CHAPTER VII
WAYNE COUNSELS HIS SISTER
MR. RICHARD WINGFIELD, unjustly called the Cynic, was suspected of literary ambitions; but the suspicion was based upon nothing weightier than a brochure on golf which he had printed at his own expense for private circulation, and a study of the Greater City, abounding in sly ironies, which had appeared with illustrations in a popular periodical.
Wingfield, if we may enter briefly into particulars, was tall and thin, with a close-cropped beard and dark hair combed to the smoothness of onion-skin. He was near-sighted, and his twinkling eye-glasses were protected by a slight gold chain. His aspect was severe, his manner disconcertingly serious. He carried, in all weathers, an umbrella whose handle bore on a silver plate the anticipatory legend, “Stolen from Richard Wingfield.” He was on many committees; he gave luncheons for actors, lecturers and other distinguished visitors; he attended the opera in New York and was reported now and then to be engaged to a prima donna. He patronized a private gymnasium and was a capital fencer. He cultivated the society of physicians, discussing the latest discoveries of Vienna and Paris in sophisticated terminology; he sat in the amphitheatre at surgical clinics, inscrutable and grave. His interest in medicine gave rise to the belief about the Club that he suffered from an incurable malady; but his medical cronies declared that he was as sound as wheat and would live forever. He affected an air of not caring greatly; he uttered paradoxes and enjoyed mystifying people; he quizzed likely subjects and had never been known to laugh aloud. It was he who first announced that five generations constitute an old family in Pittsburg. Practical men called Wingfield a loafer; others insinuated that his private life would not bear scrutiny. (A man who drinks nothing but koumiss in a club famed for its rye essences is sure to be the victim of calumny.) There was a particular little table in the corner of the Allequippa Club’s smoking-room—a room where all branches of human endeavour were represented at five o’clock every afternoon, from the twisting of stogies up through the professions to the canning of entrées—there, at his own little table, sat Mr. Wingfield, watching, as he said, the best men of the Greater City at the light-hearted occupation of hardening their arteries.
There was no telling what might happen; it was never safe to leave town, and having spent two years abroad in his young manhood, Wingfield abstained from further foreign travel. One must pick up gossip when it is fresh. Nothing, he said, is so discouraging as to miss the prologue; and so he spent most of his time at home. “But for the invention of sleeping-cars, and the fact of our being only one night from New York we should be the most moral city in the world,” he averred. Wingfield was a University of Pennsylvania man, and spoke in bitter contumeliousness of Yale and Harvard, which are, as all Pennsylvania men are able to demonstrate, grossly inferior institutions. Princeton, to all such, is only a blot on the Mosquito Strip and the seat of ignorance. His mother was a Philadelphian, and Dick’s two aunts were still residents of that city, where, through much careful instruction on their part, he knew Chestnut Street’s meridional importance and the sacred names one must whisper and those one must not utter at all. His income was derived from coke ovens situated in three districts, and these it pleased his humour to call Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego.
Wingfield walked to Mrs. Blair’s gate with Wayne talking of pictures and music. He was a diligent collector of anecdotes of the brief sort that end with abrupt and unforeseen climaxes, and he recounted a number for Wayne’s amusement. He carefully avoided any reference to Colonel Craighill’s marriage, though he knew Wayne better than anyone else and might have spoken his mind without offense. Wayne had appeared unusually dull and depressed, a mood that frequently followed a debauch, and Wingfield, familiar with his latest escapade, wished to lift his friend’s spirits if he could. At the Blairs’ gate he declined Wayne’s invitation to enter; but before they parted he made a point of suggesting that they have luncheon together the next day. He was wiser and kinder than most people gave him credit for being, and here, it had occurred to him, he might do a little good.
Wayne entered his sister’s house with a latch-key which it had been her own idea that he should carry. Mrs. Blair came out of the reception room while he was hanging up his hat and coat and asked him to go into the parlour for a few minutes.
“I have a caller—a matter of business—I’ll be with you in a minute, Wayne. Find something to read, won’t you?”
