I come at last to Hugh's defiance of his father. It took place not only
without my incitement, but without my knowledge. No one could have been
more sick with misgiving than I when I learned that the boy had left his
father's house and gone to a hotel. If I was to blame at all it was in
mentioning from time to time his condition of dependence.
"You haven't the right to defy your father's wishes," I said to him. "so
long as you're living on his money. What it comes to is that he pays you
to do as he tells you. If you don't do as he tells you, you're not
earning your allowance honestly."
The point of view was new to him. "But if I was making a living of my
own?"
"Ah, that would be different."
"You'd marry me then?"
I considered this. "It would still have to depend," I was obliged to say
at last.
"Depend on what?"
"On the degree to which you made yourself your own master."
"I should be my own master if I earned a good income."
I admitted this.
"Very well," he declared, with decision. "I shall earn it."
I didn't question his power to do that. I had heard so much of the
American man's ability to make money that I took it for granted, as I
did a bird's capacity for flight. As far as Hugh was concerned, it
seemed to me more a matter of intention than of opportunity. I reasoned
that if he made up his mind to be independent, independent he would be.
It would rest with him. It was not of the future I was thinking so much
as of the present; and in the present I was chiefly dodging his plea
that we settle the matter by taking the law into our own hands.
"It won't be as bad as you think," he kept urging. "Father would be sure
to come round to you if you were my wife. He never quarrels with the
accomplished fact. That's been part of the secret of his success. He'll
fight a thing as long as he can; but when it's carried over his head no
one knows better than he how to make the best of it."
"But, Hugh, I don't want to have him make the best of it that way--at
least, so long as you're not your own master."
One day at the Casino he pointed out Libby Jaynes to me. I was there in
charge of the children, and he managed to slip over from the tennis he
was playing for a word:
"There she is--that girl with the orange-silk sweater."
The point of his remark was that Libby Jaynes was one of a group of half
a dozen people, and was apparently received at Newport like anybody
else. The men were in flannels; the women in the short skirts and easy
attitudes developed by a sporting life. The silk sweater in its
brilliant hues was to the Casino grounds as the parrot to Brazilian
woods. Libby Jaynes wasn't pretty; her lips were too widely parted and
her teeth too big; but her figure was adapted to the costume of the day,
and her head to the slouching panama. She wore both with a decided
_chic_. She was the orange spot where there was another of purple and
another of pink and another of bright emerald-green. As far as I could
see no one remembered that she had ever rubbed men's finger-nails in the
barber's room of a hotel, and she certainly betrayed no sign of it. It
was what Hugh begged me to observe. If I liked I could within a year be
a member of this privileged troop instead of an outsider looking on.
"You'd be just as good as she is," he declared with a naivete I couldn't
help taking with a smile.
I was about to say, "But I don't feel inferior to her as it is," when I
recalled the queer look of incredulity he had given me on the beach.
And then one morning I heard he had quarreled with his father. It was
Hugh who told me first, but Mrs. Rossiter gave me all the details within
an hour afterward.
It appeared that they had had a dinner-party in honor of old Mrs.
Billing which had gone off with some success. The guests having left,
the family had gathered in Mildred's sitting-room to give the invalid an
account of the entertainment. It was one of those domestic reunions on
which the household god insisted from time to time, so that his wife
should seem to have that support from his children which both he and she
knew she didn't have. The Jack Brokenshires were there, and Hugh, and
Ethel Rossiter.
It was exactly the scene for a tragi-comedy, and had the kind of setting
theatrical producers liked before the new scene-painters set the note of
allegorical simplicity. Mildred had the best corner room up-stairs,
though, like the rest of the house, her surroundings suffered from her
father's taste for the Italianate and over-rich. Heavy dark cabinets,
heavy dark chairs, gilt candelabra, and splendidly brocaded stuffs threw
the girl's wan face and weak figure into prominence. I think she often
sighed for pretty papers and cretonnes, for Sevres and colored prints,
but she took her tapestries and old masters and majolica as decreed by a
power she couldn't question. When everything was done for her comfort
the poor thing had nothing to do for herself.
