The Widow [To Say Nothing of the Man]

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  THE WIDOW

  "OH well, I was only showing you the sugar bowl."_Frontispiece_]

  THE WIDOW

  [TO SAY NOTHING OF THE MAN]

  BY HELEN ROWLAND

  ILLUSTRATED BY ESTHER P. HILL

  DODGE PUBLISHING COMPANY 220 EAST 23D STREET, NEW YORK

  Copyright, 1908, by Dodge Publishing Co.

  [THE WIDOW. 3]

  CONTENTS

  PAGE

  I THE WIDOW 5

  II THE WINNING CARD? 18

  III WHY? 32

  IV THE WIDOW'S RIVAL 47

  V MONEY AND MATRIMONY 60

  VI SIGNS AND COUNTERSIGNS OF LOVE 73

  VII A SHORT CUT 86

  VIII AFTER LOVE--(?) 101

  IX HER WAY 118

  X MARRIAGE 135

  XI THE WIDOW'S DEAL 151

  XII NEW YEAR'S IRRESOLUTIONS 165

  I

  THE WIDOW.

  "WHAT would you say," asked the widow, tucking her skirts cautiouslyabout her patent leather toes and leaning back luxuriously against thevariegated pillows, "if I should tell you that I have found the verygirl who would make you a model wife?"

  The bachelor glanced up indifferently and dipped the paddle lazily intothe water.

  "What model?" he asked, suspiciously. "Women are like automobiles, youknow. There are so many models. And even after you have selected onemost carefully you never can tell what it is going to do."

  "They are more like horses," declared the widow, "if you know how tohandle them, and are gentle and kind----"

  "And let them see you're master----"

  "And don't jab them with spiteful little spurs----"

  "And know when to pull on the curb----"

  "And when to coax them with sugar----"

  "And when to beat 'em--and even then you can't tell what they're goingto shy at or balk at any more than you can tell when an automobile isgoing to break down or run away or blow up. But this 'model'--is shepretty and fetching and warranted to run smoothly over rough roads andto climb all the matrimonial hills and not puncture a tire in thefinances and to be just as good for a long run as for a spurt? Is shesmart looking and substantial and----"

  The widow sat up so quickly that the canoe swayed unsteadily beneaththem.

  "She's not a harem, Mr. Travers!" she cried. "Oh, dear!" she sighedhopelessly, leaning back again, "why is it that every man expects to geta harem of virtues combined in one wife? I don't believe any man butSolomon was ever perfectly satisfied with domestic life."

  "Solomon," remarked the bachelor, giving the paddle an emphatic shove,"understood the necessity for variety in wives. But if Solomon had livedin the twentieth century he wouldn't have needed so many--er--annexations.He would have got it all in one modern woman.Now, you, for instance----"

  "Speaking impersonally," interrupted the widow, trying to look austereand at the same time to blow a chiffon veil out of her mouth, "when aman buys an automobile he selects a runabout or a victoria or a touringcar or a racing machine, according to his needs, and is satisfied."

  "Not at all," protested the bachelor. "The moment he has one automobilehe is sighing for another, and he is never happy until he has a garagefull----"

  "And it is the same about a coat or a hat," persisted the widow,ignoring the interruption; "he picks out what suits him best; but hedoesn't expect his top hat to do him for picnics nor his swallow-tailto serve for lawn tennis nor his yachting cap to look well in churchnor----"

  "A derby," interrupted the bachelor, "will do almost anywhere."

  "They're hideous, Mr. Travers! and stiff and commonplace anduncomfortable and----"

  "Are they anything like the model wife you've picked out for me?"inquired the bachelor insinuatingly.

  The widow flushed under the corner of her chiffon veil.

  "Well," she acquiesced unwillingly, "she isn't particularly pretty norbrilliant and fascinating, and all that; but she's just the kind of agirl a man ought to marry."

  "And never does!" finished the bachelor triumphantly, backing water andturning the canoe for mid-stream. "Of all kinds of women a mandetests----"

  "How many kinds of women are there?" cried the widow suddenly.

