A Song of a Shirt

by Mary Stewart Cutting

A SONG OF A SHIRT

A LITTLE STORY OF MARRIED LIFE

By Mary Stewart Cutting
AUTHOR OF "LITTLE STORIES OF MARRIED LIFE," "LITTLE STORIES OF COURTSHIP," ETC.

ALICE!"

"Yes, dear!"

Mrs. Chanler, in a very becoming negligée, then came obediently into the room at her husband's voice. He certainly did not look becoming. His hair, which was always of a rather pompadour variety, stood up more than ever on his head; his shirt was open at the collar, and his eyes sought her in a frantic appeal—testified to as of utmost need by the open, disarranged drawers of the chiffonier, and a glimpse of equal disorder in the closet beyond.

She braced herself for the next question. In the six months of her wedded life she had heard it more than once, and always with a dazed feeling of utter irresponsibility for something regarding which she ought to feel responsible.

"Where is my laundry? I thought you said yesterday that it came home."

"Yes, it did come home. If I said so, then it did"—Mrs. Chanler took heart of grace, as she became certain of her facts, though she knew her answer wasn't going to be satisfactory; there was always something back of it that she couldn't answer. "Of course it came home; it was yesterday morning I put the things away myself in those drawers, just before I went out to lunch."

"Then where's that blue and white shirt with the square cuffs—the one I bought in London?"

"Isn't it there?"

"Isn't it there?" Mr. Chanler looked for a moment as if he had reached the limit of endurance; he waited for a moment to recover a decent self-control. "If it was, I wouldn't have asked you where it was, would I? I've had every single thing out of those drawers and it isn't in them."

"Well, I put every single thing that came from the laundry in that chiffonier," said his wife convincingly.

"Then it didn't come from the laundry. Of all the abominable carelessness! You're sure you sent it, Alice?"

"Oh, yes! I'm sure I sent it," said Mrs. Chanler, with a sudden qualm that seemed to be taking awful and increased possession of her. "I sent everything you left out, of course, I always do—everything except—except one shirt that you left on a chair. I hung that up in the closet again, because I thought you might want it; it was quite clean, I thought." She had been rummaging among the hooks as she spoke, lifting the garment in question from under a coat. "Leighton!" Her lips trembled as she met his gaze. "Please don't look at me like that! How could I know that this was the one you wanted? Can't you wear it as it is?"

"Wear it as it is, with that—No, I can't wear it as it is, Alice."—Mr. Chanler conquered himself heroically. "It makes no difference; I'll take another shirt. Only"—Mrs. Chanler's heart, which had expanded with a quick sense of relief, contracted again—it wasn't over yet—"only Alice, I think you might take a little more pains about my laundry. The things never go as they should, or else when they come home they're put where nobody can find them. You know yourself last week we were late to the Stoner's dinner just because the whole bundle had been left in the sheet closet, where no one thought of looking for it. I don't want to be hard on you, Alice; but you have so little to think about, no housekeeping or anything, that it does seem as if I might get my laundry when I want it. Don't you think so dear?"

By this time his wife's arms were around his neck. She knew it was practically "over." He was ready for that penitent customary assurance that it shouldn't happen again. Yet something in his manner this time made her feel, conscience-stricken, that it must not happen again.

It wasn't just that he was inconvenienced—he was really hurt, because she didn't care enough to remember—though she did care enough—it wasn't that! There was nobody else in the world that she did care for. He was terribly dear. All the next day the little incident stayed in her mind. She went backward and forward in the pretty little apartment, with its charming jumble of wedding-present furnishings, rich rugs and mission chairs and fragile glass. Life with Leighton was a hundred times sweeter than she had ever dreamed it would be; yet there were times even now when she began to see that it might be different: this clear pleasure might be as easily cracked and flawed as the crystal vase that stood on the light-wood mantel before her—a tall, exquisitely graceful article, which gave her fresh joy every time she saw the sunlight through it. Leighton was very much of a boy, though he was quite a little older than she was—yet he had certain unexpectedly severe masculine streaks about him when one didn't expect it. This little matter of the laundry now—nothing about his attire could ever seem of half the importance that the affairs of her wardrobe—her chiffons, and beads and laces—seemed to her, but still——

She made a little vow to herself, and when he came home that night, he saw something lovelier than ever in her eyes, and spoke of it, with his arm tightening around her.

The next morning his casual tone tried to be free of any implied reproach—"Be sure and send off that shirt for the laundry to-day, dear, will you?—the shirt I got in London, with the square cuffs—the one that didn't go this week. It's hanging on that hook in the closet. I telephoned to Lee Wong before breakfast, and he says I can have it to-night—I want to wear it to-morrow—when I go to lunch with Mr. Crandale. You won't forget to send it over, will you, Alice?"

"I will not forget," she answered promptly, starting off indeed the moment he had left the house to get it and tie it up in a bundle for the janitor's boy to take over to Lee Wong's establishment. On her way the telephone called her off, and for a day of pleasure, indeed—a summons to the home of a lately returned bride, one of her dearest friends. To think that she and Mary were both really married—it seemed absurd and unbelievable! She had just a little feeling of patronage about Mary's married venture when she thought of Mary's William by the side of Leighton! She could stay until nearly six o'clock—the whole day. She and Leighton only had breakfast in the apartment; they took their dinners out.

