HER HOUSEKEEPER
On the top floor of a New York boarding-house lived a particularly attractive woman who was an actress. She was also a widow, not divorcee, but just plain widow; and she persisted in acting under her real name, which was Mrs. Leland. The manager objected, but her reputation was good enough to carry the point.
“It will cost you a great deal of money, Mrs. Leland,” said the manager.
“I make money enough,” she answered.
“You will not attract so many—admirers,” said the manager.
“I have admirers enough,” she answered; which was visibly true.
She was well under thirty, even by daylight—and about eighteen on the stage; and as for admirers—they apparently thought Mrs. Leland was a carefully selected stage name.
Besides being a widow, she was a mother, having a small boy of about five years; and this small boy did not look in the least like a “stage child,” but was a brown-skinned, healthy little rascal of the ordinary sort.
With this boy, an excellent nursery governess, and a maid, Mrs. Leland occupied the top floor above mentioned, and enjoyed it. She had a big room in front, to receive in; and a small room with a skylight, to sleep in. The boy’s room and the governess’ rooms were at the back, with sunny south windows, and the maid slept on a couch in the parlor. She was a colored lady, named Alice, and did not seem to care where she slept, or if she slept at all.
“I never was so comfortable in my life,” said Mrs. Leland to her friends. “I’ve been here three years and mean to stay. It is not like any boarding-house I ever saw, and it is not like any home I ever had. I have the privacy, the detachment, the carelessness of a boarding-house, and ‘all the comforts of a home.’ Up I go to my little top flat as private as you like. My Alice takes care of it—the housemaids only come in when I’m out. I can eat with the others downstairs if I please; but mostly I don’t please; and up come my little meals on the dumbwaiter—hot and good.”
“But—having to flock with a lot of promiscuous boarders!” said her friends.
“I don’t flock, you see; that’s just it. And besides, they are not promiscuous—there isn’t a person in the house now who isn’t some sort of a friend of mine. As fast as a room was vacated I’d suggest somebody—and here we all are. It’s great.”
“But do you like a skylight room?” Mrs. Leland’s friends further inquired of her?”
“By no means!” she promptly replied. “I hate it. I feel like a mouse in a pitcher!”
“Then why in the name of reason—?”
“Because I can sleep there! Sleep!—It’s the only way to be quiet in New York, and I have to sleep late if I sleep at all. I’ve fixed the skylight so that I’m drenched with air—and not drenched with rain!—and there I am. Johnny is gagged and muffled as it were, and carried downstairs as early as possible. He gets his breakfast, and the unfortunate Miss Merton has to go out and play with him—in all weathers—except kindergarten time. Then Alice sits on the stairs and keeps everybody away till I ring.”
Possibly it was owing to the stillness and the air and the sleep till near lunchtime that Mrs. Leland kept her engaging youth, her vivid uncertain beauty. At times you said of her, “She has a keen intelligent face, but she’s not pretty.” Which was true. She was not pretty. But at times again she overcame you with her sudden loveliness.
All of which was observed by her friend from the second floor who wanted to marry her. In this he was not alone; either as a friend, of whom she had many, or as a lover, of whom she had more. His distinction lay first in his opportunities, as a co-resident, for which he was heartily hated by all the more and some of the many; and second in that he remained a friend in spite of being a lover, and remained a lover in spite of being flatly refused.
His name in the telephone book was given “Arthur Olmstead, real estate;” office this and residence that—she looked him up therein after their first meeting. He was rather a short man, heavily built, with a quiet kind face, and a somewhat quizzical smile. He seemed to make all the money he needed, occupied the two rooms and plentiful closet space of his floor in great contentment, and manifested most improper domesticity of taste by inviting friends to tea. “Just like a woman!” Mrs. Leland told him.
“And why not? Women have so many attractive ways—why not imitate them?” he asked her.
“A man doesn’t want to be feminine, I’m sure,” struck in a pallid, overdressed youth, with openwork socks on his slim feet, and perfumed handkerchief.
Mr. Olmstead smiled a broad friendly smile. He was standing near the young man, a little behind him, and at this point he put his hands just beneath the youth’s arms, lifted and set him aside as if he were an umbrella-stand. “Excuse me, Mr. Masters,” he said gravely, but you were standing on Mrs. Leland’s gown.”
Mr. Masters was too much absorbed in apologizing to the lady to take umbrage at the method of his removal; but she was not so oblivious. She tried doing it to her little boy afterwards, and found him very heavy.
