Smart Set (White)/The Story of Three People

By Owen Oliver

MORAL is useless unless you can point it at somebody. I have never been able to apply the moral of this story; so I write it down for others to try.

There were three people in it, and they were all friends of mine. There might have been a fourth, but he was wise. Wisdom is a painful virtue to

The first person was George Travers, a handsome, well-groomed fellow, who made money and friends; kindly, clever and a trifle flighty; a man's man and a woman's man, too—that was George. Of these three people he was the worst, if you will, and I liked him best.

The second person was Margaret Travers, wife of George, a woman of societies and affairs; blonde, full-blown, and beautiful; a man's edge to her intellect and a woman's edge to her tongue—that was Margaret. She was the second best of them, and I liked her second best.

The third person was Violet Dering, a tall, dark girl with eyes; good to look at, but not good-looking; a woman who wrote poems and read people—that was Violet. She was the best of them; and I liked her least.

They could all speak for themselves, and they spoke to me freely, keeping back no more than men and women always do. Possibly, the moral is in what they left unspoken; but I can only tell you what they said. I come in merely as the chorus.

George spoke to me first. It was a chill morning in April, and I was nursing a long-standing cold before the fire. He did not ask me about it, but flung his hat on the table and himself in a chair.

"I've come to a stiff place, old man," he said. I got out the decanter, pushed over the cigar-box, and held my peace. I am the one who was wise.

"Probably," he continued, "you can guess?"

"Yes."

"You are surprised?"

"No."

"My wife—I have never spoken to any one about her before"

"Your wife is a good woman."

"Too good!"

"For you?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "You can say what you please about me."

"I am not likely to say anything against you." Our friendship was more than a word.

"I won't listen to anything against—Violet."

"I have nothing to say against Violet. I wish she had kept out of your life."

"It wasn't life—before."

"Nonsense!"

He laid his hand on my shoulder—an unsteady hand.

"You don't think so, old man."

I stared into the fire for a long time. Men and women are men and women; and an empty heart is an empty heart.

"What right have you to—live?"

"The right of any one."

"You are not 'one.'"

He laughed, bitterly. "Even a married man has a heart."

"So has his wife."

He looked at me under his eyebrows. "Do you think she has?"

I stared at the fire again. "Yes, I think so." I had not pushed the opinion to demonstration. I liked my friend better than his wife.

"I wonder if she would feel it much if—anything happened?"

"Very much."

"You don't imagine that she cares for me?"

I suppose it was my business to lie to him; but it is hard to lie to one's friends.

"She has not the consolation of caring for any one else," I said, slowly.

"She couldn't!"

"She does not permit herself the attempt."

"Her virtues are in evidence!" He poured some whiskey out for himself. "A virtuous woman can be very trying!" "A man can be trying without being virtuous."

"People don't usually find me trying, do they, old man?"

I shook my head. "You're very easy to like."

He played on the table with his fingers. "I wonder why?"

"Because it's easy to you to like other people. You don't want to hurt anybody, George?" He shook his head. "Not even"

"Not even her. I've been on the point of suggesting a separation, time after time; but I've thought of—what you said. She has no one else—I almost wish she had."

"She could have." He raised his eyebrows. "Man alive, don't you know what a beautiful woman she is?"

"I used to think so, years ago; when I thought that she—cared for me. We weren't suited, really; but we jogged along, somehow. I was fond of her in a way, till she changed so."

"I have seen no change in her."

"I suppose you did not notice. It was about the time that you were ill."

"No, I did not notice. Perhaps you fancied it?"

He shook his head. "It is evident enough. She is as bored with me as I with her. You don't know what it is to live with a woman who jars you every time you see her—hear her."

"You bore it lightly till Violet Dering came along."

"Till I knew what I had missed! After all, I have a life to live."

"So has Violet." It was my best card.

"Without me?" It was his.

"God knows!" According to my theory a man lives his life alone; but a woman is different.

"Gods' hearts don't break!" He got up and paced the room.

"If your hearts are china, they must suffer."

He sat down again. "Must they?" He leaned forward toward me. "If I ask Violet"

"She can't give you what you want."

"I want her."

"You want her as she is—a good woman. You can't have her."

"I want her anyhow. I can't do without her."

"You can try."

"Try?" He laughed, discordantly. "Do you think we haven't tried?"

"Go away."

"I went away—and came back."

"Don't come back."

He rose and stood by the fire. "I think of her when I get up and when I lie down; when I am at work and when I am at play; when I am silent and when I am talking. I am thinking of her now. I want her—want her. Margaret doesn't want me, unless it is to talk at. She is clever at saying things that sting."

