Poor, Dear Margaret Kirby and Other Stories | Page 5

pain at her heart. She did not
know what the pain was. She thought she was pitying that young
husband and wife; but her thoughts went back to them as she entered
her own warm, luxurious rooms a few moments later.
"Fifty-cent dinner!" she murmured. "It must be awful!"
To her surprise, her husband followed her into her room, without
knocking, and paid no attention to the very cold stare with which she
greeted him.
"Sit down a minute, Margaret, will you?" he said, "and let your woman
go. I want to speak to you."
Angry to feel herself a little at loss, Margaret nodded to the maid, and
said in a carefully controlled tone:
"I am dining at the Kelseys', John. Perhaps some other time--"
Her husband, a thin, tall man, prematurely gray, was pacing the floor
nervously, his hands plunged deep in his coat pockets. He cleared his
throat several times before he spoke. His voice was sharp, and his
words were delivered quickly:
"It's come to this, Margaret--I'm very sorry to have to tell you, but
things have finally reached the point where it's--it's got to come out!
Bannister and I have been nursing it along; we've done all that we
could. I went down to Washington and saw Peterson, but it's no use!
We turn it all over--the whole thing--to the creditors to- morrow!" His
voice rose suddenly; it was shocking to see the control suddenly fail. "I
tell you it's all up, Margaret! It's the end of me! I won't face it!"
He dropped into a chair, but suddenly sprang up again, and began to
walk about the room.
"Now, you can do just what you think wise," he resumed presently, in
the advisory, quiet tones he usually used to her. "You can always have
the income of your Park Avenue house; your Aunt Paul will be glad
enough to go abroad with you, and there are personal things-- the house
silver and the books--that you can claim. I've lain awake nights
planning--" His voice shook again, but he gained his calm after a
moment. "I want to ask you not to work yourself up over it," he added.

There was a silence. Margaret regarded him in stony fury. She was
deadly white.
"Do you mean that Throckmorton, Kirby, & Son have--has failed?" she
asked. "Do you mean that my money--the money that my father left
me- -is GONE? Does Mr. Bannister say so? Why--why has it never
occurred to you to warn me?"
"I did warn you. I did try to tell you, in July--why, all the world knew
how things were going!"
If, on the last word, there crept into his voice the plea that even a strong
man makes to his women for sympathy, for solace, Margaret's eyes
killed it. John, turning to go, gave her what consolation he could.
"Margaret, I can only say I'm sorry. I tried--Bannister knows how I
tried to hold my own. But I was pretty young when your father died,
and there was no one to help me learn. I'm glad it doesn't mean actual
suffering for you. Some day, perhaps, we'll get some of it back. God
knows I hope so. I've not meant much to you. Your marriage has cost
you pretty dear. But I'm going to do the only thing I can for you."
Silence followed. Margaret presently roused herself.
"I suppose this can be kept from the papers? We needn't be discussed
and pointed at in the streets?" she asked heavily, her face a mask of
distaste.
"That's impossible," said John, briefly.
"To some people nothing is impossible," Margaret said.
Her husband turned again without a word, and left her. Afterward she
remembered the sick misery in his eyes, the whiteness of his face.
What did she do then? She didn't know. Did she go at once to the
dressing-table? Did she ring for Louise, or was she alone as she slowly
got herself into a loose wrapper and unpinned her hair?
How long was it before she heard that horrible cry in the hall? What
was it--that, or the voices and the flying footsteps, that brought her,
shaken and gasping, to her feet?
She never knew. She only knew that she was in John's dressing-room,
and that the servants were clustered, a sobbing, terrified group, in the
doorway. John's head, heavy, with shut eyes, was on her shoulder;
John's limp body was in her arms. They were telling her that this was
the bottle he had emptied, and that he was dead.

II
It was a miracle that they had got her husband to the hospital alive, the
doctors told Margaret, late that night. His life could be only a question
of moments. It was extraordinary that he should live through the night,