I
Brief notes from Leila announced the happy course of her honeymoon in
the New England hills. She wrote to her father as though there had
been nothing extraordinary in her flight. Mills’s mortification that
his daughter should have married over his protest was ameliorated by
the satisfaction derived from dealing magnanimously with her. The
Mills dignity required that she have a home in keeping with the family
status, and he would provide for this a sum equal to the amount he had
given Shep to establish himself. He avoided Shep and Connie--the latter
misguidedly bent upon trying to reconcile him to the idea that Leila
had not done so badly. He suspected that Connie, in her heart, was
laughing at him, rejoicing that Leila had beaten him.
He saw Millicent occasionally; but for all her tact and an evident
wish to be kind, he suspected that her friendliness merely expressed
her sympathy, and sympathy from any quarter was unbearable. He felt
age clutching at him; he questioned whether Millicent could ever
care for him; his dream of marrying again had been sheer folly. The
summer wore on monotonously. Mills showed himself at the country club
occasionally, usually at the behest of some of his old friends, and
several times he entertained at Deer Trail.
Shep and Connie were to dine with him in the town house one evening,
and when he had dressed he went, as he often did, into Leila’s room. He
sat down and idly drew the books from a rack on the table. One of them
was a slender volume of George Whitford’s poems, printed privately and
inscribed, “To Leila, from her friend, the author.” Mills had not heard
of the publication and he turned over the leaves with more curiosity
than he usually manifested in volumes of verse. Whitford’s lyrics were
chiefly in a romantic and sentimental vein. One of them, the longest
in the book, was called “The Flower of the World,” and above the title
Leila had scrawled “Connie.”
The lines were an ardent tribute to a lady whom the poet declared to be
his soul’s ideal. Certain phrases underscored by Leila’s impious pencil
were, when taken collectively, a very fair description of Constance.
Mills carried the book to the library for a more deliberate perusal.
If Leila knew that Constance was the subject of the verses, others
must know it. What his sister had said about Whitford’s devotion to
Constance was corroborated by the verses; and there had been that joint
appearance of Constance and Whitford in the dramatic club play--another
damning circumstance. Mills’s ire was aroused. He was standing in
the middle of the room searching for other passages that might be
interpreted as the author’s tribute to Constance when Shep entered.
“Good evening, father,” he said. “We’re a little early--I thought we
might take a minute to speak of those B. and F. bonds. You know----”
He paused as his father, without preliminary greeting, advanced toward
him with an angry gleam in his eyes.
“Look at that! Have you seen this thing?”
“Why, yes, I’ve seen it,” Shepherd answered, glancing at the
page. “It’s a little book of George’s; he gave copies to all his
friends--said nobody would ever buy it!”
“Gave copies to all his friends, did he? Do you see what Leila’s
written here and those marked lines? Do you realize what it means--that
it’s written to your wife?”
“That’s ridiculous, father,” Shep stammered. “It’s not written to
Connie any more than to any other young woman--a sort of ideal of
George’s, I suppose. Connie’s name written there is just a piece of
Leila’s nonsense.”
“How many people do you suppose thought the same thing? Don’t you know
that there’s been a good deal of unpleasant talk about Connie and
Whitford? There was that play they appeared in--written by Whitford!
I’ve heard about that! It caused a lot of talk, and you’ve stood by,
blind and deaf, and haven’t done a thing to stop it!”
“I can’t have you make such statements about Connie! There was nothing
wrong with that play--absolutely nothing! It was one of the finest
things the club ever had. As for George having Connie in mind when he
wrote that poem--why, that’s ridiculous! George is my friend as much
as Connie’s. Why, I haven’t a better friend in the world than George
Whitford!”
“You’re blind; you’re stupid!” Mills stormed. “How many people do you
suppose have laughed over that--laughed at you as a fool to let a man
make love to your wife in that open fashion? I tell you the thing’s
got to stop!”
“But, father,” said Shep, lowering his voice, “you wouldn’t insult
Connie. She’s downstairs and might easily hear you. You know, father,
Connie isn’t exactly well! Connie’s going--Connie’s going--to have a
baby! We’re very, very happy--about it----”
Shep, stammering as he blurted this out, had endeavored to invest the
announcement with the dignity it demanded.
“So there’s a child coming!” There was no mistaking the sneer in
Mills’s voice. “Your wife has a lover and she is to have a child!”
“You shan’t say such a thing!” cried Shep, his voice tremulous with
wrath and horror. “You’re crazy! It’s unworthy of you!”
“Oh, I’m sane enough. You ought to have seen this and stopped it long
ago. Now that you see it, I’d like to know what you’re going to do
about it!”
“But I don’t see it! There’s nothing to see! I tell you I’ll not listen
to such an infamous charge against Connie!”
“I’ll say what I please about Connie!” Mills shouted. “You
children--you and Leila--what have I got from you but disappointment
and shame? Leila runs away and marries a scoundrel out of the divorce
court and now your wife--a woman I tried to save you from--has smirched
us all with dishonor. I didn’t want you to marry her; I begged you not
to do it. But I yielded in the hope of making you happy. I wanted you
and Leila to take the place you’re entitled to in this town. Everything
was done for you! Look up there,” he went on hoarsely, pointing to the
portraits above the book shelves, “look at those men and women--your
forebears--people who laid the foundations of this town, and they
look down on you and what do they see? Failure! Disgrace! Nothing but
failure! And you stand here and pretend--pretend----”
Mills’s arm fell to his side and the sentence died on his lips.
Constance stood in the door; there were angry tears in her eyes and her
face was white as she advanced a little way into the room and paused
before Mills.
“I did not know how foul--how base you could be! You needn’t fear him,
Shep! Only a coward would have bawled such a thing for the servants
to hear--possibly the neighbors. You’ve called upon your ancestors,
Mr. Mills, to witness your shame and disgrace at having admitted
me into your sacred family circle! Shep, have you ever noticed the
resemblance--it’s really quite remarkable--of young Mr. Storrs to your
grandfather Mills? It’s most curious--rather impressive, in fact!”
She was gazing at the portrait of Franklin Mills III, with a
contemptuous smile on her lips.
“Connie, _Connie_----” Shep faltered.
“Storrs! What do you mean by that?” demanded Mills. His mouth hung
open; with his head thrust forward he gazed at the portrait as if he
had never seen it before.
“Nothing, of course,” she went on slowly, giving every effect to
her words. “But when you spent some time in that town with the
singular name--Laconia, wasn’t it?--you were young and probably quite
fascinating--Storrs came from there--an interesting--a wholly admirable
young man!”
“Connie--I don’t get what you’re driving at!” Shep exclaimed, his eyes
fastened upon his grandfather’s portrait.
“Constance is merely trying to be insolent,” Mills said, but his hand
shook as he took a cigarette from a box and lighted it. When he looked
up he was disconcerted to find Shep regarding him with a blank stare.
Constance, already at the door, said quietly:
“Come, Shep. I think we must be going.”
The silence of the house was broken in a moment by the closing of the
front door.