According to the Pattern

MRS. Claude Winthrop sat in her pretty sitting room
alone under the lamplight making buttonholes. Her eyes were swimming in stringing tears that she would not for
the world let fall. She felt as if a new law of attraction
held them there to blind and torture her. She could not
let them fall, for no more were left; they were burned
up by the emotions that were raging in her soul, and if
these tears were gone her eyeballs would surely scorch
the lids. She was exercising strong control over her lips that longed to open in a groan that should increase until
it reached a shriek that all the world could hear.

Her fingers flew with nervous haste, setting the needle
in dainty stitches in the soft white dress for her baby girl.
She had not supposed when she fashioned the little
garment the day before and laid it aside ready for the
finishing that she would think of its wearer to-night in
so much agony. Ah, her baby girl, and her boy, and the
older sister!

Almost the tears fell as another dart pierced her heart,
but she opened her eyes the wider to hold them back
and sat and sewed unwinkingly. She must not, must not
cry. There was a momentous thinking to be done to
night. She had not had time to consider this awful thing
since it had come upon her. Was she really sure beyond
a doubt that it was so? How long ago was it that she took
little Celia, happy and laughing, in the trolley to the
park? How little she thought what she was going out to meet as she lifted the child from the car and smilingly
humored her fancy to follow a by-path through the
woods. How the little feet had danced and the pretty
prattle had babbled on like a tinkling brook that needed no response, but was content with its own music.

And then they had come to the edge of the park drive
where they could look down upon the world of fashion
as it swept along, all rubber-tired and silver-mounted, in its best array. She had sighed a happy little sigh as she
surveyed a costly carriage surmounted by two servants in
white and dark-green livery and saw the discontented
faces of the over-dressed man and woman who sat as far apart as the width of the seat would allow, and appeared to endure their drive as two dumb animals might if this were a part of their daily round. What if she rode in state
like that with a husband such as he? She had shuddered
and been conscious of thankfulness over her home and her husband. What if Claude did stay away from home
a good deal of evenings! It was in the way of his business,
he said, and she must be more patient. There would
come a time by and by when he would have enough, so
that they could live at their ease, and he need not go to
the city ever any more. And into the midst of the bright dream she had conjured came little Celia’s prattle:

“Mamma, see! Papa tummin’! Pitty lady!” She had
looked down curiously to see who it was that reminded
the child of her father, and her whole being froze within
her. Her breath seemed not to come at all, and she had turned so ghastly white that the baby put up her hand
and touched her cheek, saying, “Mamma, pitty mamma! Poor mamma!”

For there on the seat of a high, stylish cart drawn by shining black horses with arched necks, and just below a tall elegant woman, who was driving, sat her husband. Claude! Yes, little Celia’s papa! Oh, that moment!

She forced herself to remember his face with its
varying expressions as she had watched it till it was out
of sight. There was no trouble in recalling it; it was
burned into her soul with a red-hot iron. He had been talking to that beautiful woman as he used to talk to her when they were first engaged. That tender, adoring gaze; his eyes lovelighted. It was unmistakable! A heart-breaking revelation! There was no use trying to blind herself.
There was not the slightest hope that he could come
home and explain this away as a business transaction, or
a plot between him and that other woman to draw her
out into the world, or any of those pretty fallacies that
might happen in books. It was all true, and she had
known it instantly. It had been revealed to her as in a
flash, the meaning of long months of neglect, supposed
business trips, luncheons, and dinners at the club instead
of the homecoming. She knew it. She ought to have
seen it before. If she had not been so engrossed in her
little world of the household she would have done so.
Indeed, now that she knew it, she recognized also that
she had been given warnings of it. Her husband had
done his best to get her out. He had suggested and
begged, but she had not been well during the first years
of the two elder children, and the coming of the third
had again filled her heart and mind. Her home was
enough for her, always provided he was in it. It was not
enough for him. She had tried to make it a happy one;
but perhaps she had been fretful and exacting sometimes, and it may be she had been in fault to allow the children to be noisy when their father was at home.

