The Marriage of William Durrant

My name is William Durrant; I was born in Philadelphia thirty-two years ago. My family was prominent in Philadelphia society; my mother a woman of superior culture and a very great social ambition.

I received a university education and then entered my father’s business—wholesale neckwear. My mother died soon after this, and as I had no brothers or sisters—or in fact any near relatives—my father and I were drawn very close together.

It was then I learned for the first time the true state of my father’s affairs. I can remember perfectly that evening when he had his first intimate talk with me; it was about two months after my mother died.

“Sit down, Will,” he began. We were in the library of the old Durrant mansion on Arch Street. “I want to talk to you—seriously.”

We drew our chairs together before the fire and I lighted a cigarette.

“You’re not a child any more, Will,” he went on. “You’re nearly twenty-six—a man.” He laid his hand on mine with more evidence of affection than I had ever had from him before. “We’re all alone now—you and I. There are many things you don’t understand—and I want you to—for we must be very close to each other now.”

I waited, wondering.

“You think we’re rich, don’t you? Your mother did, and God knows I was not the one to undeceive her.” He laughed a little bitterly, glancing around the luxuriously furnished room.

“We have always had luxury. Your mother demanded it, Will—it was her life. The Philadelphia Durrants! Luxury—social prestige—I have maintained them, all these years—at what a cost!” He passed his hand across his eyes wearily.

“It’s all a sham, Will—a sham. But now it’s over—there’s only you and me to please. The bubble is broken. Only you and me—and the wreck of a business for us to save.” He raised his hand to check my sharp exclamation.

“I have hidden this from you, Will. But we won’t go into that now—it’s unimportant.

“I want to talk of you. For twenty-six years you have been scarcely under my guidance. I cannot blame your mother—only myself. I’ve known the sort of life you’ve been leading away from home—the sort of friends you have—the women—” He raised his hand again, and his voice rose sharply.

“Did you think I didn’t know about the money you lost at cards, and your mother gave you, time and time again? Do you think I’m ignorant of the fact that you—my son—are to-day in the way of becoming a wastrel? Do you think so?”

I laughed. “You’re crazy.”

His face softened; he put his hand again over mine. “I cannot blame you—only myself. It is the way you were brought up. But I want you to change, Will. I want you to see yourself and me as we are—I want you to love me. We will work together, you and I—work to find some of the good things in life—the real things. I know we’ll find them if we try—if we really pull together.”

Three weeks later he was dead.

This talk with my father, and one or two others we had subsequently, made a great impression on me. When he died of pneumonia, after an illness of only a few days, leaving me utterly alone in the world, I resolved to take his advice, for my own good, and act differently. The business he left me was indeed in a precarious condition. He had drawn from it heavily during the last ten years to meet my mother’s demands—and more lately, mine—and handicapped thus by a depleted capital it was going down-hill rapidly.

I realized then that life was not worth living unless one were rich—really rich—for money held everything desirable. My father was right—the social prestige my mother had maintained was a sham. Without the solidity of real wealth it could never be anything but a bubble that might burst at any moment. I resolved then to settle down; to work untiringly at this business that had been left me.

I found, when my father’s affairs had been settled up, a truly astounding number of debts. It has never been my way to do things by halves; I sold the Arch Street house, settled the debts, and moved the business and myself to New York for a fresh start.

The two years that followed I devoted exclusively to work and saw myself in a fair way, ultimately, to succeed in my ambition. I lived for business during these two years—I did nothing else—I thought of nothing else. The pleasures of life that I had given up I did not begrudge. They were only postponed. This was my big chance—my only chance for wealth and happiness through life—and I was unwilling to do even the smallest thing to jeopardize it.

Then I met Ruth Wilson, and six months later we were married. She was five years younger than I—a girl with beauty, of a family nearly the equal of the Durrants, and with all the social graces—in a word, a girl of whom any man might be proud.

I knew she would make me a good wife; it was a safe, satisfactory step for me to take. I was glad of this, for I was now as cautious of the things I did as formerly I had been careless.

