# Ainslee's Magazine/The Woman Courageous

Extracted from Ainslee's magazine, Jan 1920, pp. 147–153. Title illustration may be omitted.
The Woman Courageous.
By Charles Beadle
Author of “Uncle,” “The Breaker of Idols,” etc.
SOME one has said that the most terrible moment in a woman’s life is when she realizes that her youth has gone. Jean Mordaunte met this terrible specter of truth one afternoon in March, as she stood before her mirror,
Through the half-open window came the distant hum of traffic on Fifth Avenue. The pale sun streamed across the room, throwing an exaggerated design of the lace curtains in shadows upon the soft carpet, turning the old-rose color into splotches of vivid pink. Clad in her latest imported gown, she knew that she looked her best; yet nothing could hide the first, gentle tracings of the passing of years, hastened and intensified perhaps by the tender care she had lavished upon her children.
On the regular features and the soft, gentle mouth there was the devotional beauty of motherhood; but in that moment, she saw, perhaps, as the world sees. The knowledge came with suffocating certainty. She realized, in a detached sense, which produced a feeling of nausea, why her husband had lost the loverlike worship of many years’ standing. She sank down upon a settee struggling against a bitter storm of tears. This soul-and-body searching was not voluntary. For the past twelve months, many gray fears had lurked within her mind, and until this moment she had not dared to confirm deliberately what she knew must be.
But with the same courage with which she had met the lesser troubles of life, with which she had resisted the mother’s instinct to spoil her children, she faced the inevitable. Even her bosom friend never suspected the agony welling in her heart that afternoon as she chatted nonsense and sipped tea in a crowded drawing room. But late that evening, when she returned home, worn and fatigued with the round of social pleasures, she faced the problem anew.
At twenty-one she had met and married a man who had, for many short years of happiness, measured up to her ideal, as far as it is possible for any human to do. He had been a struggling attorney—together they had been, in the true meaning—for ten years, while he forged ahead on the road to success. He was not a brilliant man intellectually, but indomitable perseverance promised to take him far. Until the last twelve months there had never been a serious rift in the lute. Then, gradually, a change as subtle as the Soros had come between them. She noticed that they spent less time together; followed, upon his side, by fits of exuberant affection. She was not naturally a perversely jealous woman, but intuition, corroborated by observation, told her that there was another influence in his life. Gradually the breach, without comment on either side, grew. His caresses became mechanical, devoid of the fire of a lover, performed like a duty. Increasing social and professional demands served as excuses for his frequent absence.
At last, unable to muffle the pangs of uneasiness, Jean sought to identify her rival among the many women of their acquaintance. Being intelligent, Jean strove to see with the man’s eyes, and knew that Yvonne Dankin was sensuously beautiful, young, lithe, with large, yearning eyes. She was of the type of women known throughout the ages, who find the sweetness of life in luring men to them, to break them utterly, and who, smiling, pass on to fresh conquests. Yet Jean did not, for a moment, entertain the fallacy that Harry could possibly be made to see Yvonne as she was, until after she had finished with him. As she watched them talking one afternoon, watched the languorous eyes caressing her husband, her heart sank. What charms could she summon as counterattraction to the sensuous beauty of her rival?
Once, as if she were conscious of the wife’s eyes upon her, Yvonne looked around straight at Jean and smiled insolently. When they took their departure, Yvonne kissed Jean, and Jean, feeling as if she had been stung by a serpent, kissed her in return effusively. The eyes of the two women met in a challenge which both understood and accepted. Yvonne smiled contemptuously. Jean’s lips tightened to a thin, ruby line. That evening the Mordauntes had an engagement to dine out together, but Harry pleaded a sudden appointment with an important client, so Jean went alone. She knew where Harry had really gone.
Jean returned early, wholly unable, for the first time, to stand the strain of masking her misery. Immediately, she sought the sweetest consolation by visiting little Jeanette in the nursery. Long and silently she bent over the cot where the child lay sleeping, biting her lips in a spasm of agony at the thought of the father. At last, softly sweeping back the mass of tumbled dark hair, she kissed Jeanette softly. She had found the courage to face the situation with some degree of equanimity.
