That evening when Shepherd Mills went home he found Constance seated
at her dressing table, her heavy golden-brown hair piled loosely upon
her head, while her maid rubbed cold cream into her throat and face.
She espied him in the mirror and greeted him with a careless, “Hello,
Shep. How did the day go with you?”--the question employed by countless
American wives in saluting their husbands at the end of a toilsome day.
“Oh, pretty good!” he replied. No husband ever admits that a day has
been wholly easy and prosperous.
She put out her hand for him to kiss and bade him sit down beside her.
He was always diffident before the mysteries of his wife’s toilet. He
glanced at the gown laid across a chair and surveyed the crystal and
silver on the dressing table with a confused air as though he had never
seen them before.
The room denoted Constance Mills’s love of luxury, and incidentally her
self-love. The walls on two sides were set in mirrors that reached
from ceiling to floor. The furniture, the rugs, the few pictures, the
window draperies had been chosen with an exquisite care and combined in
an evocation of the spirit of indolence. There was a much be-pillowed
divan across one corner, so placed that when she enjoyed a siesta
Constance could contemplate herself in the mirrors opposite. Scents--a
mingling of faint exotic odors--hung upon the air.
She was quick to note that something was on Shepherd’s mind and half
from curiosity, half in a spirit of kindness, dismissed the maid as
quickly as possible.
“You can hook me up, Shep. I’ll do my hair myself. I won’t need you any
more, Marie. Yes--my blue cloak. Now, little boy, go ahead and tell me
what’s bothering you.”
Shepherd frowned and twisted his mustache as he sat huddled on the
divan.
“It’s about father; nothing new, just our old failure to understand
each other. It’s getting worse. I never know where I stand with him.”
“Well, does anyone?” Constance asked serenely. “You really mustn’t let
him get on your nerves. There are things you’ve got to take because we
all do; but by studying him a little and practicing a little patience
you’ll escape a lot of worry.”
“Yes,” he assented eagerly. “You know he just pretends that I’m the
head of the plant; Fields is the real authority there. It’s not the
president but the vice-president who has the say about things. Father
consults Fields constantly. He doesn’t trust me--I’m just a figurehead.”
“Fields is such an ass,” remarked Constance with a shrug of her shapely
shoulders. “An utterly impossible person. Why not just let him do all
the explaining to your father? If any mistakes are made at the plant,
then it’s on him.”
“But that’s not the way of it,” Shepherd protested plaintively. “He
gets the praise; I get the blame.”
“Oh, well, you can’t make your father over. You ought to be glad you’re
not of his hard-boiled variety. You’re human, Sheppy, and that’s better
than being a magnificent iceberg.”
“Father doesn’t see things; he doesn’t realize that the world’s
changing,” Shepherd went on stubbornly. “He doesn’t see that the old
attitude toward labor won’t do any more.”
“He’ll never see it,” said Constance. “Things like that don’t hit him
at all. He’s like those silly people who didn’t know there was anything
wrong in France till their necks were in the guillotine.”
“I told you about that clubhouse I wanted to build for our people on
the Milton farm? I hate to give that up. It would mean so much to those
people. And he was all wrong in thinking it would injure the property.
I think it’s only decent to do something for them.”
“Well, how can you do it without your father?” she asked, shifting
herself for a better scrutiny of her head in the mirror.
“You know that little tract of land--about twenty acres, back of the
plant? I could buy that and put the clubhouse there. I have some stock
in the Rogers Trust Company I can sell--about two hundred shares. It
came to me through mother’s estate. Father has nothing to do with it.
The last quotation on it is two hundred. What do you think of that?”
“Well, I think pretty well of it,” said Constance. “Your father ought
to let you build the clubhouse, but he has a positive passion for
making people uncomfortable.”
“I suppose,” continued Shepherd dubiously, “if I go ahead and build the
thing--even with my own money--he would be angry. Of course there may
be something in his idea that if we do a thing of this kind it would
make the workmen at other plants restless----”
“Piffle!” exclaimed Constance. “That’s the regular old stock whimper of
the back-number. You might just as well say that it would be a forward
step other employers ought to follow!”
“Yes, there’s that!” he agreed, his eyes brightening at the suggestion.
“If you built the house on your own land the storage battery company
wouldn’t be responsible for it in any way.”
“Certainly not!” Shepherd was increasingly pleased that she saw it all
so clearly.
She had slipped on her gown and was instructing him as to the position
of the hooks.
“No; the other side, Shep. That’s right. There’s another bunch on the
left shoulder. Now you’ve got it! Thanks ever so much.”
He watched her admiringly as she paraded before the mirrors to make
sure that the skirt hung properly.
“If there’s to be a row----” he began as she opened a drawer and
selected a handkerchief.
“Let there be a row! My dear Shep, you’re always too afraid of
asserting yourself. What could he do? He might get you up to his
office and give you a bad quarter of an hour; but he’d respect you
more afterwards if you stood to your guns. His vanity and family pride
protect you. Catch him doing anything that might get him into the
newspapers--not Franklin Mills!”
Relieved and encouraged by her understanding and sympathy, he explained
more particularly the location of the property he proposed buying.
