The Smart Set/Volume 10/Issue 1/The Married Man

by Morgan Robertson

 

THE MARRIED MAN

By Morgan Robertson

HE told the story while he and I smoked at one end of his veranda, and his kindly-faced wife talked with "the only girl on earth" at the other end, beyond reach of his voice. He was a large, portly and benign old gentleman, with an infinite experience of life, whom I had long known as a fellow-tenant in the studio building. He was not an artist, but an editorial-writer on one of the great dailies, who worked, cooked and slept in his studio, until Saturday evening came, when he regularly disappeared, until Monday morning.

There was nothing in this to surprise me, until he invited the only girl and myself to visit his country home over Sunday, incidentally informing us that he was a married man and had been for more than twenty years.

And we found him most happily married. Indeed, he and his white-haired wife were so foolishly fond of each other that their caresses would have seemed absurd had they not been so genuine.

These old lovers had made much of us; and they seemed so sincerely interested in our coming marriage that, in the evening, as night settled over the quiet little suburb, and we sought the veranda for coolness, I ventured to comment to my host on his mode of life.

"Best plan in the world," he answered. "You'll find it so, after a year or two of creative work at home. Don't give up your studio. If you do, you will suffer—as I did before I began my double life—from nervous prostration. I was writing when I married—long-winded essays, sermons, editorials, and arguments about nothing at all, simply built up from the films of my imagination. The thousand-and-one distractions of household life interfered too much, and the more I tried to force my brain the more I fatigued it. The result was that I had a bad six months with myself, and then gave out, just on the verge of insanity.

"Yes, my home life nearly maddened me, as I have said. Then, I took a studio, lived in it, and visited my wife twice a week. The result was that I got my work done, and found my wife as glad to see me as I was to see her. It was like a lad's going to see his girl; and, talk as you like about conjugal bliss, a woman gets tired of a man about the house all day long. Still, there is a danger attached to this dual residence. One must walk straight, for he is a marked man. I had an experience at the beginning, that taught me the need of prudence.

"It was while I was mentally convalescent, but yet a very weak man, nervous, irritable, and of unsound judgment. There was about the same kind of a crowd in the building as now—artists, musicians, actors and actresses. There were women coming and going at all hours, and all sorts of shady characters had access to the place. One day, a neighbor named Bunker brought a pleasing young person in black into my place, and introduced us. She was the widow, she informed me, of a newspaper man, who often, when alive, had spoken of me. So, hearing that I was in the building, she had asked her friend, Mr. Bunker, to bring us together, as she wished to know her dear husband's friends. She wiped away a tear at this point—genuine, too.

"Now, I had no remembrance of her husband, but, feeling kindly toward any newspaper man's widow, I welcomed her, and Bunker left us together. She was intelligent, with literary aspirations, and we chatted a while very agreeably. Then, she borrowed a book, and left.

"I had noticed that, though neatly dressed, her clothing was palpably cheap in quality, and, when she came again—without Bunker, this time—it seemed a little more worn than was consistent with good times. So, I questioned her gently, and learned that she had eaten nothing that day. She was trying to make her way by writing short stories, and that fact aroused my pity—a pity that grew when I saw her eat the luncheon I provided from my ice-box.

"She did not come again for a month, and then she appeared with the blackest eye I had ever seen on a woman. She was seedier than ever, and looked hungry. I was deeply sorry for her, believing her clothing a sure index of an honest woman's struggle to remain honest. Partly, from the delicacy of feeling due to this belief, and, partly, because I had but thirty-five cents in my pocket, I made no offer of pecuniary assistance. But, after giving me a conventional explanation of the cause of the black eye, she hinted plainly that, unless she could raise ten dollars before night, she would be turned out of her room. This was serious, and I took thought.

"It was Friday, and a holiday. I knew that there was no one in the building but Bunker and myself, and Bunker was one of those rollicking souls who are in a continuous condition of cheerful impecuniosity. There was not a place open in the neighborhood except the saloons, and there I was not known. Clearly, I could not raise any money for her that day; but I promised her the use of my studio for the two following nights, when I should be home in the country, and I agreed to induce Bunker, who slept in his boarding-house, to put her up in his place for that night. This would provide sleeping quarters and the use of my gas-stove and ice-box for three nights and two days, by which time something might turn up. She expressed herself as satisfied, and I went out to interview Bunker.

"'No,' he declared, vehemently, 'I can't take any woman to my place.' 'Bunker,' I interrupted, solemnly, 'you brought this young woman here, you have pretended to be her friend, and her claim upon you is enough to warrant her in expecting help at this critical moment. Remember, Bunker, this is a crisis with her. If she is helped, she may pull through; if not, she may lose heart and courage, and go to ruin.'