He had always been fond of society, and had been
brought up to do exactly as he pleased. It was hard for
him to be shut in as she was, but that was a woman’s lot.
At least it was the lot of the true mother who did not
trust her little ones to servants. Ah, was she excusing
him? That must not be. He was her husband. She loved him deeply, tenderly, bitterly; but she would not excuse him. He was at fault, of course. He should not have been riding with a wealthy woman of fashion while his own wife came to the park on the trolley and took care of her baby as he passed by. He was not a man of wealth yet,
though they had hoped he would one day be; but how
did he get into this set? How came he to be sitting beside that lovely lady with the haughty air who had smiled so graciously down upon him? Her soul recoiled even now
as she remembered that her husband should be looking
up in that way to any woman—that is, any woman but herself—oh, no! Not even that! She wanted her husband
to be a man above, far above herself She must respect
him. She could not live if she could not do that. What
should she do? Was there anything to do? She would die.
Perhaps that was the way out of it—she would die. It would be an easy affair. No heart could bear many such
mighty grips of horror as had come upon hers that
afternoon. It would not take long. But the children—her
three little children! Could she leave them to the
world—to another woman, perhaps, who would not
love them? No, not that. Not even to save them from
the shame of a father who had learned to love another
woman than his wife. She reasoned this out. It seemed
to her that her brain had never seen things so clearly
before in all her life. Her little children were the burden of her sorrow. That all this should come upon them! A father who had disgraced them—who did not love his home! For this was certainly what it would come to be, even though he maintained all outward proprieties. She told herself that it was probable this had not been going
on long. She forced herself to think back to the exact date when her husband began to stay away to dinners
and to be out late evenings. How could she have been
so easily satisfied in her safe, happy belief that her peace was to last forever, and go off to sleep before his return, often and often?

And then her conscience, arising from a refreshing
sleep, began to take up its neglected work and accused
her smartly. It was all her fault. She could see her
mistakes as clearly now as if they had been roads leading
off from the path she ought to have kept. She had
allowed her husband to become alienated from herself. She could look back to the spot where she ought to have done something, just what she did not know. She did not even stop to question whether it had been possible in her state of health, and with their small income, which was eaten up so fast in those days by doctor’s bills and little
shoes. But all that was past. It could not be lived over.
She had been a failure—yes, she, Miriam Hammond Winthrop—who had thought when she married that she
would be the most devoted of wives, she had let her
husband drift away from her, and had helped on the
destruction that was coming surely and swiftly to her
little children. Was it too late? Was the past utterly irretrievable? Had he gone too far? Had he lost his love for her entirely? Was her power all gone? She used to be
able to bring the lovelight into his eyes. Could she ever
do it again?

Suddenly she laid down the little white garment with the needle just as she was beginning to take the next
stitch and went to the mirror over the mantel to look at
herself.

She turned on all the gas jets and studied her face
critically. Yes, she looked older, and there were wrinkles
coming here and there. It seemed to her they had come
that afternoon. Her eyes looked tired too, but could she
not by vigorous attention to herself make her face once
more
attractive to her husband? If so it was worth doing,
if she might save him, even if she died in the attempt.
She took both hands and smoothed her forehead, rubbed
her cheeks to make them red, and forgot to notice that
the tears had burned themselves up, leaving her eyes
brighter than usual. She tossed her hair up a little like the
handsome woman’s she had seen in the park. It really
was more becoming. Why had she not taken the trouble
to dress it in the present style? Then she went back to
her chair again and took up the work. The buttonholes
that she had expected would take several evenings to
finish were vanishing before her excited fingers without
her knowing it. It was a relief to her to do something;
and she put all her energy into it so that her hands began
to ache, but she was only conscious of the awful ache in
her heart and sewed on.

If there were some one to advise her! Could she do it?

Could
she make a stand against the devil and try to save
her Eden? Or was it more than one poor shy woman,
with all the odds of the gay world against her, could
accomplish?

She longed to have her husband come home that she
might throw herself at his feet and beg and plead with
him for her happiness, to save their home; she longed to
accuse him madly, and fling scorching words at him, and
watch his face as she told him how she and his baby had
seen him that afternoon; and then she longed again to
throw her arms about his neck and cry upon his breast as she used to do when they were first married, and any
little thing happened that she did not like. How she used
to cry over trifles then! How could she, when such a
world of sorrow was coming to her so soon?

She was wise enough to know that none of these
longings of her heart must be carried into effect if she
would win her husband. In his present attitude he would
laugh at her fears! She seemed to understand that her
anguish would only anger him because he would feel
condemned. Her own soul knew that she could not take
him back into her heart of hearts until she won him back
and he came of his own accord confessing his wrong to
her. But would that ever be? He was a good man at
heart, she believed. He would not do wrong, not very
wrong, not knowingly. Perhaps he had not learned to
love any other woman, only to love society, and—to
—
cease to love her.

If her dear, wise mother were there! But no! She could
not tell her. She must never breathe this thing to any
living soul if she would hope to do anything! His honor
should be hers. She would protect him from even her
own condemnation so long as she could. But what to do
and how to do it!

Out of the chaos of her mind there presently began to
form a plan. Her breath came and went with quick gasps
and her heart beat wildly as she looked the daring thing
in the face and summoned her courage to meet it.

Could she perhaps meet that woman, that outrageous
woman, on her own ground and vanquish her? Could
she with only the few poor little stones of her wits and
the sling of her love face this woman Goliath of society
and challenge her? What! expect that woman, with all
her native grace and beauty, her fabulous wealth, and her
years of training to give way before her? A crimson spot
came out on either cheek, but she swallowed hard with
her hot dry throat and set her lips in firm resolve. She
could but fail. She would do it.

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