A Woman of Independent Means by Elizabeth Forsythe Hailey Page A

champagne had brought about this occasion. This was to be Rob’s last party and I decided to make it one he would have enjoyed.
    Manning was a little shocked but I insisted he make the first toast and he rose to the occasion with unexpected wit and style. He spoke eloquently about Rob and the boldness of his vision. Suddenly my own personal loss seemed insignificant compared to what the country had lost in the death of the man who was my husband. After Manning, others spoke and at the end of each speech we raised our glasses.
    The other men present, including some of the most prominent businessmen in this part of the country, accepted Manning as one of them and their obvious regard, reinforced no doubt by champagne, seemed to transform my shy, scholarly brother-in-law into a figure of consequence in the world of finance. I am convinced he could have a splendid future here if he had someone who believed in him at his side. But the man I saw tonight is not the man Lydia loves, and her hopes for him are quite different than mine would be in her place. I see now how much of what a man becomes is due to the woman at his side. A life can go in so many different directions and though a man may be the captain of his soul, he needs a good navigator at his side if he dares sail into uncharted seas.
    Lydia came down after all the guests had left. She declined our offer of champagne and said she was shocked by all the laughter she had heard. She announced that Mother Steed was returning to Dallas with her and she had spent the afternoon helping her pack. I said nothing, but if I had chosen to speak my thoughts aloud, I would have asked which of the three women who loved Rob—his wife, his mother, or his sister—had done more to honor his memory that day?
    Manning, once again the docile husband, accompanied Lydia upstairs. I called for the children and they came running, eager to sample all the food. I poured ginger ale into champagne glasses for them and asked each of them to propose a toast to their father. I wish you could have heard them. They said what they felt so beautifully it brought tears to my eyes, and suddenly the control I had maintained so successfully since morning collapsed and I finally began to cry. Children are terrified of adult tears and the three of them clung to me, repeating every hollow word of consolation I had ever used on them. I struggled to regain my composure and nodded my head in agreement. “Yes, I know. Everything’s going to be all right.” How I wish I could believe those words.
    The three children and I are like survivors of a terrible shipwreck. We crept into the big bed as if it were a life raft, and they went to sleep easily. I lay awake for a long time, taking comfort in the sounds of their breathing, then finally turned on a light at my desk and sat down to write. I am terrified of tomorrow—and all the tomorrows I must face alone.
    I love you with
all my heart,
Bess

    February 25, 1919
St. Louis
    Dear Mr. Fineman,
    I was deeply touched to hear from you again and to know that in a sense we are sharing another time of tragedy. I am sorry I did not know of your wife’s death last year. I still subscribe to The Dallas News but there are days when I fail to read it as closely as I should.
    I derived great satisfaction from the account of my husband’s death in the Dallas paper. Thank you for enclosing the clipping. People think they are sparing my feelings by keeping the tone of their letters abstract, but I take comfort in anything that offers tangible evidence of my husband’s existence, and I was very pleased that both pictures were used.
    I am stunned by the rage that has surfaced within me since my husband died. I have always thought of myself as a tolerant, broadminded person who wished everyone well. But I see now I was that kind of person only because I had no reason not to be. Injustice makes villains of us all, and I am afraid I am going to lose more