The room had the further resemblance to a scene on the stage since, as I
was given to understand, no one felt the reality of the friendliness
enacted. To all J. Howard's children it was odious that he should
worship a woman who was younger than Mildred and very little older than
Ethel. They had loved their mother, who had been plain. They resented
the fact that their father had got hold of her money for himself, had
made her unhappy, and had forgotten her. That he should have become
infatuated with a girl who was their own contemporary would have been a
humiliation to them in any case; but when the story of his fight for her
became public property, when it was the joke of the Stock Exchange and
the subject of leading articles in the press, they could only hold their
heads high and carry the situation with bravado. It was a proof of his
grip on New York that he could put Editha Billing where he wished to see
her, and find no authority, social or financial, bold enough to question
him; it was equally a proof of his dominance in his family that neither
son nor daughter could treat his new wife with anything but deference.
She was the _maitresse en titre_ to whom even the princes and princesses
had to bow.
They were bowing on this evening by treating old Mrs. Billing as if they
liked her and counted her one of themselves. As the mother of the
favorite she could reasonably claim this homage, and no one refused it
but poor Hugh. He turned his back on it. Mildred being obliged to lie on
a couch, he put himself at her feet, refusing thus to be witness of what
he called a flattering hypocrisy that sickened him. That went on in the
dimly, richly lighted room behind him, where the others sat about,
pretending to be gay.
Then the match went into the gunpowder all at once.
"I'm the more glad the evening has been pleasant," J. Howard observed,
blandly, "since we may consider it a farewell to Hugh. He's sailing
on--"
Hugh merely said over his shoulder, "No, father; I'm not."
The startled silence was just long enough to be noticed before the
father went on, as if he had not been interrupted:
"He's sailing on--"
"No, father; I'm not."
There was no change in Hugh's tone any more than in his parent's. I
gathered from Mrs. Rossiter that all present held their breaths as if in
expectation that this blasphemer would be struck dead. Mentally they
stood off, too, like the chorus in an opera, to see the great tragedy
acted to the end without interference of their own. Jack Brokenshire,
who was fingering an extinct cigar, twiddled it nervously at his lips.
Pauline clasped her hands and leaned forward in excitement. Mrs.
Brokenshire affected to hear nothing and arranged her five rows of
pearls. Mrs. Billing, whom Mrs. Rossiter described as a condor with lace
on her head and diamonds round her shrunken neck, looked from one to
another through her lorgnette, which she fixed at last on her
son-in-law. Ethel Rossiter kept herself detached. Knowing that Hugh had
been riding for a fall, she expected him now to come his cropper.
It caused some surprise to the lookers-on that Mr. Brokenshire should
merely press the electric bell. "Tell Mr. Spellman to come here," he
said, quietly, to the footman who answered his ring.
Mr. Spellman appeared, a smooth-shaven man of indefinite age, with dark
shadows in the face, and cadaverous. His master instructed him with a
word or two. There was silence during the minute that followed the man's
withdrawal, a silence ominous with expectation. When Spellman had
returned and handed a long envelope to his employer and withdrawn again,
the suspended action was renewed.
Hugh, who was playing in seeming unconcern with the tassel of Mildred's
dressing-gown, had given no attention to the small drama going on behind
him.
"Hugh, here's father," Mildred whispered.
Her white face was drawn; she was fond of Hugh; she seemed to scent the
catastrophe. Hugh continued to play with the tassel without glancing
upward.
It was not J. Howard's practice to raise his voice or to speak with
emphasis except when the occasion demanded it. He was very gentle now as
his hand slipped over Hugh's shoulder.
"Hugh, here's your ticket and your letter of credit. I asked Spellman to
see to them when he was in New York."
The young man barely turned his head. "Thank you, father; but I don't
want them. I can't go over--because I'm going to marry Miss Adare."
As it was no time for the chorus of an opera to intervene, all waited
for what would happen next. Old Mrs. Billing, turning her lorgnette on
the rebellious boy, saw nothing but the back of his head. The father's
hand wavered for a minute over the son's shoulder and let the envelope
fall. Hugh continued to play with the tassel.