"I have never known Margaret to speak harshly to any one, unless it was deserved."

"Violet wouldn't say things, even if I deserved them. She would let me hurt and hurt, and give me a smile at the end. Violet! Oh, there aren't any words to tell what I think of her!"

I said nothing for a long time. There seemed nothing to say.

"It is a terrible thing," I told him at last.

"A terrible thing!"

"Face it."

"I have faced it."

"For Violet's sake. If you care for her"

"Care for her! What do you suppose I shall do?"

"I don't know."

"Neither do I," he said.

Then he went; and I sat shaking my head helplessly at the fire. I knew what he would do, unless one of the women saved him. I was not sure that Margaret could, or that Violet would.

I had been thinking for half an hour when Mrs. Travers was announced. She inquired about my cold, and told me the latest scandals. I answered in monosyllables until she stopped. Then I turned to her.

"Well, Margaret?"

"It is—my husband."

"My dearest friend."

"He, or I?"

"Of course—you." I meant him; but I did not wish to hurt her.

"I have no business to complain of him."

"No."

"You can stop me, if you choose."

I stirred the fire, cautiously. "You had better tell me, I think."

"I presume I can speak to you in confidence?"

"No one but you would ask the question." Margaret was always mistrustful. Therefore I did not wholly trust her.

"You know he does not love me."

"How should I know?"

She raised her eyebrows. "No one but you would ask the question!"

"I will not ask it."

"You know also that I—I do not wish to say it."

"I understand."

"You know, too, that he and Violet Dering—" I poked the fire almost to destruction. "I do not expect you to admit it; but you do."

"Yes," I admitted.

"You know the sort of woman that she is."

"She is a good woman."

Margaret laughed, scornfully. "I should have remembered that she is a man's woman."

"She is not mine. I suppose you can take my word, Margaret?" She nodded. "Violet is a good woman—a very good woman. But I do not care greatly for her."

Margaret leaned back in her chair and sighed. I did not understand the sigh—then.

"We will say that she is a good woman," she said; "I beg your pardon—a very good woman. Her goodness is not of the kind to prevent an open scandal."

"Openness does not make the offense."

"It is the open offense that the world judges."

"It is not a question of social decorum, but of—people's lives."

"The lives of people who live in society."

"We will look at it from their point of view." She would certainly look at it from no other.

"If she goes away with him—I will put it plainly—what is the result?"

"Your husband is ruined, probably."

"And she?"

"Certainly."

She leaned a little further back in her chair and looked at me. "Do you forget—me?"

"You are safe. The social forces will be on your side."

"People will not blame me?"

"No."

"My position and power for good will be unimpaired?"

"Yes."

She smiled, quietly. There was a pink flush in her cheeks—I had never seen her look more lovely.

"Perhaps it will be for the best!"

I sat up in my chair and gripped the arms. "How about—them?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I have told you that I do not care for him. You cannot expect me to care for her."

"I care very much for him; I also care"

"For her?" Margaret's voice was shrill.

"For the honor of a good woman. She is a good woman."

"We are speaking of the future."

"I would save them from the future."

"You cannot."

"I cannot; but you—if you spoke to George? He has a sense of duty."

She looked up at me, suddenly. I was dazed for a moment. She is a handsome woman, as I have said—china-blue eyes and pretty, pale hair. I always admired her eyes and hair.

"Has it never occurred to you that I might wish to be free? that I have a heart? I thought you understood. But men so easily forget"

There was nothing to remember, really; but women exaggerate things. I might have pressed her hand, on special occasions. I think I did kiss her once or twice. I was ill, and no one thought I could recover. It was nothing but what a friend might do; and we were friends.

"I do not forget anything, Margaret. He is your husband, and my friend."

She nodded, approvingly. "You are loyal. It will be a comfort to us to think that we were—as we have been." She touched my hand. I had never been blind to her faults; but I had liked her.

"I would stop it if I could," I persisted, unsteadily.

"And I would not."

She sat upright, and I knew that argument was useless.

"Then there is nothing more to be said."

"Nothing more at present." She rose and smoothed out her draperies. She is a woman who carries flowing robes well. "Afterward—I shall have a divorce, of course."

"Yes."

"Do you think people will say anything if I marry again?"

"No."

"Whoever it is?"

"Whoever it is." She smiled once more—I had not seen her look so girlish for years. "You are above suspicion, Margaret."

"You know that I have done my duty by him," she said. "Good-bye!"

