"MR. WAYTHORN, I don't like that French governess of Lily's."
Haskett, subdued and apologetic, stood before Waythorn in the library,
revolving his shabby hat in his hand.
Waythorn, surprised in his armchair over the evening paper, stared back
perplexedly at his visitor.
"You'll excuse my asking to see you," Haskett continued. "But this is
my last visit, and I thought if I could have a word with you it would
be a better way than writing to Mrs. Waythorn's lawyer."
Waythorn rose uneasily. He did not like the French governess either;
but that was irrelevant.
"I am not so sure of that," he returned stiffly; "but since you wish it
I will give your message to--my wife." He always hesitated over the
possessive pronoun in addressing Haskett.
The latter sighed. "I don't know as that will help much. She didn't
like it when I spoke to her."
Waythorn turned red. "When did you see her?" he asked.
"Not since the first day I came to see Lily--right after she was taken
sick. I remarked to her then that I didn't like the governess."
Waythorn made no answer. He remembered distinctly that, after that
first visit, he had asked his wife if she had seen Haskett. She had
lied to him then, but she had respected his wishes since; and the
incident cast a curious light on her character. He was sure she would
not have seen Haskett that first day if she had divined that Waythorn
would object, and the fact that she did not divine it was almost as
disagreeable to the latter as the discovery that she had lied to him.
"I don't like the woman," Haskett was repeating with mild persistency.
"She ain't straight, Mr. Waythorn--she'll teach the child to be
underhand. I've noticed a change in Lily--she's too anxious to
please--and she don't always tell the truth. She used to be the
straightest child, Mr. Waythorn--" He broke off, his voice a little
thick. "Not but what I want her to have a stylish education," he ended.
Waythorn was touched. "I'm sorry, Mr. Haskett; but frankly, I don't
quite see what I can do."
Haskett hesitated. Then he laid his hat on the table, and advanced to
the hearth-rug, on which Waythorn was standing. There was nothing
aggressive in his manner; but he had the solemnity of a timid man
resolved on a decisive measure.
"There's just one thing you can do, Mr. Waythorn," he said. "You can
remind Mrs. Waythorn that, by the decree of the courts, I am entitled
to have a voice in Lily's bringing up." He paused, and went on more
deprecatingly: "I'm not the kind to talk about enforcing my rights, Mr.
Waythorn. I don't know as I think a man is entitled to rights he hasn't
known how to hold on to; but this business of the child is different.
I've never let go there--and I never mean to."
The scene left Waythorn deeply shaken. Shamefacedly, in indirect ways,
he had been finding out about Haskett; and all that he had learned was
favorable. The little man, in order to be near his daughter, had sold
out his share in a profitable business in Utica, and accepted a modest
clerkship in a New York manufacturing house. He boarded in a shabby
street and had few acquaintances. His passion for Lily filled his life.
Waythorn felt that this exploration of Haskett was like groping about
with a dark-lantern in his wife's past; but he saw now that there were
recesses his lantern had not explored. He had never inquired into the
exact circumstances of his wife's first matrimonial rupture. On the
surface all had been fair. It was she who had obtained the divorce, and
the court had given her the child. But Waythorn knew how many
ambiguities such a verdict might cover. The mere fact that Haskett
retained a right over his daughter implied an unsuspected compromise.
Waythorn was an idealist. He always refused to recognize unpleasant
contingencies till he found himself confronted with them, and then he
saw them followed by a special train of consequences. His next days
were thus haunted, and he determined to try to lay the ghosts by
conjuring them up in his wife's presence.
When he repeated Haskett's request a flame of anger passed over her
face; but she subdued it instantly and spoke with a slight quiver of
outraged motherhood.
"It is very ungentlemanly of him," she said.
The word grated on Waythorn. "That is neither here nor there. It's a
bare question of rights."