When she came home from her walk or drive in the early winter dusk, this large quietly furnished room, the glowing fire, the excellent tea and delicate thin bread and butter were most restful. “It is two more stories up before I can get my own;” she would say—”I must stop a minute.”
When he began to propose to her the first time she tried to stop him. “O please don’t!” she cried. “Please don’t! There are no end of reasons why I will not marry anybody again. Why can’t some of you men be nice to me and not—that! Now I can’t come in to tea any more!”
“I’d like to know why not,” said he calmly. “You don’t have to marry me if you don’t want to; but that’s no reason for cutting my acquaintance, is it?”
She gazed at him in amazement.
“I’m not threatening to kill myself, am I? I don’t intend going to the devil. I’d like to be your husband, but if I can’t—mayn’t I be a brother to you?”
She was inclined to think he was making fun of her, but no—his proposal had had the real ring in it. “And you’re not—you’re not going to—?” it seemed the baldest assumption to think that he was going to, he looked so strong and calm and friendly.
“Not going to annoy you? Not going to force an undesired affection on you and rob myself of a most agreeable friendship? Of course not. Your tea is cold, Mrs. Leland—let me give you another cup. And do you think Miss Rose is going to do well as ‘Angelina?'”
So presently Mrs. Leland was quite relieved in her mind, and free to enjoy the exceeding comfortableness of this relation. Little Johnny was extremely fond of Mr Olmstead; who always treated him with respect, and who could listen to his tales of strife and glory more intelligently than either mother or governess. Mr. Olmstead kept on hand a changing supply of interesting things; not toys—never, but real things not intended for little boys to play with. No little boy would want to play with dolls for instance; but what little boy would not be fascinated by a small wooden lay figure, capable of unheard-of contortions. Tin soldiers were common, but the flags of all nations—real flags, and true stories about them, were interesting. Noah’s arks were cheap and unreliable scientifically; but Barye lions, ivory elephants, and Japanese monkeys in didactic groups of three, had unfailing attraction. And the books this man had—great solid books that could be opened wide on the floor, and a little boy lie down to in peace and comfort!
Mrs. Leland stirred her tea and watched them until Johnny was taken upstairs.
“Why don’t you smoke?” she asked suddenly. “Doctor’s orders?”
“No—mine,” he answered. “I never consulted a doctor in my life.”
“Nor a dentist, I judge,” said she.
“Nor a dentist.”
“You’d better knock on wood!” she told him.
“And cry ‘Uncle Reuben?’ he asked smilingly.
“You haven’t told me why you don’t smoke!” said she suddenly.
“Haven’t I?” he said. “That was very rude of me. But look here. There’s a thing I wanted to ask you. Now I’m not pressing any sort of inquiry as to myself; but as a brother, would you mind telling me some of those numerous reasons why you will not marry anybody?”
She eyed him suspiciously, but he was as solid and calm as usual, regarding her pleasantly and with no hint of ulterior purpose. “Why—I don’t mind,” she began slowly. “First—I have been married—and was very unhappy. That’s reason enough.”
He did not contradict her; but merely said, “That’s one,” and set it down in his notebook.
“Dear me, Mr. Olmstead! You’re not a reporter, are you!”
“O no—but I wanted to have them clear and think about them,” he explained. “Do you mind?” And he made as if to shut his little book again.
“I don’t know as I mind,” she said slowly. “But it looks so—businesslike.”
“This is a very serious business, Mrs. Leland, as you must know. Quite aside from any personal desire of my own, I am truly ‘your sincere friend and well-wisher,’ as the Complete Letter Writer has it, and there are so many men wanting to marry you.”
This she knew full well, and gazed pensively at the toe of her small flexible slipper, poised on a stool before the fire.
Mr. Olmstead also gazed at the slipper toe with appreciation.
“What’s the next one?” he said cheerfully.
“Do you know you are a real comfort,” she told him suddenly. “I never knew a man before who could—well leave off being a man for a moment and just be a human creature.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Leland,” he said in tones of pleasant sincerity. “I want to be a comfort to you if I can. Incidentally wouldn’t you be more comfortable on this side of the fire—the light falls better—don’t move.” And before she realized what he was doing he picked her up, chair and all, and put her down softly on the other side, setting the footstool as before, and even daring to place her little feet upon it—but with so businesslike an air that she saw no opening for rebuke. It is a difficult matter to object to a man’s doing things like that when he doesn’t look as if he was doing them.
“That’s better,” said he cheerfully, taking the place where she had been. “Now, what’s the next one?”
“The next one is my boy.”
“Second—Boy,” he said, putting it down. “But I should think he’d be a reason the other way. Excuse me—I wasn’t going to criticize—yet! And the third?”
