How She Helped Him

________________________________________________
Title:     How She Helped Him
Author: Eugenia Dunlap Potts [More Titles by Potts]

STORY OF A WIFE

"Well, tell me about Henry Woodruff. How did that match turn out?"

"Bad enough thus far. He is the same delightful, good-hearted fellow as of old; always ready to do a kind, or courteous act. But this woman will be the ruin of him."

"How? What is the trouble?"

"The trouble is she is spoiled to death! She fancies herself an invalid, lies around, does nothing but read Charlotte Braeme and Bertha M. Clay--has every foolish whim gratified, and, in fact, I don't see how he stands it."

"Did she have any property?"

"Not a cent. It was an out-and-out love match. She has expensive tastes; she is indolent and extravagant. Why, his carriage hire is a big item of itself. She couldn't walk a block, you know."

"Perhaps she really is a sufferer."

"Nonsense; nobody believes it. She had that fall, you recollect at the skating rink. At first her spine was thought to be seriously injured. Woodruff paid out several hundred dollars to have her cured, and the doctors discharged her, well, they said. But it has pleased her to drag around, a load on his hands, ever since. It is thought that he is much crippled financially. I know positively that he has lately mortgaged his interest in the firm. If he can't manage to make, or save five thousand dollars by the end of this year, it is all up with him. And he will never do it at his present rate of living,"

"Why doesn't he tell her? Has she no sense, or feeling at all?"

"None, except for herself; and he is so fond of her that he will indulge her to his very last cent."

"I thought he looked a little down as he passed us this morning."

"Yes, he is beginning to realize that he has gone too far, and, poor fellow, it is tugging at him hard."

Did she hear aright? Was it of her, Eleanor Woodruff, that they were talking? Swiftly she sped out of the dark, heavily-curtained back parlor of the stylish boarding-house, and into her room, a gorgeous alcove apartment on the first floor. She could not mount the stairs on account of her weak spine. Weak spine? She forgot all about it as she paced the floor, angry tears gushing from her large brown eyes. It was shameful--it was wicked--to be so abused. She had never in her whole petted life been found fault with. As to money, what did she know about it? Her father, before his failure and death, had always gratified her. Her husband had never made any difference. These men were friends of his.

Her bitter sobs ceased, and her wounded vanity gradually lost itself in better thoughts. Did all her world think of her like the scathing criticisms of those two chance callers, who thus killed the time of waiting for someone to come down to them? She began to feel glad that she had overheard it. The merest accident had sent her into the back parlor. Was it true? What ought she to do? What could she do? Her dear, kind husband in trouble, and she the cause. Long she sat buried in thought, and when the well-known step sounded at the door her face was radiant with a new resolve.

He came to her large easy-chair with a step somewhat weary, but his kiss was as usual.

"All right, Nellie? Had a good day? Why, you look--let me see--how do you look?" he satd, his kind eyes noting the brightness that shone in hers.

"I look as if I love my big boy very much, don't I?" she responded merrily.

His answer was another kiss, and as he turned toward his dressing closet, her heart ached with unspoken tenderness. Her dinner was brought in. She was not considered strong enough to sit at table. For this service an extra charge was made.

Later, when he opened the evening paper, she sat and watched him. Surely those lines of care were new, now that he was not smiling fondly upon her. Oh, foolish, selfish wife! Rising gently, her long silken tea-gown trailing behind her, she stood beside him, one slender white hand upon his shoulder.

"Well, dear, what now? Another new gown?" he asked, with his old, sweet smile.

She pressed her lips in a slow, reverential fashion, upon the broad white brow, another pang at her heart. Then she spoke:

"Not this time. Harry, dear, let's go to Mrs. Wickham's to board."

"Mrs. Wickham's!" he echoed. "Why, you wouldn't stay in her dull little place a week."

But even as he spoke there flashed through his mind in rapid calculation, "Twenty dollars a week there, forty here; eighty dollars a month saved; nearly a thousand dollars a year."

"Don't you like it here?" were his next words, as he glanced around the luxurious suite.

"Yes," she said, "except there are too many people. It is so noisy."

"Very well, then, we will try it; anything to please my darling," and he drew her close, wrapped in his arms as one might lull a restless child.

The move was made, and Eleanor found that she was not as much fatigued as she had often felt after a day's lounging with a novel. Her husband thought it only a new whim; but as it was not expensive one, he could not remonstrate. When he wanted to take her driving, she playfully told him she was learning to walk--horses made her nervous.

The first step, she thought; now for the next. It came to her almost by magic. In a little rear hall-room sat Margaret Dewees, clicking away at her typewriter. A strong, clear-headed girl who had maintained herself these ten years, and had put by her savings. She was soon to be married to a stalwart young farmer, the lover of her early youth. They had been working and waiting. From the first she took an interest in the young wife, and it was given to her energy and common sense to help a suffering sister. Together they plotted and planned. Eleanor's lassitude gradually passed away under vigorous rubbing and brisk walks.