It was quite as convenient to the industrial colony that had grown
up about the storage battery plant as the Milton land his father had
declined to let him use. The land was bound to appreciate in value, he
said.
“What if it doesn’t!” exclaimed Constance with mild scorn. “You’ll have
been doing good with your money, anyhow.”
“You think, then, you’d go ahead--sell the stock and buy the land? It’s
so late now, maybe I’d better wait till spring?”
“That might be better, Shep, but use your own judgment. You asked your
father to help and he turned you down. Your going ahead will have a
good effect on him. He needs a jar. Now run along and dress. You’re
going to be late for dinner.”
“Yes, I know,” he said, rising and looking down at her as she sat
turning over the leaves of a book. “Connie----”
“Yes, Shep,” she murmured absently; and then, “Oh, by the way, Shep, I
was at Helen’s this afternoon.”
“Helen Torrence’s? What was it--a tea?”
“In a manner of speaking--tea! Dramatic Club business. George Whitford
was there--he’s concentrating on theatricals. George is such a dear!”
“One of the best fellows in the world!” said Shep.
“He certainly is!” Constance affirmed.
“Connie----” he stammered and took her hand. “Connie--you’re awfully
good to me. You know I love you----”
“Why, of course, you dear baby!” She lifted her head with a quick,
reassuring smile. “But for goodness’ sake run along and change your
clothes!”
V
When his guests had gone, Mills, as was his habit, smoked a cigar and
discussed the dinner with Leila. He was aware that in asking her to
join him on such occasions of state he was subjecting her to a trying
ordeal, and tonight he was particularly well pleased with her.
“They all enjoyed themselves, Dada; you needn’t worry about that
party!” Leila remarked, smoking the cigarette she had denied herself
while the guests remained.
“I think they did; thank you very much for helping me.”
Leila had charm; he was always proud of an opportunity to display her
to her mother’s old friends, whose names, like his own, carried weight
in local history. His son was a Shepherd; Leila, he persuaded himself,
was, with all her waywardness and little follies, more like himself.
Leila looked well at his table, and her dramatic sense made it possible
for her to act the rôle of the daughter of the house with the formality
that was dear to him. Whenever he entertained he and Leila received the
guests together, standing in front of Mrs. Mills’s portrait. People who
dared had laughed about this, speculating as to the probable fate of
the portrait in case Mills married again.
“I’d got nervous about you when you were so late coming,” Mills was
saying. “That’s how I came to be at the door. I’d just called Millicent
to see if you were over there.”
“Foolish Dada! Don’t I always turn up?” she asked, kicking off her
slippers. “I’d been fooling around all afternoon, and I hate getting
dressed and waiting for a party to begin.”
“I’ve noticed that,” Mills replied dryly. “Just what did you do all
day? Your doings are always a mystery to me.”
“Well--let me see--I went downtown with Millie this morning, and home
with her for lunch, and we talked a while and I ran out to the Burtons’
and there were some people there and we gassed; and then I remembered
I hadn’t seen Mrs. Torrence since she got home, so I took a dash up
there. And Connie was there, and Bud Henderson came up with Mr. Storrs
and we had tea and Mr. Storrs was coming this way so I let him drive me
home.”
This, uttered with smooth volubility, was hardly half the truth. She
lighted a fresh cigarette and blew a series of rings while waiting to
see whether he would crossexamine her, as he sometimes did.
“Constance was there, was she? Anyone else?”
“Fred Thomas and Georgy Whitford blew in just as I was leaving.”
“So? I shouldn’t have thought Mrs. Torrence would be interested in
them.”
“Oh, she isn’t!” replied Leila, who hadn’t intended to mention Thomas
or Whitford. “Connie was trying to talk Helen into taking a perfectly
marvelous part in a new play the Dramatic Club’s putting on soon, and
they are in it, too. Highbrow discussion; it bored me awfully--Mr.
Storrs and I managed to escape together. Oh, dear, I’m sleepy!”
“Does this Storrs go about among people you know?” Mills asked,
extending his arm to the ash tray.
“Oh, I think so, Dada! He was in college with Bud Henderson, you know,
and is in Mr. Freeman’s office. Dale’s crazy about him. You could
hardly say he’s pushing himself. Millie and I met him at the Faraway
Club--didn’t you meet him that same night? I asked him to call and he
hasn’t and he _has_ been to see Millie. I guess the joke’s on me!”
“I saw him again at the Hardens’,” Mills remarked carelessly. “And ran
into him afterwards when I was strolling around, and I brought him back
with me to get out of the storm. It was the night of the Claytons’
party.”
“Then you know as much about him as I do,” said Leila indifferently. “I
think, Dada, if you don’t mind, I’ll seek the hay.”
He stood to receive her good-night kiss. When he heard her door close
he took several turns across the room before resuming his cigar. He sat
down in the chair in which he had sat the night he brought Bruce into
the house. Magazines and books were within easy reach of his hand, but
he was not in a mood to read. He lifted his eyes occasionally to the
portrait of his father on the opposite wall. It might have seemed that
he tried to avoid it, averting his gaze to escape the frank, steady
eyes. But always the fine face drew him back. When he got up finally
and walked to the door it was with a hurried step as if the room or his
meditations had suddenly become intolerable.