlecaravan had quite disappeared.

　　"Well!" said Mrs. Dunning, then.

　　"Poor, dear Margaret Kirby!" was on Mrs. Frary's lips; but shedidn't say it.

　　She and Mrs. Dunning stared at each other a long minute, utterly ata loss. Then they reopened their books.