A TWENTIETH CENTURY WOMAN.
By Ella Higginson,
Author of "The Takin' In of Old Miss Lane," and Other Stories.
MR. DAWSON stood at the dining room window. His hands were deep in his trousers pockets. He was jingling some pieces of silver money, and swearing silently with closed lips.
The room looked more like a business office than a dining-room in a house. It was furnished handsomely, but with extreme plainness. There was an air of stiffness about everything. There were no plants in the windows; there was not a flower on the table, which stood ready for breakfast. In a word, there were no feminine touches anywhere.
Precisely at eight o'clock a strong, quick step came down the stairs and through the hall. Mr. Dawson turned with a quelled impatience in his manner. His wife entered.
"Oh," she said. She glanced at him, smiling mechanically, as one would at a child. Then she walked rapidly to a little table, and began to look over the morning mail. "Have you been waiting?" she added, absent-mindedly.
"It is not of the least consequence." Mr. Dawson spoke with a fine sarcasm. It was wasted. She did not even hear the reply.
"Ah," she said, tossing down a letter and turning to ring for breakfast. "I must run up to Salem on the noon train."
An untidy servant entered.
"Breakfast, please," said Mrs. Dawson, without looking at the girl. She seated herself at the breakfast-table, and opened the morning paper, which had been laid at her place. Mr. Dawson sat down opposite her. There was silence, save for the occasional rustle of the paper as Mrs. Dawson turned it sharply. Her eyes glanced alertly from heading to heading, pausing here and there to read something of interest. Her husband looked at her from time to time. At last he said, again with fine sarcasm, "Any news?"
Mrs. Dawson finished the article she was reading. Then, with a little start, as if she had just heard, she said: "Oh, no, no; nothing of consequence, my dear." But she read on, more intently than before.
"Well," said her husband presently, with a touch of sharpness, "here are the strawberries. Can you take time to eat them?"
She sighed impatiently. Three deep lines gathered between her brows. She folded the paper slowly, and put it in an inside pocket of her jacket. She wore a street dress, made with a very full skirt which reached a few inches below the knees. The jacket was short, and had many pockets. She wore, also, a tan-silk shirt, rolled collar and tie, and leggings. Her hair was arranged very plainly. In spite of her unbecoming attire, however, she was a beautiful woman, and her husband loved her and was proud of her.
This did not prevent him, though, from saying, with something like a feminine pettishhess, "Mrs. Dawson, i wish you would remember to leave the paper for me."
Mrs. Dawson looked at him in surprised displeasure. "I have not finished reading it myself," she said coldly. "Besides, there is nothing in it that will interest you. It is mostly political news. If I had time to read it before I go down town, it would be different; but I am out so late every night, I must sleep till the last minute in the morning to keep my strength, for the campaign. You cannot complain that I forget to bring it home for you in the evening."
Mr. Dawson coughed scornfully, but made no reply for some minutes. Finally he said, in a taunting tone, "It's all very well for you. You are down town all day, among people, hearing everything that is going on—while I sit here alone, without even a paper to read!"
For a moment Mrs. Dawson was angry. Here she was with an invalid husband and two children, working early and late to support them comfortably. She had been successful—so successful that she had received the nomination for State Senator on the Republican ticket. She loved her husband. She was proud of herself for her own sake, but certainly more for his sake. She thought he ought to make her way
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