Revelations of a Wife: The Story of a HoneymoonGarrison, Adele
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Revelations of a Wife: The Story of a Honeymoon
Garrison, Adele
Married people -- Fiction
The woman of this story is only one kind of a woman, and the man
is only one kind of a man. But their experiences will touch the
consciousness--I was going to say the conscience--of every man or
woman who has either married or measured marriage, and we've all done
one or the other.
PIERRE RAVILLE.
Revelations of a Wife
I
"I WILL BE HAPPY! I WILL! I WILL!"
Today we were married.
I have said these words over and over to myself, and now I have
written them, and the written characters seem as strange to me as the
uttered words did. I cannot believe that I, Margaret Spencer, 27 years
old, I who laughed and sneered at marriage, justifying myself by the
tragedies and unhappiness of scores of my friends, I who have made for
myself a place in the world's work with an assured comfortable income,
have suddenly thrown all my theories to the winds and given myself
in marriage in as impetuous, unreasoning fashion as any foolish
schoolgirl.
I shall have to change a word in that last paragraph. I forgot that
I am no longer Margaret Spencer, but Margaret Graham, Mrs. Richard
Graham, or, more probably, Mrs. "Dicky" Graham. I don't believe
anybody in the world ever called Richard anything but "Dicky."
On the other hand, nobody but Richard ever called me anything shorter
than my own dignified name. I have been "Madge" to him almost ever
since I knew him.
Dear, dear Dicky! If I talked a hundred years I could not express the
difference between us in any better fashion. He is "Dicky" and I am
"Margaret."
He is downstairs now in the smoking room, impatiently humoring this
lifelong habit of mine to have one hour of the day all to myself.
My mother taught me this when I was a tiny girl. My "thinking hour,"
she called it, a time when I solved my small problems or pondered my
baby sins. All my life I have kept up the practice. And now I am going
to devote it to another request of the little mother who went away
from me forever last year.
"Margaret, darling," she said to me on the last day we ever talked
together, "some time you are going to marry--you do not think so now,
but you will--and how I wish I had time to warn you of all the hidden
rocks in your course! If I only had kept a record of those days of my
own unhappiness, you might learn to avoid the wretchedness that was
mine. Promise me that if you marry you will write down the problems
that confront you and your solution of them, so than when your own
baby girl comes to you and grows into womanhood she may be helped by
your experience."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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