“Why should you criticize at all, Mr. Olmstead?”
“I shouldn’t—on my own account. But there may come a man you love.” He had a fine baritone voice. When she heard him sing Mrs. Leland always wished he were taller, handsomer, more distinguished looking; his voice sounded as if he were. And I should hate to see these reasons standing in the way of your happiness,” he continued.
“Perhaps they wouldn’t,” said she in a revery.
“Perhaps they wouldn’t—and in that case it is no possible harm that you tell me the rest of them. I won’t cast it up at you. Third?”
“Third, I won’t give up my profession for any man alive.”
“Any man alive would be a fool to want you to,” said he setting down,
“Third—Profession.”
“Fourth—I like Freedom!” she said with sudden intensity. “You don’t know!—they kept me so tight!—so tight—when I was a girl! Then—I was left alone, with a very little money, and I began to study for the stage—that was like heaven! And then—O what idiots women are!” She said the word not tragically, but with such hard-pointed intensity that it sounded like a gimlet. “Then I married, you see—I gave up all my new-won freedom to marry!—and he kept me tighter than ever.” She shut her expressive mouth in level lines—stood up suddenly and stretched her arms wide and high. “I’m free again, free—I can do exactly as I please!” The words were individually relished. “I have the work I love. I can earn all I need—am saving something for the boy. I’m perfectly independent!”
“And perfectly happy!” he cordially endorsed her. “I don’t blame you for not wanting to give it up.”
“O well—happy!” she hesitated. “There are times, of course, when one isn’t happy. But then—the other way I was unhappy all the time.”
“He’s dead—unfortunately,” mused Mr. Olmstead.
“Unfortunately?—Why?”
He looked at her with his straightforward, pleasant smile. “I’d have liked the pleasure of killing him,” he said regretfully.
She was startled, and watched him with dawning alarm. But he was quite quiet—even cheerful. “Fourth—Freedom,” he wrote. “Is that all?”
“No—there are two more. Neither of them will please you. You won’t think so much of me any more. The worst one is this. I like—lovers! I’m very much ashamed of it, but I do! I try not to be unfair to them—some I really try to keep away from me—but honestly I like admiration and lots of it.”
“What’s the harm of that?” he asked easily, setting down,
“Fifth—Lovers.”
“No harm, so long as I’m my own mistress,” said she defiantly. “I take care of my boy, I take care of myself—let them take care of themselves! Don’t blame me too much!”
“You’re not a very good psychologist, I’m afraid,” said he.
“What do you mean?” she asked rather nervously.
“You surely don’t expect a man to blame you for being a woman, do you?”
“All women are not like that,” she hastily asserted. “They are too conscientious. Lots of my friends blame me severely.”
“Women friends,” he ventured.
“Men, too. Some men have said very hard things of me.”
“Because you turned ’em down. That’s natural.”
“You don’t!”
“No, I don’t. I’m different.”.
“How different?” she asked.
He looked at her steadily. His eyes were hazel, flecked with changing bits of color, deep, steady, with a sort of inner light that grew as she watched till presently she thought it well to consider her slipper again; and continued, “The sixth is as bad as the other almost. I hate—I’d like to write a dozen tragic plays to show how much I hate—Housekeeping! There! That’s all!”
“Sixth—Housekeeping,” he wrote down, quite unmoved. “But why should anyone blame you for that—it’s not your business.”
“No—thank goodness, it’s not! And never will be! I’m free, I tell you and I stay free!—But look at the clock!” And she whisked away to dress for dinner.
He was not at table that night—not at home that night—not at home for some days—the landlady said he had gone out of town; and Mrs. Leland missed her afternoon tea.
She had it upstairs, of course, and people came in—both friends and lovers; but she missed the quiet and cosiness of the green and brown room downstairs.
Johnny missed his big friend still more. “Mama, where’s Mr. Olmstead? Mama, why don’t Mr. Olmstead come back? Mama! When is Mr. Olmstead coming back? Mama! Why don’t you write to Mr. Olmstead and tell him to come back? Mama!—can’t we go in there and play with his things?”
As if in answer to this last wish she got a little note from him saying simply, “Don’t let Johnny miss the lions and monkeys—he and Miss Merton and you, of course, are quite welcome to the whole floor. Go in at any time.”
Just to keep the child quiet she took advantage of this offer, and Johnnie introduced her to all the ins and outs of the place. In a corner of the bedroom was a zinc-lined tray with clay in it, where Johnnie played rapturously at making “making country.” While he played his mother noted the quiet good taste and individuality of the place.
