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The Price Of Romance
by
They got into the habit of planning their life all differently–so that it might not be limited and futile. If they had a few thousand dollars! That was a bad sign, and she knew it, and struggled against it. If she could only do something to keep the pot boiling while he worked at his music for fame and success! But she could reduce expenses; so the one servant went, and the house-bills grew tinier and tinier. However, they didn’t “make connections,” and–something was wrong–she wondered what.
As the second summer came in they used to stroll out of their stuffy street of an evening, up St. Nicholas Avenue, to the Park, or to the Riverside Drive. There they would sit speechless, she in a faded blue serge skirt with a crisp, washed-out shirtwaist, and an old sailor hat– dark and pretty, in spite of her troubled face; he in a ready-made black serge suit, yet very much the gentleman–pale and listless. Their eyes would seek out any steamer in the river below, or anything else that reminded them of other conditions. He would hum a bit from an opera. They needed no words; their faces were evident, though mute, indications of the tragedy. Then they would return at bed-time into the sultry streets, where from the open windows of the flats came the hammered music of the city. Such discordant efforts for harmony! Her heart would fill over him, yearning like a mother to cherish him in all the pleasant ways of life, but impotent, impotent!
She never suggested greater effort. Conditions were hard, she said over and over; if there were only a little money to give him a start in another direction. She admired his pride in never referring to old Oliphant. Her uncle was often in her mind, but she felt that even if she could bring herself to petition him, her husband would indignantly refuse to consider the matter.
Still, she thought about it, and especially this summer, for she knew he was then at Quogue. Moreover, she expected her first child. That worried her daily; she saw how hopeless another complication would make their fate. She cried over it at night when the room was too hot to sleep. And then she reproached herself; God would punish her for not wanting her baby.
One day she had gone down town to get some materials for the preparations she must make. She liked to shop, for sometimes she met old friends; this time in a large shop she happened upon a woman she had known at Quogue, the efficient wife of a successful minister in Brooklyn. This Mrs. Leicester invited her to lunch at the cafe at the top of the building, and she had yielded, after a little urging, with real relief. They sat down at a table near the window–it was so high up there was not much noise–and the streets suddenly seemed interesting to Mrs. Edwards. The quiet table, the pleasant lunch, and the energetic Mrs. Leicester were all refreshing.
“And how is your husband?” Mrs. Leicester inquired, keenly. As a minister’s wife she was compelled to interest herself in sentimental complications that inwardly bored her. It was a part of her professional duties. She had taken in this situation at once–she had seen that kind of thing before; it made her impatient. But she liked the pretty little woman before her, and was sorry she hadn’t managed better.
“Pretty well,” Mrs. Edwards replied, consciously. “The heat drags one down so!”
Mrs. Leicester sent another quick glance across the table. “You haven’t been to Quogue much of late, have you? You know how poorly your uncle is.”
“No! You must know that Uncle James doesn’t see us.”
“Well,” Mrs. Leicester went on, hastily, “he’s been quite ill and feeble, and they say he’s growing queer. He never goes away now, and sees nobody. Most of the servants have gone. I don’t believe he will last long.”