IV
THE WIDOW'S RIVAL.
"WHY," said the widow, gazing thoughtfully at the ruby-faced woman withthe gigantic waist-line, who sat beside the meek little man on the benchopposite, "do men marry--those?"
The bachelor glanced into the violet eyes beneath the violet hat.
"Perhaps," he said insinuatingly, "because they can't get--somebodyelse."
"Nonsense," replied the widow poking her parasol emphatically into thesand. "With all the chance a man has----"
"Chance!" cried the bachelor scoffingly. "Chance! What chance has a mangot after a woman makes up her mind to marry him?"
The widow dug the sand spitefully with the point of her violet sunshade.
"I didn't refer to the chance of escape," she replied, icily. "I wasspeaking of the chance of a choice."
"That's it!" cried the bachelor. "The selection is so great--the choiceis so varied! Don't you know how it is when you have too many dresspatterns or hats or rings to choose from? You find it difficult tosettle on any one--so difficult, in fact, that you decide not to chooseat all, but to keep them all dangling----"
"Or else just shut your eyes," interrupted the widow, "and put out yourhand and grab something."
"CHANCE! what chance has a man got?" _Page 48_]
"Of course, you shut your eyes!" acquiesced the bachelor. "Whoeverwent into matrimony with his eyes open?"
"A woman does," declared the widow tentatively. "She knows exactly whatshe wants, and if it is possible, she gets it. It is only after she hastried and failed many times that she puts her hand into the matrimonialgrab-bag, and accepts anything she happens to pull out. But a man neveremploys any reason at all in picking out a wife----"
"Naturally!" scoffed the bachelor. "By that time, he's lost his reason!"
The widow rested her elbow on the handle of her sunshade, put her chinin her hand and smiled out at the sea.
"Yes," she said, "he has. He has reached the marrying mood."
"The--what?"
"The marrying mood. A man never decides to marry a girl just simplybecause he loves her, or because she is suitable, or because he ought tomarry her, or because she is irresistible or fascinating or in love withhim. He never marries at all until he gets the marrying mood, thematrimonial fever--and then he marries the first girl who comes alongand wants him, young or old, pretty or ugly, good or bad. And thatexplains why a lot of men are tied up to women that you cannot possiblysee any reason for having been married at all, much less married tothose particular men."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed the bachelor, "I'm glad I've got past theage----"
"But you haven't!" declared the widow emphatically. "The marrying feveris, like the measles or the appendicitis, liable to catch you at any ageor stage, and you never know when or why or how you got it. Sometimes aman takes it when he is very young and rushes into a fool marriage witha woman twice his age, and sometimes he goes all his life up to sixtywithout catching the contagion and then gets it horribly and marries hiscook or a chorus girl young enough to be his granddaughter. Haven't youseen confirmed bachelors successfully resist the wiles of the mostfascinating women and turn down a dozen suitable girls--and then, justwhen you thought they were quite safe and entirely past the chance ofmarriage as well as their first youth, turn around and tie themselvesto some little fool thing without a penny to her name or a thought worthhalf that amount? That was a late attack of the matrimonial fever--andthe older you get it the harder it goes. Let me see," added the widowthoughtfully, "how old are you?"
"I haven't lost my ideals--nor my teeth!" declared the bachelordefensively.
"What is your ideal?" asked the widow leaning over and peeping up underthe bachelor's hat brim.
The bachelor stared back at her through lowered lashes.
"It's got on a violet hat," he began, "and violet----"
"Is that a ship out there?" asked the widow, suddenly becominginterested in the sea.
"And violet----"
"Oh, dear!" she interrupted petulantly. "Of course, you've got ideals.All men have ideals--but they don't often marry them. The trouble isthat when a man has the marrying fever he can clothe anything in curlsand petticoats with the illusions he has built around that ideal, andput the ideal's halo on her head and imagine she is the real thing. Hecan look at a red-headed, pug-nosed girl from an angle that will makeher hair seem pure gold and her pug look Greek. By some mental feat, hecan transform a girl six feet tall with no waist line and an acute elbowinto a kittenish, plump little thing that he has always had in mind--andmarry her. Or, if his ideal is tall and willowy and ethereal, and hehappens to meet a woman weighing 200 pounds whose first thought in themorning is her breakfast and whole last thought at night is her dinner,he will picture her merely attractively plump and a marvel of intellectand imagination. And," the widow sank her chin in her hand and gazed outto sea reflectively, "it is all so pitiful, when you think how happy mencould make marriage, if they would only go about it scientifically!"
"Then what," inquired the bachelor flinging away his cigar and foldinghis arms dramatically, "is the science of choosing a wife?"
"Well," said the widow, counting off on the tips of her lilac silkgloves, "first of all a man should never choose a wife when he findshimself feeling lonesome and dreaming of furnished flats and stoppingto talk to babies in the street. He has the marrying fever then, and isin no fit condition to pick out a wife and unless he is very careful heis liable to marry the first girl who smiles at him. He should shut hiseyes tight and flee to the wilderness and not come back until he isprepared to see women in their proper lights and their rightproportions."
"And then?" suggested the bachelor.
"Then," announced the widow oratorically, "he should choose a wife as hewould a dish at the table--not because he finds her attractive ordelicious or spicy, but--because he thinks she will agree with him."
"I see," added the bachelor, "and won't keep him awake nights," headded.
The widow nodded.
"Nor give him a bitter taste in the mouth in the morning. A good wife islike a dose of medicine--hard to swallow, but truly helpful. The girlswho wear frills and high heels and curly pompadours are like the saladwith the most dressing and garnishing, likely to be too rich and spicy,while the plain little thing in the serge skirt, who never powders hernose, may prove as sweet and wholesome--as--as home-made pudding."
"Or--home-made pickles," suggested the bachelor with wry face.
The widow shook her parasol at him admonishingly.
"Don't do that!" cried the bachelor.
"Do what?" inquired the widow in astonishment.
"Wave your frills in my eyes! I had just made up my mind to propose toMiss Gunning and----"
The widow sat up perfectly straight.
"Do you really admire--a marble slab, Mr. Travers?"
"And your frills," pursued the bachelor, unmoved, "like saladdressing----"
"I beg your pardon."
"Or garnishings----"
"Mr. Travers!"
"Might be merely a lure to make me take something which would disagreewith me."
The widow rose and looked coolly out over the waves.
"I can't see," she said, "why you should fancy there could be anychance----"
"I don't," sighed the bachelor. "It isn't a matter of chance, but ofchoice."
The ice in the widow's eyes melted into sun in a moment. She turned tothe bachelor impulsively.
"Why do you want to marry me?" she asked.
The bachelor rose and looked down at her critically.
"Well," he said, "for one thing, because you're just the woman I oughtnot to marry."
"What!"
"You're too highly spiced----"
"Billy!"
"And you'd be sure not to agree with me----"
"Billy Travers!"
"And because----"
"Well? Go on."
"Because----" The bachelor hesitated and gazed deep into the violeteyes.
br /> "Please proceed, Mr. Travers."
"I won't!" The bachelor turned his back on her defiantly.
The widow came a little nearer and stooped around to peep under hishat-brim.
"Please--Billy!" she breathed softly.
"Well, then--because I'm in the marrying mood," he replied.
But the widow was half way to the hotel before he knew what hadhappened.