He bade her take her time and sought a table covered with magazines in three languages which gave to her library a rather club-like air. Mrs. Blair believed in self-culture and practised it à la carte, not overlooking the hors d’œuvres and desserts. He lighted a cigarette and turned over the periodicals until he found one that interested him. The murmur of voices reached him from the room across the hall; and he argued that the caller was no one he knew, or he should have been asked to come in and speak to her, such being Mrs. Blair’s way. In a few minutes she carried the conversation to what appeared from her tone to be a satisfactory conclusion. It had grown dark and a servant brightened the hall and adjoining rooms with the mild electric glow that was Mrs. Blair’s ideal of house lighting. Wayne, lifting his eyes at the soft flooding of his page, saw that his sister’s caller was the girl he had met in the art gallery. Her long coat made her appear taller as she stood against the background of the reception room portières. She was laughing happily at some remark of Mrs. Blair’s. She murmured something that did not reach him, but Mrs. Blair caught her hands exclaiming:
“Don’t trouble about it; it will soon begin to come easier. You are going to do something really worth while; remember, I have faith in you and you’re bound to arrive. No one ever disappoints me!”
“I certainly hope I shan’t be a disappointment to you, Mrs. Blair. I can never thank you enough for what you are doing for me.”
As the outer door closed, Mrs. Blair appeared before Wayne.
“Well, what are they saying? Is the male population taking it calmly? Is there rebellion anywhere?”
Wayne tossed his magazine aside as his sister bent over and kissed him. She curled up in a big chair, while he brought his mind to bear upon her question.
“My dear Fanny, why do you ask anything so preposterous? Do you suppose anybody is going to tell our father that he ought to consider well the seriousness of a second marriage, his duty to his children, his duty to their mother and all that kind of rot? Not on your life, my dearest sister! Nor is our father’s pastor going to ask him for the credentials of the lady he proposes to honour. Everybody downtown is delighted. He got a jolly from every man he saw at the Club to-day where, by the way, I was taken to show our delight in the prospect of seeing a new face at the ancestral dinner table. So much for us males; how about the women? Are there any signs of revolt? I met Dick’s mother a while ago, and she had her knife sharpened.”
“Many people are still away, but my telephone has rung all day and the town’s buzzing.”
“It’s a good thing for the town to have something that it can concentrate on for a few days. Dick Wingfield says the trouble with us here is our lack of social unification. Our approaching stepmother’s advent may have the effect of concentrating social influences.”
“The older women resent it; they declare they will have nothing to do with her.”
“Those estimable ladies whose husbands have paper in banks where father is a director will sing a different tune this evening.”
“Men don’t know how we women feel about such matters; if mama had not been the woman she was it wouldn’t be so hard.”
“Oh, yes, it would, Fanny! Besides you don’t know what sort of a woman father’s going to bring home to fill our Christmas stockings.”
“Please don’t make it all more horrible than necessary,” she cried. “It’s that sort of thing, Wayne, the Christmas and the birthdays and the Sunday evenings at the piano, when she taught us to sing songs together—it’s all that that hurts me.”
Her eyes were bright with tears. Wayne rose and walked the length of the room.
“For God’s sake, Fanny, cut all that out.”
“That’s what it means to me and it means even more to you. I think we made a mistake in not showing resentment when father told us. But we took it as calmly as though he had told us he had bought a new chair or a hat rack.”
“You’re rating the lady as a piece of furniture, which is putting it pretty high. You mustn’t let Mrs. Wingfield and these other old ladies give you nervous prostration over this business. As I’ve already reminded you, father wasn’t born yesterday; you may be sure that he is making no mistake. Very likely she has a few millions in bank for spending money. For myself, I await her coming with the liveliest anticipations.”
A shadow crossed his sister’s face as she listened. He had spoken harshly and she did not like the look in his eyes. She knew that he would care, but she did not know that he would care so much. He took a cigar from the tabarette at his elbow and lighted it. She studied him carefully as the match flamed. His hands were quite steady to-day, and there was an air of assurance about him that puzzled her deeply. He blew a smoke-ring and threw out his arms to shake down his cuffs.
“Does anyone know a thing about the woman? Have you found out anything?”
“That question, my dear sister, has been asked many times in the Greater City to-day, and the answer has been, so far as I know, an emphatic negative. But so much the better. If the gossips have nothing to work on they can’t do much. The fact of the woman being unknown is nothing; it’s all in her favour. Mrs. Craighill, with her faint background of New Hampshire—or is it Vermont?—her long sojourns abroad and all that, will strike town with a clean bill of health. I tell you father is wise in his generation. No old bones to pick. The woman will come into camp as fresh and new as her trousseau.”