For once Howard Brokenshire was disconcerted. Having stepped back a pace
or two, he said in his quiet voice, "What did you say, Hugh?"
The answer was quite distinct. "I said I was going to marry Miss Adare."
"Who's that?"
"You know perfectly well, father. She's Ethel's nursery governess.
You've been to see her, and she's told you she's going to marry me."
"Oh, but I thought that was over and done with."
"No, you didn't, father. Please don't try to come that. I told you
nearly a fortnight ago that I was perfectly serious--and I am."
"Oh, are you? Well, so am I. The Goldboroughs are expecting you for the
twelfth--"
"The Goldboroughs can go to--"
"Hugh!" It was Mildred who cut him short with a cry that was almost a
petition.
"All right, Milly," he assured her under his breath. "I'm not going to
make a scene."
That J. Howard expected to become the principal in a duel, under the
eyes of excited witnesses, I do not think. If he had chosen to speak
when witnesses were present, it was because of his assumption that
Hugh's submission would be thus more easily secured. As it was his
policy never to enter into a conflict of authorities, or of will against
will, he was for the moment nonplussed. I have an idea he would have
retired gracefully, waiting for a more convenient opportunity, had it
not been for old Mrs. Billing's lorgnette.
It will, perhaps, not interrupt my narrative too much if I say here that
of all the important women he knew he was most afraid of her. She had
coached him when he was a beginner in life and she an established young
woman of the world. She must then have had a certain _beaute du diable_
and that nameless thing which men find exciting in women. I have been
told that she was an example of the modern Helen of Troy, over whom men
fight while she holds the stakes, and I can believe it. Her history was
said to be full of dramatic episodes, though I never knew what they
were. Even at sixty, which was the age at which I saw her, she had that
kind of presence which challenges and dares. She was ugly and hook-nosed
and withered; but she couldn't be overlooked. To me she suggested that
Madame Poisson who so carefully prepared her daughter to become the
Marquise de Pompadour. Stacy Grainger, I believe, was the Louis XV. of
her earlier plans, though, like a born strategist, she changed her
methods when reasons arose for doing so. I shall return to this later in
my story. At present I only want to say that I do not believe that Mr.
Brokenshire would have pushed things to an issue that night had her
lorgnette not been there to provoke him.
"Has it occurred to you, Hugh," he asked, in his softest tones, on
reaching a stand before the chimney which was filled with dwarfed potted
palms, "that I pay you an allowance of six thousand dollars a year?"
Hugh continued to play with the tassel of Mildred's gown. "Yes, father;
and as a Socialist I don't think it right. I've been coming to the
decision that--"
"You'll spare us your poses and let the Socialist nonsense drop. I
simply want to remind you--"
"I can't let the Socialist nonsense drop, father, because--"
The tartness of the tone betrayed a rising irritation.
"Be good enough to turn round this way. I don't understand what you're
saying. Perhaps you'll take a chair, and leave poor Mildred alone."
Mildred whispered: "Oh, Hugh, be careful. I'll do anything for you if
you won't get him worked up. It'll hurt his face--and his poor eye."
Hugh slouched--the word is Mrs. Rossiter's--to a nearby chair, where he
sat down in a hunched position, his hands in his trousers pockets and
his feet thrust out before him. The attitude was neither graceful nor
respectful to the company.
"It's no use talking, father," he declared, sulkily, "because I've said
my last word."
"Oh no, you haven't, for I haven't said my first."
In the tone in which Hugh cried out there must have been something of
the plea of a little boy before he is punished:
"Please don't give me any orders, father, because I sha'n't be able to
obey them."
"Hugh, your expression 'sha'n't be able to obey' is not in the
vocabulary with which I'm familiar."
"But it's in the one with which I am."
"Then you've probably learnt it from Ethel's little servant--I've
forgotten the name--"
Hugh spoke with spirit. "She's not a servant; and her name is Alexandra
Adare. Please, dad, try to fix it in your memory. You'll find you'll
have a lot of use for it."
