The Love Affairs of an Old Maid | Page 6

pull in jerks on a
level road. And I never saw a marriage in which both persons pulled
evenly all the time, and the worst of it is, I suppose this unevenness is
only what is always expected.
Having no marriage of my own to worry over, it is gratuitous when I
worry over other people's. Old maids, you know, like to air their views
on matrimony and bringing up children. Their theories on these
subjects have this advantage--that they always hold good because they
never are tried.
There never was such an unequal yoking together as the Herricks'.
Nobody has told me. This is one of the affairs which has not been
confided to me. Only, I knew them both so well before they were
married. I knew Bronson Herrick best, however, because I never used
to see any more of Flossy than was necessary.
To begin with, I never liked her name. I have an idea that names show
character. Could anybody under heaven be noble with such a name as
Flossy? I believe names handicap people. I believe children are
sometimes tortured by hideous and unmeaning names. But give them
strong, ugly names in preference to Ina and Bessie and Flossy and such

pretty-pretty names, with no meaning and no character to them. Take
my own name, Ruth. If I wanted to be noble or heroic I could be; my
name would not be an anomalous nightmare to attract attention to the
incongruity. We cannot be too thankful to our mothers who named us
Mary and Dorothy and Constance. What an inspiration to be "faithful
over a few things" such a name as Constance must be!
But Flossy's mother named her--not Florence, but Flossy. I suppose she
was one of those fluffy, curly, silky babies. She grew to be that kind of
a girl--a Flossy girl. It speaks for itself. I suppose with that name she
never had any incentive to outgrow her nature.
It came out on her wedding cards:
"Mr. and Mrs. CHARLES FAY CARLETON request you to be present
at the marriage of their daughter FLOSSY to Mr. BRONSON
STURGIS HERRICK."
The contrast between the two names, hers so nonsensical and his so
dignified and strong, was no greater than that between the two people.
In truth, their names were symbolic of their natures. It looked really
pitiful to me.
I wondered if anybody besides Rachel English and me looked into their
future with apprehension. Our misgivings, I must admit, were all for
Bronson.
Ah, well-a-day! It is so easy to feel sympathy for a man you admire,
especially if he is strong and loyal, and does not ask or desire it of you.
Flossy was one of those cuddling girls. She appealed to you with her
eyes, and you found yourself petting her and sympathizing with her,
when, if you stopped to think, you would see that she had more of
everything than you had. She possessed a rich father, a beautiful house,
and perfect health. Nevertheless, you found yourself asking after "poor
Flossy," and your voice commiserated her if your words did not. She
invariably had some trifling ill to tell you of. She had hurt her arm, or
scratched her hand, or the snow made her eyes ache, or she was tired.

She never seemed at liberty to enjoy herself, although she went
everywhere, and seemed to do so successfully in spite of her imaginary
ills, if you let her enjoy herself by telling you of them.
Everybody helped Flossy to live. Everybody protected and looked after
her. There was some one on his knees continually, removing invisible
brambles from her rose-leaf path. She didn't know how to do anything
for herself. She never buttoned her own boots. When her maid was not
with her, other people put her jacket on for her, and carried her
umbrella and buttoned her gloves. Men always buttoned her gloves,
and her gloves always had more buttons, and more unruly buttons, than
any other gloves I ever saw. But then I am elderly.
I never knew Flossy to do anything for anybody. She never gave things
away, but on Christmas and her birthdays she received remembrances
from everybody. I used to make her presents without knowing why or
even thinking of it. Flossy's name was on all the Christmas lists, and
she used to shed tears over the kindness of her friends, and write the
prettiest notes to them, so plaintive and self-deprecatory. Then they
took her to drive, or did something more for her. Flossy read poetry and
cried over it. She wrote poetry too, and other people cried over that.
When Bronson Herrick told me he was going to marry her, I wanted to
say, "No, you are not." But I didn't. I did not