“I couldn’t say anything the other night when father told us, but now that the newspapers have done their worst it seems like the end of everything,” sighed Mrs. Blair.
“To me,” said Wayne musingly, “it is only the beginning. We had been travelling in a hard rut. I had become immensely bored with the family life. Now we shall see the vista broaden and lengthen. My curiosity is on edge. My father’s wife—ah, the thought of it! I am at her feet; I crave her blessing! Your point of view is all wrong, dear sister. We must put such feelings aside; our duty, Fanny, is not to the dead but to the living.”
“Wayne! Wayne! Will you stop? You are not yourself; it’s not like you to talk so.”
“My dear Fanny,” he persisted, flicking the ash from his cigar, “if in intimating that I am not myself you imply that I have been drinking I will say to you that you never did me a greater wrong. Not only have I had no form of drink to-day but our own chaste river water, but it may interest you to know that I have cut out the whiskey when it is red altogether. I scorn it; I put it away forever. I signalize our father’s marriage by renouncing drink. Will you not congratulate me?”
“I don’t understand you. It is not like you to talk this way.”
She was mystified, and stared at him with dry eyes, wondering.
“You don’t seem impressed by my reformation; maybe you don’t believe I can quit! I tell you, Fanny, the Blotter will soak up the blithesome cocktail no more. When the new Mrs. Roger Craighill comes she shall find me the most abstemious person in town. My friends—and I still have one or two—will be incredulous and amazed; my enemies will express regret; the kind who have robbed me when I’ve been loaded will miss an income that has been as sure as taxes. I have already committed myself to father, and he expressed himself with his habitual reserve as delighted.”
Mrs. Blair rose and changed her seat to get nearer him; her mystification grew. There was a bitter undernote that belied his surface lightness.
“Wayne, there is something I want you to do: I want you to move out of father’s house; I don’t want you to stay after this woman comes.”
“But, Fanny, I’ve promised father to remain! Can’t you see what a lot of gossip would be caused by my leaving? Think of the embarrassment and annoyance to father! Here we should have a realization of the old joke about the cruel stepmother and the incorrigible, brow-beaten son, driven from home! I tell you, father is no child; he has foreseen exactly that possibility, as he foresees all possibilities. He is vain of his prophetic vision; you can’t lose father, I tell you!”
“But after a few weeks,” she pleaded, “when the town has got used to her being here, you will have settled all that and you can make some plausible excuse for leaving. You can come here and live with us. John would be only too glad.”
“To leave after a few months would certainly look bad; and it’s the look of the thing that interests father. No; he has asked me to stay, and I’m going to stay. Besides, my dear Fanny, shall I kick myself from my own doorstep? You must remember that the house is mine. Mother wanted it that way; she had a sentiment about it.”
“Yes; the house will be yours when father dies; but while he lives it is his. I wish you hadn’t mentioned that; it makes the whole matter more hideous. The very ground was dear to mother; the coming of this other woman is a profanation.”
Wayne put down his cigar and stood before his sister, who sat crumpled in her seat playing nervously with her handkerchief.
“See here, Fanny; there’s no use in being hysterical about this business. We’d better grin and accept the situation. Believe the worst: that father has been trapped by an adventuress; we’ve got a little pride of our own, I hope! On the other hand, she may prove a perfectly delightful person.”
“I don’t see how you can say such things,” she moaned.
“It’s remarkable how much faith you women have in one another. You trust one another about as far as you could push a mountain in a wheel-barrow. Why should you condemn her before she has a chance to speak for herself? Put yourself in her place!”
He smiled at his own nobility. His sister was not heeding him, but Wayne had really a great deal of influence with her; and he went on to discuss the matter in its more practical aspects, which had been the object of his coming and her own intention. He defended his father for excluding them from the ceremony itself; he persuaded her that it was better so, just as his father had said. Fanny Blair did not often strike her colours, but the strain of the day, with its incessant telephoning, and the daring of intimate friends who had sought her out with the effect, at least, of bringing the daily newspapers in their hands for confirmation, had told upon her. When Wayne pleased he could be helpful; and they were soon discussing quite calmly the series of entertainments which Mrs. Blair had already planned. She even laughed at Wayne’s comments on some of the combinations she proposed for two or three dinners which were designed to give the older friends of the family an opportunity to inspect the bride immediately.