“It smells so clean!” she said to herself. “There! he hasn’t told me yet why he doesn’t smoke. I never told him I didn’t like it.”
Johnnie tugged at a bureau drawer. “He keeps the water in here!” he said, and before she could stop him he had out a little box with bits of looking-glass in it, which soon became lakes and rivers in his clay continent.
Mrs. Leland put them back afterward, admiring the fine quality and goodly number of garments in that drawer, and their perfect order. Her husband had been a man who made a chowder of his bureau drawers, and who expected her to find all his studs and put them in for him.
“A man like this would be no trouble at all,” she thought for a moment—but then she remembered other things and set her mouth hard. “Not for mine!” she said determinedly.
By and by he came back, serene as ever, friendly and unpresuming.
“Aren’t you going to tell me why you don’t smoke?” she suddenly demanded of him on another quiet dusky afternoon when tea was before them.
He seemed so impersonal, almost remote, though nicer than ever to Johnny; and Mrs. Leland rather preferred the personal note in conservation.
“Why of course I am,” he replied cordially. “That’s easy,” and he fumbled in his inner pocket.
“Is that where you keep your reasons?” she mischievously inquired.
“It’s where I keep yours,” he promptly answered, producing the little notebook. “Now look here—I’ve got these all answered—you won’t be able to hold to one of ’em after this. May I sit by you and explain?”
She made room for him on the sofa amiably enough, but defied him to convince her. “Go ahead,” she said cheerfully.
“First,” he read off, “Previous Marriage. This is not a sufficient objection. Because you have been married you now know what to choose and what to avoid. A girl is comparatively helpless in this matter; you are armed. That your first marriage was unhappy is a reason for trying it again. It is not only that you are better able to choose, but that by the law of chances you stand to win next time. Do you admit the justice of this reasoning?”
“I don’t admit anything,” she said. “I’m waiting to ask you a question.”
“Ask it now.”
“No—I’ll wait till you are all through. Do go on.”
“‘Second—The Boy,'” he continued. “Now Mrs. Leland, solely on the boy’s account I should advise you to marry again. While he is a baby a mother is enough, but the older he grows the more he will need a father. Of course you should select a man the child could love—a man who could love the child.”
“I begin to suspect you of deep double-dyed surreptitious designs, Mr. Olmstead. You know Johnnie loves you dearly. And you know I won’t marry you,” she hastily added.
“I’m not asking you to—now, Mrs. Leland. I did, in good faith, and I would again if I thought I had the shadow of a chance—but I’m not at present. Still, I’m quite willing to stand as an instance. Now, we might resume, on that basis. Objection one does not really hold against me—now does it?”
He looked at her cheerily, warmly, openly; and in his clean, solid strength and tactful kindness he was so unspeakably different from the dark, fascinating slender man who had become a nightmare to her youth, that she felt in her heart he was right—so far. “I won’t admit a thing,” she said sweetly. “But, pray go on.”
He went on, unabashed. “‘Second—Boy,’ Now if you married me I should consider the boy as an added attraction. Indeed—if you do marry again—someone who doesn’t want the boy—I wish you’d give him to me. I mean it. I think he loves me, and I think I could be of real service to the child.”
He seemed almost to have forgotten her, and she watched him curiously.
“Now, to go on,” he continued. “‘Third-Profession.’ As to your profession,” said he slowly, clasping his hands over one knee and gazing at the dark soft-colored rug, “if you married me, and gave up your profession I should find it a distinct loss, I should lose my favorite actress.”
She gave a little start of surprise.
“Didn’t you know how much I admire your work?” he said. “I don’t hang around the stage entrance—there are plenty of chappies to do that; and I don’t always occupy a box and throw bouquets—I don’t like a box anyhow. But I haven’t missed seeing you in any part you’ve played yet—some of ’em I’ve seen a dozen times. And you’re growing—you’ll do better work still. It is sometimes a little weak in the love parts—seems as if you couldn’t quite take it seriously—couldn’t let yourself go—but you’ll grow. You’ll do better—I really think—after you’re married “
She was rather impressed by this, but found it rather difficult to say anything; for he was not looking at her at all. He took up his notebook again with a smile.
