It was Wickham’s habit to read a newspaper on the train going home, not
because his preoccupied mind felt any great interest in the outside
world, but because it was a protection. It kept people from talking to
him.
This time, however, sitting beside Charles, he did not open his paper.
He showed his brother an almost exaggerated courtesy. For Charles’s sake
he made an effort he would have made for no one else. He tried to talk
about old friends and old days, turning his worn and sensitive face
toward the other with a look of fixed attention; but his mind wandered.
A thousand little anxieties and exasperations stirred him, and he grew
silent and distrait.
Then his glance fell upon the sleeve of that threadbare overcoat, upon a
worn shoe carefully polished, and an almost unbearable compassion seized
him. Charley come home again, penniless and broken in health at forty!
It was dark when they reached the suburban station, and the rain fell
steadily. They crossed the covered platform to Wickham’s car. The
chauffeur held the door open, they got in, and the car started.
“I don’t know how it was,” said Charles, “but whenever I used to think
of home it was always like this--cold, rainy nights, and the little
houses lighted up. Sort of a charm about it, don’t you think?”
There was some curious quality about Charles, something vivid in him,
which conjured up visions for the wanderer’s brother. He looked out of
the window, and it seemed to him that he could see as Charles saw--the
pleasant suburban street, lined with bare trees, and the comfortable
houses, lighted now, here a window with a red-shaded lamp, here a
bedroom light behind curtains, all of them so snug and safe from the
wind and the cold rain. Men were coming home and dinners were being
served, as men had been coming home to rest and eat since the dark
beginning of things. A bitter thing, to have no home, no welcome or
refuge!
“Yes, I see,” said Wickham.
At least Charles could share his home.
“Unless he marries,” thought Wickham. “No reason why he shouldn’t do
well with Carrick--soon be in a position to marry and have a place of
his own. No reason at all!”
A peculiar feeling of disquiet came over him, something shadowy and
elusive. He felt abashed, as if some one had rebuked him. Well, perhaps
it was a little hard to imagine Charles working in an office, making
money, catching the five forty to go home to some cozy little house of
his own; but it was not impossible.
“He’s only forty,” thought Wickham, “and I have influence enough to help
him. No reason why it shouldn’t be like that!”
He glanced uneasily at his brother. The car was lighted, and he could
see clearly that bold and arrogant profile.
“No reason at all!” he told himself once more.
But his disquiet persisted, like a warning of disaster.
“He didn’t want to come back with me to-night. He wants to get away, to
go down there--to a climate that means the end of him. What’s the matter
with him? Is it pride? Doesn’t he want to accept favors from me?”
Wickham knew it was not that, for Charles had asked him for a job.
“And I’ve been careful,” he thought. “I haven’t said a word or done a
thing to hurt him.”
He had never even mentioned the threadbare overcoat and the shabby hat,
or suggested a loan of money. He had noticed that Charles was always
supplied with tobacco, that he was able to pay car fares and buy
newspapers, and so on. He must have a little money left.
“And he can start in next week with Carrick,” thought Wickham. “Then
he’ll be all right.”
But why did he want to get away?
“Restless,” his brother decided. “He’s lived in the tropics so long that
the idea of going to Nicaragua appealed to him, just for the moment.”
The car turned in at the gates of Wickham’s place. He saw before him the
lights of his own home shining through the rain; and mechanically he
braced himself for an ordeal.
It was his inflexible rule to enter his house with an amiable and
agreeable manner. When the parlor maid opened the door, he gave her
something as much like a smile as he could manage, bade her good
evening:, and entered the drawing-room.
“Hello, Madeline!” he said.
His wife came toward him. He put his hand on her shoulder and kissed her
cheek.
“Nice and warm in here,” he observed. “I’ll go and have a wash and brush
up, and get ready for dinner.”
It was hard for him to speak at all, fatigue so weighed upon him. He
went up the stairs, forcing himself to a brisk pace, entered his room,
and locked the door. Then suddenly he thought of things for his speech
to-morrow--just the things he had wanted. He pulled out his notebook and
fountain pen and began to make notes.
“Mustn’t be late for dinner, though,” he thought.
He took off his coat and went toward his bathroom. Then he thought of a
most effective sentence and hurried back to the table.
“If I could have a quiet hour now!” he thought. “But that’s not fair to
Madeline.”
He came down at the proper time, with more and more ideas for that
speech running through his mind, and entered the drawing-room again.
Madeline was sitting there, stretched out in a lounge chair, and Charles
stood beside her. They were laughing at something.
Again that curious disquiet seized Wickham Hackett. He stood in the
doorway, looking at her, and it seemed to him that somehow she had
changed.
* * * * *
All through dinner Wickham’s eyes sought his wife’s face with covert
anxiety. She was as cool, as gay, as gracious as ever--a tall young
creature, exquisitely cared for, with shining dark hair and a delicate,
half disdainful face. He had never seen her ill-tempered or impatient,
had never known her to be anything but kind to him, and courteous and
lovely; and she was so to-night. He must have been dreaming to fancy
that there was a change, a shadow upon her unruffled beauty!
Dinner finished, they went back into the drawing-room for coffee.
“Wickie,” said Madeline, “you’ve been sleeping better lately, haven’t
you?”
He had not, but because she looked anxious he said yes, he thought he
had.
“Ah!” she cried triumphantly. “I knew it! Wickie, I’ve been deceiving
you. I’ve been giving you a new sort of coffee, with no caffeine in it!”
“Shouldn’t have known it,” he said, smiling at her.
She had risen, and was standing by the radio. She smiled back at him
over her shoulder and then began to turn the dial.
“There!” she said.
An orchestra was playing a waltz--a Spanish rhythm, with clicking
castanets.
“Charles!” she said.
But Charles Hackett did not answer. He sat smoking a cigarette, with his
coffee cup before him, and staring down at his worn and carefully
polished shoes.
“_Charles!_” she cried, laughing. “You’re not very gallant this evening.
Do I have to ask you to dance?”
“Well, not twice,” said Charles.
He put down his cigarette, rose, crossed the room to her, and put his
arm about her, and they began to dance.
What was the matter? Every evening since Charles had come he and
Madeline had had a dance or two after dinner.
“Charles is the most wonderful dancer,” Madeline had said, and Wickham
had felt a little sorry for him, with only so futile an accomplishment
to his credit.
If it made them happy, Madeline’s husband had been pleased; but he was
not pleased to-night. He was uneasy, the music worried him, and he moved
restlessly in his chair.
“Perhaps it’s this new coffee,” he thought. “I need the stimulation of
the real thing. Poor girl!”
“Wickie, I’ve been deceiving you!” The words came back to him with a
horrible shock.
“Good God!” he cried to himself. “What’s the matter with me? This
is--shameful!”
He closed his eyes for a moment, and tried not to hear the music.
“I ought to take her out more,” he thought. “She’s so much younger than
I am. It’s dull for her here, but she’s never complained--never once.
The best wife a man ever had--the finest, straightest girl!”
If she would come behind his chair now and lay her slender hand over his
closed eyes! Of course, she didn’t do things like that. There was
beneath her gayety a fastidious and almost austere reserve. That was
what he most respected in her. She was kind, always kind, but always
aloof.
Well, he wanted it so. He would not have it otherwise; but if only just
this once he could feel her hand on his eyes, if she would stop and kiss
him!
He opened his eyes, ashamed of his weakness; and he saw his brother’s
face.