“Get the old stagers first; that’s the card to play, for we are an old and conservative family. Your dance, reception and tea will bring in the other elements; but the dinner is more intimate, and offers better hypnotic possibilities.”
“She’s more likely to paralyze than hypnotize. Her face in that picture has haunted me, Wayne.”
“Ah! I knew it would come! You already feel her spell. So do I!”
She rose and peered into his face searchingly, laying her hands on his shoulders.
“Wayne, I believe you know that woman! Play fair with me about this; have you ever seen her? Have you ever heard of her before?”
“Fanny, how absurd you are! You asked me that question before and I answered no. Do you imagine I have seen her to-day? Come now, please be the reasonable little sister you always have been. You are the brightest, cleverest, dearest girl in the world. That gown is a dream, if you ask me; you should be painted by Alexander for the family portrait gallery. Dick Wingfield suggested to father to-day his own duty in the matter and I see the finished product—father full-length in a frock coat, with his hand resting lightly on a volume of his own speeches.”
Mrs. Blair’s eyes filled with tears.
“Poor mama!” she mourned. “I’m glad her portrait was painted just when it was—the picture is so dear. I’m going to get it out of the house before that creature comes if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Please, Fanny, don’t do that,” he pleaded, touched in his own heart more than he wished her to know. “Come, now, cheer up, for I must trot if I get home for dinner. I promised father to be there; it’s close upon our last tête-à-tête. Count on me for all your functions. I’ll get Wingfield to support me at the teas and so on. If you want me to come to your antiquarians’ dinner I shall be here and you may place me next the solemnest dowager you invite to the banquet. You needn’t go on a cold-water basis for the occasion either; my glasses shall be turned down; remember that!”
“I’m glad, oh, so glad, Wayne! I can’t tell you what that means to me.”
She stood in the doorway and watched him slip into his topcoat. He moved with the athlete’s ease; there was a real grace in him. He had never been so dear to her sisterly heart as now, in the light of this new event before which they waited. For sister-love goes far and deep. Like charity, it suffereth long and is kind. In self-effacement and service it is happiest; and it knows the pangs of neglect and jealousy. Fanny’s eyes were upon Wayne in love and admiration as she watched him fasten his coat and draw on his gloves.
“By the way, Fanny, that was a stunning girl you had in there when I came. I caught a glimpse of her against those dark red curtains—a very pleasing portrait if I’m asked!”
“She has known trouble, poor child; I’m doing what I can to help her.”
“That’s like you, Fanny.”
“She’s very interesting; she has a lot of talent.”
“If you need help in advancing her cause you may call on me,” he said lightly, but she knew him so well that she fathomed his serious wish to know about her protégée. He had taken up his hat, but lingered expectantly. “I saw her in the art gallery to-day, and she’s certainly unusual. I wish you would introduce me to her!”
Mrs. Blair had not been prepared for the directness of his request. Her figure stiffened; she must be on guard against the joy in him that had filled her heart.
“I know the way round at the Institute and I might be of service to her,” he said carelessly, but she knew that he was deeply interested—women always interested him—and she saw no way at the moment of putting him off.
“I can’t, Wayne.”
“I should like to know why not?” and he laughed as he balanced his hat by its brim in his hands. She usually yielded readily to any of his requests and he was surprised that she parleyed now.
“I can’t; I mustn’t; and please, Wayne, don’t make any effort to find out who she is. I beg you not to; I don’t want you to know her,” she ended, with pleading in her voice and eyes.
His face clouded and he turned to the door and opened it. Then he flung round upon her roughly:
“My God, Fanny; have I sunk as low as that!”
She stepped into the vestibule and watched him striding through the shrubbery toward the gate. She pressed her face to the glass of the vestibule doors, shielding her eyes from the overhead light with her hands as she looked after him. She always made a point of sending him away happy when she could; and now he had left her in anger. She still watched him after he had left the grounds and passed into the street, walking slower than was his wont, and with his head bowed. The curious mood in which he was accepting his father’s marriage still distressed her; and his declaration that he had given up drink had carried no real conviction, now that she pondered his words and manner. She waited until an opening through the trees gave her a last glimpse of him across the hedge under the electric light at the corner, then with a deep sigh she turned into the house.
When, a little later, he called her on the telephone and begged her not to mind anything he had said on leaving—his usual way of making peace after their occasional tiffs—she was only half relieved.