"Don't be impertinent."
"I'm not impertinent. I'm stating a fact. I ask every one here to
remember that name--"
"We needn't bring any one else into this foolish business. It's between
you and me. Even so, I wish to have no argument."
"Nor I."
"Then in that case we understand each other. You'll be with the
Goldboroughs for the twelfth--"
Hugh spoke very distinctly: "Father--I'm--not--going."
In the silence that followed one could hear the ticking of the
mantelpiece clock.
"Then may I ask where you are going?"
Hugh raised himself from his sprawling attitude, holding his bulky young
figure erect. "I'm going to earn a living."
Some one, perhaps old Mrs. Billing, laughed. The father continued to
speak with great if dangerous courtesy.
"Ah? Indeed! That's interesting. And may I ask at what?"
"At what I can find."
"That's more interesting still. Earning a living in New York is like the
proverbial looking for the needle in the haystack. The needle is there,
but it takes--"
"Very good eyesight to detect it. All right, dad. I shall be on the
job."
"Good! And when do you propose to begin?"
It had not been Hugh's intention to begin at any time in particular,
but, thus challenged, he said, boldly, "To-morrow."
"That's excellent. But why put it off so long? I should think you'd
start out--to-night."
Mrs. Billing's "Ha-a!" subdued and prolonged, was like that tense
exclamation which the spectators utter at some exiting moment of a game.
It took no sides, but it did justice to a sporting situation. As Hugh
told me the story on the following day he confessed that more than any
other occurrence it put the next move "up to him." According to Ethel
Rossiter he lumbered heavily to his feet and crossed the room toward his
father. He began to speak as he neared the architectural chimneypiece,
merely throwing the words at J. Howard as he passed.
"All right, father. Since you wish it--"
"Oh no. My wishes are out of it. As you defy those I've expressed,
there's no more to be said."
Hugh paused in his walk, his hands in the pockets of his dinner-jacket,
and eyed his father obliquely. "I don't defy your wishes, dad. I only
claim the right, as a man of twenty-six, to live my own life. If you
wouldn't make yourself God--"
The handsome hand went up. "We'll not talk about that, if you please.
I'd no intention of discussing the matter any longer. I merely thought
that if I were in the situation in which you've placed yourself, I
should be--getting busy. Still, if you want to stay the night--"
"Oh, not in the least." Hugh was as nonchalant as he had the power to
make himself. "Thanks awfully, father, all the same." He looked round on
the circle where each of the chorus sat with an appropriate expression
of horror--that is, with the exception of the old lady Billing, who,
with her lorgnette still to her eyes, nodded approval of so much spirit.
"Good night, every one," Hugh continued, coolly, and made his way toward
the door.
He had nearly reached it when Mildred cried out: "Hugh! Hughie! You're
not going away like that!"
He retraced his steps to the couch, where he stooped, pressed his
sister's thin fingers, and kissed her. In doing so he was able to
whisper:
"Don't worry, Milly dear. Going to be all right. Shall be a man now. See
you soon again." Having raised himself, he nodded once more. "Good
night, every one."
Mrs. Rossiter said that he was so much like a young fellow going to his
execution that she couldn't respond by a word.
Hugh then marched up to his father and held out his hand. "Good night,
dad. We needn't have any ill-feeling even if we don't agree."
But the Great Dispenser didn't see him. An imposing figure standing with
his hands behind his back, he kept his fingers clasped. Looking through
his son as if he was no more than air, he remarked to the company in
general:
"I don't think I've ever seen Daisy Burke appear better than she did
to-night. She's usually so badly dressed." He turned with a little
deferential stoop to where Mrs. Brokenshire--whom Ethel Rossiter
described as a rigid, exquisite thing staring off into vacancy--sat on a
small upright chair. "What do you think, darling?"
Hugh could hear the family trying to rally to the hint that had thus
been given them, and doing their best to discuss the merits and demerits
of Daisy Burke, as he stood in the big, square hall outside, wondering
where he should seek shelter.