Margaret's trousseau was a thing to be considered. From Mrs. Woodruff's surplus stock of stylish gowns and garments the country girl's outfit was deftly concocted. The young wife could sew neatly and rapidly. When all was ready the sum of two hundred dollars lay in her writing desk. Her grand piano, too large for the new quarters, was removed from storage to a dealer's, and was sold for three hundred more. She wrote at once to an uncle in a Western city; told him of her little efforts, and asked what she might do with her mite. He was a real estate man and promptly invested it in a lot in the rising town of Duluth.

In exchange for her services as seamstress, Margaret taught Eleanor the use of the typewriter. When she was married she left the instrument, for the summer months, in Eleanor's care. A nominal rent was agreed upon, and this was easy to pay, as Margaret's engagements were transferred to the new operator, while she, herself, attended to chickens and cows, and her six feet of husband.

Eleanor's spirit of enterprise did not stop here. She obtained pupils on the type-writer machine at five dollars each. She shipped a lot of old party dresses, crushed and out of style, to the costumer's on B---- street, and saved the proceeds. Every time her husband handed over her allowance of pin money, she put at least half of it in her "strong box."

It was hard to hide all this activity and cheerfulness from him, but she did. With her woman's enjoyment of a little mystery, and her high resolve to show herself worthy of him, she kept in the old rut as nearly as possible when he was at home. He saw only that she was stronger, and it lightened his labors.

"My little woman does not ride, or read, any more," he said one evening, in the indulgent tone he used towards her.

"Why, yes, I do read. Don't you see my little library there?"

"Yes, but it seems to me I miss something."

He missed the litter of trashy novels he had been wont to see.

"I told you I was learning to walk;" she added, with a smile, "I really do walk somewhere every day."

"That pleases me most of all," he said in his cheery way, "but what will Dr. Bull think. You know he prescribes rest and quiet."

"I don't care one bit; I have long since cut his acquaintance."

* * * * *

The end of the year rolled round. Eleanor watched her husband's face with ever increasing anxiety. One evening he sat buried in thought from which all her endeavors could not rouse him. He did not feel well, he said. All night he tossed and muttered. Calculations and figures were uppermost.

He was up early, as usual, and away. Eleanor hastened her preparations, and carefully counted her little hoard--the earnings of months. Early in the afternoon she came home with the proceeds of her last batch of type-writing, glowing with exercise, and the happiness of contributing at least some hundreds to meet her husband's creditors. He was there, lying on the sofa, pale and hopeless. Forgetting all else, she flung herself beside him with a sob.

"Oh! Harry, my dearest! Tell me what it is that is killing you--I have a right to know."

"It is ruin, Eleanor. I have brought you to poverty--you whom I would have given my very life to make happy."

"You are talking in riddles, Harry," she exclaimed, rallying from her alarm. "Am I not the happiest woman in the world? And don't you see how well and strong I am?"

She coaxed the whole story from his lips. Then with affected lightness, she said: "Is that all? Why, you frightened me terribly; I thought you were ill--had caught some horrible disease or other. See here!"

As she spoke she ran to her desk, took out her treasure, and poured it into his hands in her impulsive fashion.

"Eleanor! What is this?" staring like one dazed, from her radiant face to the notes in his hands.

"This? Why, this is only your silly wife's laziness and selfishness in another form."

Then her story had to be told. Their combined efforts still fell short of the required sum, but she triumphantly produced the deed to the Western land. For a season there were caresses and even tears, of mutual love and thankfulness.

"My precious wife!" he exclaimed, as he clasped her close. "What a treasure in you, if all the money in the world should fail!"

"But your piano!" he said, with regret overreaching his appreciation of her sacrifice.

"Let it go," she merrily replied. "I could not play worth listening to--this you must admit. It was just an expensive, cumbersome toy--that's all."

Next day the balance of the debt was borrowed upon the security of the western deed, and Henry Woodruff was a free man once more. When the five hundred dollars jumped to thousands in a sudden boom, he bought a neat home. Here, Margaret, the valued friend, supplied produce from her farm.

Eleanor was never quite content till Harry had looked up her two maligners, and brought them to the pleasant domain where she presided, and which her painfully awakened energy had helped to buy. In time she told her secret, and thanked them for that ten minutes' gossip. In time, too, sons and daughters came and found a mother prepared by self-denial for the exigencies of life.

[The end]
Eugenia Dunlap Potts's short story: How She Helped Him

________________________________________________



GO TO TOP OF SCREEN