A woman-may know a man as a man can never know a woman. Jean’s husband was, at heart, really a good man, It had been a strong vein of sincerity and worship of the good and beautiful in both natures which had brought them together in the first instance, and cemented a decade of perfect love. That fact was her chief, if not her only, hope of retaining him. She knew that he must suffer agony at the thought of hurting her. Although a good woman, Jean knew and faced the facts of life. She knew exactly what manner of fascination women of Yvonne's type excercise over men. Jean earnestly believed in the indissolubility of the marriage tie, possibly because she was a type of woman who once having given her love could never retract. Harry, she knew, believed in divorce, if love were really dead. In her heart, she felt as every woman is prone to do, that even if he went, he would surely return to her. All the natural, primitive woman in her rebelled at the idea; and besides, there were the facts that it would mean the ruin of his career and, more precious to her than anything, the tarnishing of her children’s name.
Little sleep had Jean that night. But, by the birth of the glaucous dawn, she had taken her courage in both hands, and decided to gamble upon a plan of campaign all that she held dear in life. The first result was a sardonic jest of fate, or a common result of the immutable law of cause and effect. At breakfast, Harry remarked, as he gave her the usual marital peck, that she looked quite haggard and tired, and suggested that she ought to go away for a change of air.
Some two days later Jean met Yvonne in one of the shops. They chatted gayly and seemingly with great affection. As if by an afterthought, Jean pressed Yvonne to dine with her and her husband. Yvonne smiled as she detected the first move in the game, and consented languidly. The following evening Jean casually remarked to her husband, as they were driving back from a supper party:
“Oh, Harry dear, I met that charming Miss Dankin yesterday. She really is beautiful! Quite an Oriental type!”
“Yes,” assented Harry, nonchalantly, “she is rather an unusual woman.”
“Oh, and I asked her to dine with us next Thursday. I knew you were free then.”
“Asked her to dinner!” echoed Harry, in startled surprise.
“Yes, dear. Why not? I thought you rather admired her?” she responded, affecting mild astonishment.
“Oh, yes, of course. I mean as you said, she is rather unusual, isn’t she? Er—it was awfully good of you, little woman. I—er—here we are! No, it’s the wrong street.”
Jean, for the moment, felt that she was winning, and smiled affectionately in the gloom, thinking, “What a fibber you are, you darling!”
On the Thursday morning, before going to his office, Harry was exceptionally subdued at breakfast. Before he left, he remarked with a palpable effort at nonchalance:
“Oh, by the way, dear, I may have to dine out to-night with a client; if I do, make my apologies to Miss Dankin—and the rest, of course!”
“Yes, dear,” responded Jean, and sighed, for well she knew that he would dine at home that night if he had to put off twenty clients, just as he had often sworn he would do in order to dine with her in those far-off days, although there were no clients at all, then.
Jean had invited three other guests who could be relied upon to disappoint her at the last moment, with the consequence that Yvonne was compelled to dine en famille. After dinner, during which Harry had been rather constrained, dimly conscious that Yvonne was unusually brilliant in an effort to eclipse the dignified matronly rôle of his wife, little Jeanette—the eldest boy was away—was much in evidence. Yvonne naturally perceived the maneuver, and lavished extravagant regard upon the child, yet the move was so far successful that Yvonne lost control of her feelings once, and shot a malevolent glance at Jean, who smiled quietly, in acknowledgment of first blood.
During the evening, Jean sang songs which held tender memories for her husband of early days, knowing well that behind her back, her rival was exerting all her sensuous power to annul these sentimental associations. Yvonne countered later with some rollicking French chansons and passionate songs, which lost nothing by her full, rich voice and inimitable verve. So the man was swayed first by one influence and then by the other; uncomfortable, when he was allowed to think, but wholly unconscious that the two women, having declared open war, were engaged in the first, fierce battle for him.
Combatants and prize secretly breathed a sigh of relief when, toward eleven o'clock, Yvonne announced that she was due at another house. Before Harry, the two women kissed each other fondly on the cheeks and made divers promises to renew their friendship. Meanwhile he stood apart, with his hands deep in his pockets, glaring at an inoffensive grandfather clock, and swearing savagely beneath his breath.
Some six weeks later, when she received an affectionate note from Yvonne, pleading indisposition as an excuse for declining another invitation to dinner, Jean knew that her rival feared to do battle on her own ground; that she had won the first bout. Yet on reflection, she realized that Harry, who, for three days after the first dinner, had returned to something of his old allegiance, but had since fallen back again, must have had some say in the matter. Jean had known well that the proximity of her rival and herself would cause him acute pain. That had been calculated. Now there was nothing left save to play the last and desperate move in her gamble for love and happiness, the chief point of which was to force matters to a crisis.