Until nearly six o'clock! As she was entering her rooms again, after a most absorbing day, in which she and Mary had nearly talked themselves blind—as she was entering her rooms something struck her stiff and dumb—an awful, paralyzing thought: She had never sent that shirt to the laundry! She could hardly believe that she hadn't: it was impossible that destiny had dealt with her as hardly as that. She went to the closet to know that it had gone, that she had given it to the janitor's boy—not just dreamed it. And it hung there before her, a damning proof of her incompetency. Oh, why under the sun had Leighton, who had so many shirts, set his mind continually on this one! She wished he had never bought it in London; she was sick of hearing about it—it was a hideous thing, anyway. Why—Oh, that didn't help matters! She knew, as sure as she stood there shivering in her blue cloth walking-dress and feathers—she knew that she could never brace herself to tell the truth to Leighton. He would think—what wouldn't he think? What could she do? She had no more idea of how to do up a shirt than she had of balloon manufacture—but in some way it would have to be done up. The janitor's wife, perhaps, would do it if she went to her after dinner. She didn't care how much she paid for it.

Leighton was very lively and very affectionate when ha came home. It was a little fiction that when they went out together to their dinner they weren't husband and wife, because most of the husbands and wives they met dining together seemed so untalkative and bored—they were just chums—and they told each other things and commented on what they saw just as chums might do. It seemed to give a piquant flavor to the prosaic—and it was so charmingly true that they were realty chums even if they were also really husband and wife. Once or twice to-night Leighton asked her if she didn't feel well, when she had little lapses into a strange silence, but the question each time set her off into an excited torrent of recital. Once he asked her en passant—"I suppose you sent my shirt to the laundry?" And she answered evasively, "You'll have it to-night." She meant to take it off that hook the moment she got in the house.

And after all, he was ahead of her. He had been whistling when he went into the room—how she prayed he wouldn't go to that closet! The whistle stopped—he had, then! She could feel the silence before he said:

"Alice!"

She waited for no questions, even if he had meant to ask them.

"Oh, I couldn't help it—indeed, indeed I meant to remember. I thought of nothing else, until—— It was only because Mary telephoned, and I hadn't seen her for so long, and I—and I—Leighton, don't look at me like that. I'll hate you if you do! What difference does it make about that old shirt? You've got dozens of others! I don't see why you expect me to look after your clothes, anyway. Didn't you look after them yourself before we were married? Yes, you did; your sister said so. Then why can't you look after them now? Why do you blame me for everything that happens?"

She was striving to suppress an hysterical sob.

"For goodness' sake, Alice, don't let's have a scene," said Mr. Chanler coldly. "All right, I won't ask you to look after anything, if you don't want to. It doesn't seem any use to ask you, anyway—you don't look after things. I had imagined you cared a little for my comfort, but it seems that I was mistaken. It makes no difference. I'll try and not expect anything of you any more—after this."

She had left the room—he could hear her steps going down the long uncarpeted floor of the apartment.

Was she crying? Well, she ought to cry!

She did not come back. He sat down by the lamp in the large, comfortable Morris chair, and took up a book and lighted his pipe. He felt dreary and alone—without companionship or sympathy. Alice was very sweet, very lovely, but after all, she was a toy-girl—and one cannot always feel like playing with a toy. He had a curious, leaden sense of loss—life stretched out before him as a sort of hard, money-making pathway. He had given her twice as much money as she had asked for the day before—though he had to skimp a little himself to do it,—because he hated to think he had to limit her in any way; he could work for her, but at the suggestion of her doing the least thing for him— He had never thought that she would be so willful, so perversely unkind. He didn't mind about the shirt—what was that, anyway? But she didn't care enough for him to want to remember—Alice didn't care.

So long he sat there; yet she did not come back. So long he sat there; yet she did not come. It was not like her to hold out like this. After their little quarrels she always came creeping back to him, with her soft arms ready to meet around his neck—sweet Alice, with hair so brown! She must be hurt indeed, if she did not come back again, to be smiled at, after he had frowned. But he was hurt, too. Something that had been beautiful seemed broken.

So long he sat there; still she did not come. At last he got up, and pipe in hand walked half reluctantly through the hall, looking in at the different rooms for her. She wasn't in any of them. "Alice!" he called, but she did not answer. There were sounds in the kitchen; he went on there, wondering.

Alice was bending over an ironing board—an ironing board on which was stretched an extraordinarily limp and woeful-looking shirt. She was apparently having difficulty with her iron, for the shirt clung to it when she tried to lift it off; when it did come off, he saw, as she did, the black, scorching marks of it on that London-made bosom. The tired, frightened face that met his was so helplessly dear!

"I tried to wash it for you—I tried so hard. I'll never forget again!" she whispered between her tears, with his arms around her, neither chums, nor man and wife, just lovers—"I wanted to work my fingers off for you! I wanted to, Leighton! I thought I'd bring it to you so beautiful and shining and stiff, and you'd say—and now I've spoiled it forever. I've stayed away from you all this evening when I wanted to be with you so much—and you've thought—you've thought—And it's ruined forever!"

"Oh, I don't mind that at all," he averred stoutly—he knew that he had to say it, though he felt a pang whenever he thought of that shirt. "I don't care how many things you forget"—he knew he had to say that, too, and was glad to. He realized, as he had never done before, that a man must be very tender with his wife when she was like Alice—Alice, who clung to him now——

Oh, to her it was no matter how she was hurt, by her act or by his, so long as she had him to go to for refuge! He must always be her refuge, even against himself. Though a thousand shirts walked in flapping, fantastic procession through the future years, never never—she whispered it in sweet, comforted fierceness—never should one escape her again.

Yet perhaps it was not in the heart of mortal man to understand the sigh of relief that claimed her after her fresh compunction the next morning, when the garment that had been the pride of her Leighton's heart disappeared forever, burned and blackened, with the janitor's boy. It was a sigh of relief at the disappearance of a visible source of evil. After all, it was only the shirt that had been damaged!