"My words impressed him. 'All right,' he said; 'I don't know much about her lately—knew her family well, out West—that's all. I'll give you my key, before I go home—want to lock myself in and work for a while now. Have a drink. Got some good stuff here.'

"I declined, and went back to my visitor, picking up on the way a telegraph messenger, who had arrived with a despatch for me.

"Unwearied in well-doing, glad that I was an instrument in helping this worthy young woman, I assured her of the success of my mission—before opening the telegram. And she thanked me, with tears—genuine again. Then, slightly affected myself, I broke the envelope, and read:

"Meet me 5.30 Pennsylvania ferry. If miss you will come to your office.

"Maud Milner.

"Now, Maud Milner was the wife of an old friend of mine; and, too, she was my wife's old school chum. She had never been in New York, and she did not know that my 'office' was a bachelor's apartment. But her visit had been prearranged, and I had written the invitation on my studio stationery, so that her response was quite innocent; yet, I had peculiar reasons—aside from the presence there of my penniless and interesting protégée—for not wishing her to visit my place in town.

"I had paid her fully as much attention before her marriage as I had my wife; in fact, I courted them both at once, in order to arouse their sense of pique. Not a strictly honorable thing to do, had either of them cared for me, initially; but neither did care, and I might not have won my wife by any other plan. The two were bad friends for a while, and, to this day, my wife cannot rid herself of a very slight jealousy. So, you see the reason for my anxiety to avoid any possibility of complications,

"I had just enough time in which to get to the ferry, and, after emphasizing to the widow the necessity of her getting Bunker's key before he left, and of leaving my studio empty against the possible arrival of Mrs. Milner without me, I rushed away.

"I reached the ferry on time; but Mrs. Milner was not there, nor did she come, though I waited until seven o'clock. Then, I inquired, and an official informed me that the five-thirty—the train boat—had met with an accident, and had landed her passengers at the nearest dock, which was a little further up. I hurried there, but Mrs. Milner was not visible. At last, fearing lest she had gone to the studio, and had met the widow with that picturesque black eye, I hastened up-town again.

"At the street-door, I met Bunker—drunk as a lord.

"'Is she up there yet?' I asked, anxiously.

"'Who?' he answered, in a tone that told me he had forgotten.

"'Did you give her your key? Give me that key—the key of your studio. Hurry up!'

"A dim light of intelligence flashed over his cheerful face, and he grinned.

"'Oh, yesh—yesh; thash so!' He pulled out a bunch of keys. Here's keys, ol' man—street-door key and studio key.'

"As he staggered off, I bounded up the stairs, with the two keys he had pulled from his bunch.

"The widow met me at my door.

"'Has a lady called here?' I asked, hastily.

"'Somebody peeped in,' she said. 'It may have been a lady, but I thought it was Mr. Bunker, and as soon as I could—I was dressing my eye—I followed out; but he was gone.'

"'Oh, Lord!' I groaned. 'If it was she, she's gone out to my place, and she will tell my wife.'

"Then, I remembered that Mrs. Milner did not have my country address, and was comforted.

"But I had been extremely agitated, and now my shattered nervous system went back on me so completely that I practically turned that interesting female out.

"'The lady may come back at any moment,' I said. 'Here are the keys—this one for the outer door, this one for the studio. Don't let her find you with me in this place.'

"I gave the widow the keys, and she left, saying that she would make a call on some one who had promised her employment, and that she would not annoy me further. She was extremely grateful for my kindness, and all that.

"I hurried her out; and, after a while, settled down to my desk, and worked through the evening—worked hard, to keep from worrying over the whereabouts of Mrs. Milner, alone in that great city.

"Mrs. Milner quite failed to appear; but, at eleven o'clock, the other one came. I heard her in the hall, fumbling at the keyhole of Bunker's door, and went out.

"'This key will not unlock the door,' she said, and I joined her.

"Trying the key, I found that it did not fit—in fact, that it was a key shaped differently from all other door-keys in that building; and I knew that the befuddled Bunker had made a mistake.

"He gave you the right key for the street-door,' the widow whimpered; 'why did he give the wrong one for this door?'

"'Drunk,' I growled. 'Come in, and we'll talk it over.'

"'Oh, I cannot,' she complained. 'To think of it! the terrible position I am in! Oh, to think of it!'

"'Don't think of it,' I answered; 'it's all right. Don't think of it, and don't talk of it. I'll say nothing, and I'll go home as soon as I've finished the page I'm on. Come in and sit down.'

"I led her in, and sat her down, but her plaint would not cease. I fancied there was a smell of liquor in the air, but I could not be sure that it was not the clinging odor left by Bunker. I turned to my work, and endeavored to write, but could not; for now her mood changed to one of patronage, and she advised me upon my methods, my style of writing, my manner of living. She promised to be a friend to me all her life. She would help me to reform my rather slap-dash style of writing, and to give it the literary touch, and she would help me in my punctuation. She had made a study of my editorials, and knew all my weak points.