“So—if you married me, you would be more than welcome to go on with your profession. I wouldn’t stand in your way any more than I do now. ‘Fourth—Freedom,'” he read slowly. “That is easy in one way—hard in another. If you married me,”—She stirred resentfully at this constant reference to their marriage; but he seemed purely hypothetical in tone; “I wouldn’t interfere with your freedom any. Not of my own will. But if you ever grew to love me—or if there were children—it would make some difference. Not much. There mightn’t be any children, and it isn’t likely you’d ever love me enough to have that stand in your way. Otherwise than that you’d have freedom—as much as now. A little more; because if you wanted to make a foreign tour, or anything like that, I’d take care of Johnnie. ‘Fifth—Lovers.'” Here he paused leaning forward with his chin in his hands, his eyes bent down. She could see the broad heavy shoulders, the smooth fit of the well-made, coat, the spotless collar, and the fine, strong, clean-cut neck. As it happened she particularly disliked the neck of the average man—either the cordy, the beefy or the adipose, and particularly liked this kind, firm and round like a Roman’s, with the hair coming to a clean-cut edge and stopping there.
“As to lovers,” he went on—”I hesitate a little as to what to say about that. I’m afraid I shall shock you. Perhaps I’d better leave out that one.”
“As insuperable?” she mischievously asked.
“No, as too easy,” he answered.
“You’d better explain,” she said.
“Well then—it’s simply this: as a man—I myself admire you more because so many other men admire you. I don’t sympathize with them, any!—Not for a minute. Of course, if you loved any one of them you wouldn’t be my wife. But if you were my wife—”
“Well?” said she, a little breathlessly. “You’re very irritating! What would you do? Kill ’em all? Come—If I were your wife?—”
“If you were my wife—” he turned and faced her squarely, his deep eyes blazing steadily into hers, “In the first place the more lovers you had that you didn’t love the better I’d be pleased.”
“And if I did?” she dared him.
“If you were my wife,” he purused with perfect quietness, “you would never love anyone else.”
There was a throbbing silence.
“‘Sixth—Housekeeping,'” he read.
At this she rose to her feet as if released. “Sixth and last and all-sufficient!” she burst out, giving herself a little shake as if to waken. “Final and conclusive and admitting no reply!”—I will not keep house for any man. Never! Never!! Never!!!”
“Why should you?” he said, as he had said it before; “Why not board?”
“I wouldn’t board on any account!”
“But you are boarding now. Aren’t you comfortable here?”
“O yes, perfectly comfortable. But this is the only boarding-house I ever saw that was comfortable.”
“Why not go on as we are—if you married me?”
She laughed shrilly. “With the other boarders round them and a whole floor laid between,” she parodied gaily. “No, sir! If I ever married again—and I wont—I’d want a home of my own—a whole house—and have it run as smoothly and perfectly as this does. With no more care than I have now!”
“If I could give you a whole house, like this, and run it for you as smoothly and perfectly as this one—then would you marry me?” he asked.
“O, I dare say I would,” she said mockingly.
“My dear,” said he, “I have kept this house—for you—for three years.”
“What do you mean?” she demanded, flushingly.
“I mean that it is my business,” he answered serenely. “Some men run hotels and some restaurants: I keep a number of boarding houses and make a handsome income from them. All the people are comfortable—I see to that. I planned to have you use these rooms, had the dumbwaiter run to the top so you could have meals comfortably there. You didn’t much like the first housekeeper. I got one you liked better; cooks to please you, maids to please you. I have most seriously tried to make you comfortable. When you didn’t like a boarder I got rid of him—or her—they are mostly all your friends now. Of course if we were married, we’d fire ’em all.” His tone was perfectly calm and business like. “You should keep your special apartments on top; you should also have the floor above this, a larger bedroom, drawing-room, and bath and private parlor for you;—I’d stay right here as I am now—and when you wanted me—I’d be here.”
She stiffened a little at this rather tame ending. She was stirred, uneasy, dissatisfied. She felt as if something had been offered and withdrawn; something was lacking.
“It seems such a funny business—for a man,” she said.
“Any funnier than Delmonico’s?” he asked. “It’s a business that takes some ability—witness the many failures. It is certainly useful. And it pays—amazingly.”
“I thought it was real estate,” she insisted.
“It is. I’m in a real estate office. I buy and sell houses—that’s how
I came to take this up!”
He rose up, calmly and methodically, walked over to the fire, and laid his notebook on it. “There wasn’t any strength in any of those objections, my dear,” said he. “Especially the first one. Previous marriage, indeed! You have never been married before. You are going to be—now.”
It was some weeks after that marriage that she suddenly turned upon him—as suddenly as one can turn upon a person whose arms are about one—demanding.
“And why don’t you smoke?—You never told me!”
“I shouldn’t like to kiss you so well if you smoked!”—said he.
“I never had any idea,” she ventured after a while, “that it could be—like this.”