Not without many misgivings and much lonely pain did Jean force herself to carry out her plans. To pause, to reconsider, to contemplate the possibilities of defeat, was to lose. Once having made up her mind, she must be resolute at all costs. Pleading ill health, she decided that she must leave town for the sea. She veiled her eye to hide the pain, and bit her lip till the blood came at the involuntary look of relief in Harry’s eyes as she told him.
She went to Maine, taking Jeanette with her, deliberately leaving an open field to the enemy. Her consolation and strength lay in the certainty that she knew her husband’s character far too well to think him capable of a sordid intrigue. He would never be untrue to her before breaking off all relationship; he would first sever the bond of trust between them for good.
Jean had proposed to be away a month. At the end of that time she wrote to say that she would stay until the end of September, as the weather was so fine. It would be good for Jeanette. After she had sealed and dispatched her letter she kissed Jeanette passionately and fled to her room, crying at the thought that she was driven coldly and deliberately to use her child as a pawn in a game of chess,
Another three weeks of anxious torment and iron self-control went by before the expected letter, the summons for which she had prayed over and dreaded, arrived. Harry, whose letters, of late, had been models of conventional connubial correspondence and monumental in their vagueness, wrote that Jean must return to town immediately, as a matter had arisen, which was of vital importance to them both, and which could only be settled personally. As no torture is so wearing as anxious suspense, Jean almost sighed with relief; particularly as she had feared sometimes that he might deal the blow by post, although such action would not have been like him.
She arrived at Grand Central at eleven that evening. Scarcely a word was exchanged, until they arrived home. Then he declined to broach the subject until Jeanette had gone to bed. He even refused Jean’s caressing plea to kiss the child “good-night” in her cot. Jean drank some wine and pretended to eat, while Harry sat in an armchair with his head between his hands. As he got up and began to pace up and down the room, Jean maneuvered her chair, so that her face remained in shadow. Watching the grim, set lines of his face, the dear blue eyes under the tawny yellow thatch of hair, and the strong swing of his shoulders, all the past welled up and choked her; the impulse to cry out, to throw her arms round his neck, and plead for her very life tore at her will, seeming to strangle her slowly. She fought hard and desperately, summoning all her courage in the knowledge that to give way at the crucial moment was to lose everything. He opened his lips twice and cleared his throat nervously.
“Jean!” he commenced, wheeling suddenly in front of her.
“Yes, dearest,” she answered clearly, looking him straight in the eyes.
He winced at the endearment and turned away as if he feared his resolution would break. “Jean,” he continued, rapidly pacing up and down again. “I—I’ve sent for you. Something serious, very serious, has happened. Something I never thought possible to either of us—until lately. I—Oh God! it hurts me to tell you.”
“Tell me, Harry,” she urged softly.
“I would rather do anything than hurt you, but I must, because I can’t help myself. Jean!” He wheeled again to confront her, but dropped his eyes as before. “You remember years and years ago we promised one another that if ever—if ever there was anything, if any one else came into our lives, that we would tell each other?”
“Yes. I remember everything that happened years and years ago.”
“Oh, God, don’t!”
He turned his face away and leaned against the mantelshelf. She followed him with her eyes steadily, absorbingly.
“I—I’ve got to keep that promise now,” he continued, staring at a book- case. “My God! I never dreamed it would be so hard. You remember I said that I did believe it possible for a man or a woman to love more than once, to love again more than ever before? I really meant that, but I didn’t believe it could happen to me, to you and me. Jean, I’ve got to confess that now it’s true! I—I hate myself for it, but I love another woman!”
He paused, as if expecting an explosion of grief.
“You think you do,” Jean answered quietly. “I’ve known it for some time.”
“But I—I do,” he insisted. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have—have said so.”
“Well?”
Harry started and looked at her. She met his eyes calmly. He turned away at once, not knowing that her nails were almost piercing the palms of her hands. He did not reply, seeming suddenly at a loss.
“Do you know who she is?” he asked at length.
“Oh, yes! Yvonne Dankin.”
He glanced at her swiftly, almost in a frightened way.
“Did you know that when you invited her to dinner here?”
“Of course.”
“Good God!” he whispered to himself. “Don’t you hate me?”