"All this was enough to exasperate a steadier-nerved man than myself. It drove me, barely convalescent from mental collapse, to distraction.

"'Here,' I said, rudely, standing up, 'you will not stop talking, so I must stop work. I'll give it up and go home.'

"Oh, don't let me disturb you,' she said, pleadingly, as she, too, rose and approached me; 'I will be quiet, I really will.'

"But I smelt the odor of liquor again, now plainly from her breath, and I did not believe that she could stop talking if she tried. My resolution to go was made stronger.

"I went to a cabinet at the far end of the studio, to get some papers I wished to carry home with me. I returned quickly.

"But, in that short time, she had made changes; she had laid aside her hat and jacket when she came in, but now she stood before my mirror, shaking her hair down her back, and unbuttoning her collar. She smiled sweetly as she turned to me.

"Without a word, I caught up my hat, and fled.

"Down in the street, I looked at my watch. It was nearly midnight. It would take me until two in the morning to get home, where I would have to wake my wife, and relate the whole truth—or else tell her a lie as to why I was home a day ahead of time. I cared to do neither, and thought of a hotel. But, though I had a commutation ticket in my pocket, my money was now reduced to twenty-five cents—not enough to pay for a night's lodging. There was not a soul left in that darkened building to whom I could appeal.

"Then, I bethought me of a friend of many years' standing, who lived on the top floor of a bachelor apartment not far away. With my grip in my hand, I hurried to his street, and was taken up by the elevator to the top floor, dimly lighted and bordered with doors.

"I knew his door, and knocked on it. There was no answer. I knocked again and again, but he did not respond. At last, in desperation, I rang for the elevator, and asked the attendant where my friend was. The boy did not know, but thought that the gentleman must be in, and asleep.

"However, I went down, and waited for a half-hour at the door, hoping that he had been out late and would soon appear. But he did not, and I went up again, resolved to batter down his door, if necessary. I began the attack at once, and, though I produced no effect on the door, I did upon my knuckles and the repose of other tenants of the floor. Doors opened, and tired, sleepy voices inquired the reason of the tumult. I made no answer, but banged away.

"'Tom,' I shouted, at last; 'Tom, get up! Let me in! I want to see you; it's important. Let me in!'

"A voice from a half-opened door informed me that, if I did not stop the noise, I should be pitched down the stairs. Still, I banged away at Tom's door. There was no response, and I grew sick at heart.

"Then, just as I was about to go away, a door leading up to the attic opened, and Tom appeared, clad in street clothing—overcoat and all.

"'What's up?' he inquired, with chattering teeth.

"'Tom!' I exclaimed, reaching his side at a bound, 'I want to talk with you. Take me into your place. I'm in trouble. I want to sleep in your room with you. Take me in.'

"'Come up-stairs,' he said, calmly.

"I followed him up to the bare and chilly attic, where he lighted a candle, and offered me a seat—on the floor. I told him my agonized tale of woe, but he did not show the sympathy I had anticipated; in fact, he laughed, softly and long.

"'You can sleep with me, if you insist,' he said. 'I've a Persian rug that will almost cover us both, and I'll share this pillow with you. Then, here's a single portière—not very warm—and two New York Heralds and a Sunday Times that will help out. But, in fact, I'd rather not entertain you, to-night. I'd rather you'd go out and walk the street, or sleep in the Park. I couldn't sleep a wink myself with you alongside of me, and neither could you.'

"'But your room, ' I gasped; 'what's the matter with your room?'

"I've been turned out of my room,' he said. 'I'm allowed to sleep here, to-night; and I don't know how it will be, to-morrow night—can't tell.'

"'Well, I'll bunk in with you, here.'

"'No,' he rejoined, heartlessly; 'on the whole, I don't want you. Get out and walk the street, or try some one else.'

"'Then lend me some money. I'll go to a hotel.'

"'If I had any money, do you think I should be sleeping here, to-night?'

"'I suppose not,' I sighed. 'Well, I think I'll go. You won't help me?'

'"Not this night,' he said, grimly. 'Get out! But I don't want you to gabble about where you found me sleeping.'

"I left him, deeply grieved by his meanness, which I ascribed to an old jealousy of the years gone by, when he had been attentive to the unmarried Mrs. Milner, and had found me in his way. I had not thought he would have cherished this spite through the years, but, resolved never to ask a favor again, I left him, and went out into the street. Finally, unable to think of another resource, I sought the nearest square, and put in a cold and miserable night on a bench, with vagrants, beggars and outcasts for company.