We took an apartment on Riverside Drive, and were very happy. We had no children. I do not like children; I cannot stand their crying. And besides they are difficult and expensive to bring up properly—father’s arraignment of me in my younger days showed me that—and it was obvious that no girl of the grace and beauty of Ruth should be so handicapped. That she disagreed with me did not alter my opinion, for I realized that she was hardly more than a child and could not understand things as I did.

Our life during these first years of marriage was very satisfactory. I worked all day at the office, and two or three nights a week played in a game of cards which we held regularly at the club. I did not introduce these men to Ruth—they were not her kind—she would not have understood them. Indeed I should not have played in the game at all, except that I found the mental relaxation stimulating and helpful to me, for I was at this time working very hard. My luck, too, seemed to have changed permanently for the better. Whereas in Philadelphia I had frequently lost, I now won steadily—sums sufficiently large to justify in themselves, the amount of time I gave to the pursuit.

Once or twice a week Ruth and I would go to the theater—to musical shows generally, for I liked them best—and occasionally we would play cards with friends. This latter diversion interested me not at all. I was having enough of card playing outside, and the people to whom Ruth introduced me were particularly uninteresting. I had no time then for their chatter about art or music, or the books or plays or operas they seemed determined to discuss. The whole thing bored me immensely, and probably, because I do not believe in hypocrisy, I did not hesitate to let them see how I felt.

We did not leave New York for the summer months, except twice we spent a week or two at one of the big Atlantic City hotels. My business would have permitted me to leave for longer periods, but I did not feel that we should spend so much money.

One summer Ruth thoughtlessly suggested that we get away into the Maine woods and ramble, or to take a canoe trip somewhere. I explained to her how foolish that was—how she particularly, a girl of breeding, used to luxury, would not care for that in the way we could afford to do it. Camping was all right, if it were done properly. We Durrants once had a big camp in the Adirondacks—my grandfather had established it. There, with the proper staff of servants and with guests of the right kind one might rough it comfortably. But my father had given up that camp, and such things were, as yet, quite beyond my means.

I pointed out all this to Ruth, showing her plainly how illogical she was. And so we stayed in town.

These years, as I have said, were working out very satisfactorily to Ruth and me. I was getting my business on its feet and the time when we could enjoy some of the real luxuries of life did not now seem so very far distant. That Ruth should be so impatient at the delay had never occurred to me until one day, when we had been married about three years, she spoke of it.

“Are you going to keep on indefinitely this way, Will?” she asked quietly.

This was apropos of the fact that she wanted me to take her that evening to the opera. I disliked opera intensely—it seems to me an extremely morbid—not to say boring—form of amusement. And besides this was one of the nights our card game was on. I could not explain that to Ruth—she would not have realized how much more important to our ultimate good my evening’s winnings would be than a mere evening at the opera—which in itself was expensive.

“I’m going to the club,” I answered.

“Then I shall call up Gerald Rolf and ask him to take me,” she said.

She still spoke quietly. That was one of Ruth’s peculiarities, I was soon to discover; she concealed her feelings beneath a quiet, dignified reserve. I would rather a woman came right out plainly with what was in her mind. Then you can meet her with logic.

“That’s agreeable to me,” I rejoined, and went to the club.

I have not mentioned Gerald Rolf. He was a good-natured sort of boy—at least I considered him so at that time—a year or so older than Ruth. He was an artist, painted weird-looking landscapes, and to make his living, did magazine illustrating. When Ruth first introduced him to me I thought he was a nice enough boy, except that his interminable piano-playing was a nuisance.

I was soon undeceived about Gerald Rolf, soon made to realize how uncertain is happiness and how even the most innocent circumstances may become a menace to a married man so easy-going, so tolerant as I.

Ruth seemed to like Rolf immensely, although why I could not imagine. I had one or two long talks with him. He knew nothing about business—indeed even the simplest things seemed quite beyond his mental capacity.

I tried to get him to discuss poker—he said he played it a little. But the mathematical laws of chance that govern the game he did not grasp at all.

“I’m afraid you’ve got me out of my depth, Durrant,” he said, and laughed.