“No!” she said quietly, as if surprised. “I love you and I always shall!” He moved uneasily and began to fidget with an ornament. “What do you intend to do?”
“I—I must go to her,” he said thickly. “I—there is no other course.”
“Have you considered what that will mean to the children and to your career?”
“Yes. But——”
But what?”
“I have been through hell!”
“I know that, too, Harry,” she said gently.
He moved an arm as if warding off something invisible.
“Things cannot go on like this. It is impossible. There is money, thank Heaven! You and the children will be provided for.”
“You think you love her very much, Harry?”
Despite her control, a wistful note had crept into Jean’s voice.
“My God, could I do this if I didn’t? I—I must be mad, but go I must! I must sacrifice everything for her!”
“Are you sure you will be happy?”
“Good heavens, yes! You must hate me, but I tell you the truth.”
“Thank you. But you have always done that, Harry.”
“No”—he shook his head miserably—“not always, lately.”
“Poor Harry.”
“Why don’t you upbraid me, reproach me, call me the rotter I am!” he suddenly demanded, glaring at her as if he hated her.
“Because, dear, I love you! Because I want you to be happy, even if it is with some one else. That is love, Harry. Do you love her like that? Does she love you like that?”
“Oh, don’t! You don’t understand.”
“Ah! I wonder! Harry, to me this means the loss of everything save the children, thank God! They shall never forget you! We shall always pray for you and love you.”
“Don’t!”
His voice came in a falsetto whisper. He threw himself into a chair, clutching at his hair. Quivering with the supreme effort of control, she rose. Fortunately, he had not the courage to regard her face as she seemed to tower above him, an appalling figure of dignity. Yet she was not looking at him as she demanded:
“You mean this, Harry? You are sure that you do love her? Absolutely?”
“Yes.” The noise was affirmative rather than the syllable.
“You realize what that will mean to yourself as well as to the children?”
“Yes.” He glanced up at her with strained eyes, but she turned her head away and began to play with the same ornament he had dropped, uncomprehendingly. “But you—I have thought and thought—and there is no other way. I mean—you said that when love was dead you preferred——”
“I am not talking about myself.” The timbre of her voice had grown harder in the effort of control. “I am thinking about the children and you, your career, whether you love this woman, whether you will be happy.”
“But, Jean—I—why should you think of me? I don’t deserve it from you!”
“That is love. Don’t you know that?” Her voice choked, but she succeeded in turning the sob into the resemblance of a laugh. After a silence she stole a swift glance at him through dim eyes. He was staring fixedly at the carpet, brows creased, perplexed, This time she nearly laughed in hysterical delight, but she hardened her voice again.
“You are determined, Harry, and realize exactly what you are about to do?”
“Quite,” he murmured stubbornly, without removing his gaze.
“Very good, then.” With an air of finality she turned away from the mantelshelf toward the door, and contrived to mask the tone into almost everyday casualness. “Have you had your things packed? I wish I had been here. The servants always do it badly.”
“But I—I’m not going till to-morrow,” he said brokenly, from under his hands.
“But, Harry, that is impossible.” She half turned, holding the door open. “We swore long ago that the same roof should never shelter us when once love had died on either side,” she said mendaciously. “Come, Harry, be strong. We part to-night! And it is better so. The children need never——”
“To-night!” he gasped. “Now? To-night?”
“Yes, dear! I will have your things sent on to you. I cannot bear any more now. Good-night, Harry. It’s good-by, my dearest, but——” She laughed, a throttled hysterical sound of weakening control. “Let’s play at pretend, as we used to do with the children. D’you remember?”
His face was hidden, but she could not even see his figure through the blinding storm of tears.
“Goo’ night, Harry!”
Fiercely fighting, she walked steadily, firmly, out of the door, and shut it quietly behind her; then, gasping sobs tearing her bosom, she picked up her skirts and rushed upstairs.
In less than three minutes there was the sound of the banging of a door, the hurried patter of footsteps. The man appeared in the room, his face furrowed and twisted with pain, great tears welling in his eyes.
“Jean! Jean!” he called brokenly.
She half raised her face from where she had flung herself on her knees by the bed, and looked at him piteously.
“Don’t you want me? Won't you take me back?” he stammered half inarticulately. “I—I’ve been mad—mad! It’s you I love! Jean! For God’s sake, Jean!”
A strange, crooning cry answered him, as she held open her arms.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1944, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 79 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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