  "How many women are there?" retorted the bachelor. "The variety is onlylimited by the number of feminine individuals. But fundamentally theycan be divided into two classes, just as automobiles can be divided intogasoline and electric. There is the woman a man wants to marry, the kindthat is stamped from birth for wifehood, the even-tempered,steady-going, comfortable kind of girl that you would like to tie to forlife and with whom you know you would be perfectly contented--andutterly stupid. Every man has in mind his ideal wife; and nearly everyman's ideal is of the calm, domestic, wholly good, wholly sweet sort,the sort that seems like a harbor away from the storm. But so often,just about as he has found this ideal, or before he has found her andbefore the sun of his summer day dream has risen the storm comesalong----"

  "The--what?"

  "The tumultuous, impossible, adorable, unfathomable woman--the woman whomay be good or bad, ugly or beautiful, but is always fascinating,alluring and irresistible. And she wrecks his little summer day dreamand turns his snug harbor into a roaring whirlpool and carries him offin a tempest. Sometimes he marries her and sometimes he doesn't; butwhether he does or does not, he is always spoiled for the other kindafterward."

  "And if he does marry her," added the widow, trailing her fingersthoughtfully in the water, "he is always sorry and wishing he hadmarried the other kind."

  "Well," the bachelor laid his paddle across his knee, "what's thedifference? If he had married the other kind he would always have beenwishing he hadn't. Now if a man could only be allowed two wives----"

  "One for week days and one for--holidays?" inquired the widowsarcastically.

  "Yes," acquiesced the bachelor, "one for each side of him, the tame sideand the untamed side. One to serve as a harbor and make him a home andfulfill his domestic longings and bring up his children and keep himsane and moral; and the other to amuse him and entertain him and inspirehim and put the trimmings on life and the spice and flavor in thematrimonial dish."

  "A sedative and a stimulant!" jeered the widow. "One to stir you up andone to calm you down; one to spur you forward and one to pull on thecurb--a Hebe and a Minerva! And then you'd be running around demanding aVenus to make you forget the other two. Whatever woman a man marries, heinvariably spends his life sighing for something different. If he istied to a nice, soft sofa pillow, he longs for a backbone. If he marriesa parlor ornament, he yearns for a kitchen utensil. If his wife has aGreek nose, he discovers afterward that what he really admires is pugs.If he picks out red hair or black, he will go blocks out of his way topursue every yellow glint that catches his eye. And if he married awhole harem at once he would discover that what he really wanted wasmonogamy, and a single wife with a single idea. There aren't enoughkinds of women in the world to fulfill any one man's idea of what a wifeshould be."

  "And yet," sighed the bachelor, "I once knew a woman who would have donethat--all by herself."

  The widow looked unconv
inced.

  "Was she a model wife?" she inquired, skeptically.

  "How do I know?" said the bachelor. "She wasn't my wife."

  "Of course not!" cried the widow. "It is always the other man's wife whois our ideal----"

  "She wasn't my ideal," protested the bachelor. "She was the storm thatshattered my ideal and spoiled me for matrimony. She was a whole garage,a whole stable, a whole harem in one."

  The widow looked distinctly disapproving.

  "It's lucky," she said coldly, "that you escaped--a woman like--that!"

  "But I haven't," protested the bachelor, laying down his paddle andleaning forward so that the ends of the widow's chiffon veil blew in hisface. "She was the spice in life's pudding, the flavor, the sauce, thestimulant, the----"

  "This canoe is tipping dreadfully," remarked the widow, but thedisapproval had disappeared from her eyes.

  "She was----"

  "Why, I do believe it's growing dark, Mr. Travers."

  "It is," agreed the bachelor. "Nobody can see----"

  "See--what?" asked the widow, suddenly sitting up straight and fixingthe bachelor with her eyes.

  "How perfectly adorable and unfathomable and tumultuous----"

  "Are you feeding me sugar, Mr. Travers?"

  "Perhaps," acknowledged the bachelor, leaning back and picking up thepaddle again, "but some day, when I'm ready, I'm going to stop feedingyou sugar. I'm going to put on the curb bit."

  "Why don't you do it now--Billy?" asked the widow, with a challengingglance from beneath her lashes.

  "I can't," grumbled the bachelor, "while you are blowing that chiffonveil."

  The widow took the two ends of the offensive thing and tied themdeliberately under her chin.

  "Some day," continued the bachelor, as he swung the canoe shoreward witha vigorous dip of the paddle, "I'm going to show you who's master. I'mgoing to marry you and then--"

  "Be sorry!" laughed the widow.

  "Of course," assented the bachelor, "but I'd be sorrier--if I didn't."