"At daylight, I rose and wandered slowly back toward the studio building, to await the down-coming of my charge.

"At the door, I met a disheveled, weary and bleary-eyed wreck, who eyed me sourly, and broke forth.

"'You're a nice sort of a duffer, you are,' he said. 'You knew I was drunk. You knew I didn't know what key I gave you. Why didn't you make sure? I couldn't get into my boarding-house. I walked the street all night.'

"'You did!' I responded. 'You walked the street all night, did you? Oh, I'm so glad! I'm so glad, Bunker! You walked the street, did you? Well, I slept in the square—thanks to your condition, you unholy inebriate!'

"'Where's my key?' he demanded, angrily, 'my boarding-house key? I want to get in before breakfast-time.'

"'Up in my studio,' I answered, fully as tartly. 'Go up there and trade keys; and don't bring any more of your friends around to me.'

"I went to a restaurant, spent my twenty-five cents for breakfast, and then climbed to the studio. The door was unlocked, but the bird had flown.

"I spent a miserable day, doing no work at all, but worrying greatly over the fate of Mrs. Milner.

"But, at nightfall, having replenished my pockets from the bank, as I was about to leave the building, to take the tram for home, I met her, bag and baggage, in a cab at the door.

"Did you ever get a thorough scolding from an angry woman, or, as in this case, from a good-natured woman pretending to be angry? But, alas, I did not know that she was pretending, and I suffered horribly—on the ride to the station and on the train. I was an unfaithful, treacherous scoundrel, leaving a trusting and loving wife alone for a whole week, and giving the use of 'my office'—in which there was a couch and an ice-box and a gas-stove and a bath-tub and a clothes-closet {for hiding purposes)—to a shameless person with a black-and-blue eye, who had stared at her most insolently when she had come to the door.

"'I mean to tell your wife,' Mrs. Milner said, before we had reached the Grand Central Station; and she repeated the threat a dozen times, before we arrived at my house. Then, on the walk home, I, who had maintained a moody silence all the way, plucked up heart, in the effort to compose myself for the meeting with my wife, and asked her how she had managed, herself.

"'I,' she answered, with feminine scorn, 'I was turned away from three hotels, before I finally understood your generous metropolitan hotel rules, which doom traveling women to the police-stations for lodging. I should have walked the streets, if I had not met a friend who generously took me home with her.'

"'I hope you slept well,' I ventured, miserably.

"'I did not! Her apartments were 'way up at the top of a big, high building; and, just as I got to sleep, there was a frightful banging at the door, and a man—a drunken man, evidently—shouted to be let in. "Tom," he howled, "Tom, get up! Let me in! I want to see you; it's important. Let me in!" Now, of course, there was no "Tom" there, so I just lay quiet, frightened to death, however; and, at last, the drunken brute went away. But I did not sleep a wink, thanks to you and your indifference toward my safety, and your devotion to creatures who get black eyes. Oh, I'll tell your wife! I'll let her know!'

"We were under a street-lamp, and I pulled her to a stop, turning her around, so that the light shone squarely on her face.

"'Maud,' I said, and I shook my forefinger at her, 'you will not tell my wife. You will be a good and humble young woman during your stay with us; yes, you will. You will be very discreet and very forgiving. If you are not, I shall tell your husband that you spent last night in the apartments of my friend Tom, your old lover.'

"And did you ever see a woman blush, my boy?—not the blush she puts on at will, but a blush that is genuinely in earnest—a blush she cannot help. I had my revenge as I watched her blush. She blushed in seven colors—every color in the spectrum. Then, she turned loose on Tom—an honorable fellow, poor devil, sleeping in that cold garret for her sake—and scourged him for telling me.

"But I stopped her with the information that I was the drunken brute who had banged on the door, to which I added the fiction that I had seen her go in.

"Well, we patched up a truce before we reached home, and we are good friends, to-day. Tom married her, after her husband died; and, to this day, he is somewhat embarrassed in my presence, feeling, no doubt, that I do not forgive his heartlessness to me on that night. I cannot explain, and, somehow, his wife will not. I don't know why, unless it is because she has a generous streak in her make-up, and thinks that it will involve revelations concerning the person with the black eye."

"And could you not convince Mrs. Milner of the truth of the affair?" I asked.

"Tried to—tried hard—but she did not believe me; or, at least, said she did not."

"And did you ever see the interesting widow again?"

"Many times—but she never saw me!"

We smoked, silently—he, straight-faced and reminiscent, I, smiling over the story he had told.

"May I tell this experience to the girl over yonder?" I asked.

"Well, yes; but, as I never told my wife, put the girl on her honor not to repeat it. It may help you in your adjustment of your married life; it may convince her that a man can be trusted out of his home."