"Good-bye, Margaret." Then she went.

The room always seemed bare when Margaret was gone; but this afternoon it was empty. It was not she that I missed, but my idea of her. The lover of an ideal is more to be pitied than any one—except the ideal.

"Two of my little tin gods have come off their pedestals to-day," I told myself. "I will go and uncrown the other!" So I went to Violet Dering.

"I have something unpleasant to discuss," I told her, bluntly. She faced me, bravely.

"We need not discuss it unpleasantly," she said.

"It is about George Travers."

"Of course."

"You know he does not love his wife."

"You know she does not love him."

"He loves you."

"And I love him." Her eyes met mine, unflinchingly. "It is not right—you know it is not right, Violet."

"Some things are neither right nor wrong; only unalterable."

"But the thing that you can alter—you know what I mean, Violet? what it will come to—you can prevent it." She laughed, softly.

"Do you remember the Ripple Song?

That is how I feel about it. Nothing is too much for him to ask of me."

"The ripple ran red afterward."

"I am brave enough to give him my life."

"It were braver to refuse it. Think what it means to you!"

"You can leave me out of the question."

"Do what is best for him."

She laid her hand gently on my arm. "You love him," she said. "So do I. Let us think what is best for him. Think!"

I thought. "He would lose his career, his position, his friends. What can you give him?"

She smiled. "Love!"

"Love," I echoed, absently. I could measure the other things; but not this.

"Love," she repeated. "Think! He loses less than I. A man can recover himself. No, don't speak yet. His life is so empty! His talents—you know how great they are—are stunted for the want of—love! She has been a drag on him—I don't say it is her fault; but she has—I shall do him a service if I free him from her."

"I will not listen to anything against her," I said, sharply. "She is a good woman."

"Good—for you." Violet's eyes flashed with sudden light. "You need not be afraid; I shall not tell any one. She is not good for him."

"Are you?"

She drew a deep breath. "While he thinks so," she said. "If he alters, I can go."

"If you went now, he would get over it."

"The ache would soon dull; not so soon as you think, but it would. Only, he wouldn't be the same man. He would shrink—I want to make him great—to see him grow, if only for a few years. It doesn't matter what becomes of me."

"I have known you since you were a child, Violet. I beg of you—if I thought that prayer were any use, I would pray of you—let him go."

"He can go when he wishes."

"He cannot wish."

"Then—" a wonderful light came into her eyes—"if he cannot do without me, he shall have me."

"Have you counted the cost?"

"All I have to give, all—all!"

"You know it is wrong."

"If it is best for him, I will do wrong."

"You don't want to do wrong, Violet?"

She sobbed, tearlessly. "All my life I have prayed to do right."

"Then I do not understand"

"No," she rose with one hand on her chair, "you do not understand. It is love! Go, please go!"

I took her hand and raised it to my lips. "Whatever happens, Violet," I said, "God bless you."

"God bless you," she said, "because you love him."

When I have doubted my deserts most I have been glad to know that Violet blessed me.

They went away the next day. I met Strange at the club, and he told me.

"It is a pity," he reflected, "messing up his life like that. He ought to have had more sense; but when a girl gets hold of a fellow—poor old Travers!"

I agreed with him.

Going home, I met Mrs. Gooding, and she stopped me. She was tearful, poor old thing!

"I can't talk about it," she said. "Travers and Violet Dering! Such a dear girl! He ought to be ashamed of himself."

I agreed with her.

In the afternoon I tried vainly to evade Mrs. Sharp.

"I see that you know all about it," she said. "Of course, Mrs. Travers will get a divorce. Nobody can blame her. Such an excellent woman!"

I agreed with her also and took refuge at my sister's.

"I'm sick of hearing about it," I groaned. "Don't say a word, Lucy."

She nodded and went on with her reading for nearly a minute. Then she looked up.

"I suppose Mrs. Travers will get a divorce," she said. "I don't mind," I said, testily.

Lucy shrugged her shoulders. "If you don't mind," she said, "she will marry you."

I did mind. So I went abroad, and Mrs. Travers married Barton, the banker, instead. It would enlarge her sphere of philanthropic work, she wrote, and Providence had been very kind to her.

When I was at Rome I met George and Violet. They had been married for some time, and were still ridiculously in love with each other. Providence, they told me, had given the fulness of life to them.

Therefore it appears that Providence has no moral to point at any of the three. I am glad for their sakes, since, as I said, they were all my friends; but it seems an unjust dispensation that the inconvenience of two years' exile should have fallen on me—who kept carefully out of the whole affair!