"Oh, I can't understand!" Her pleading was almost passionate, but still
low and sweet. "I want so much to go on with my lessons with the other
girls. And I want to go out here with all the girls I know."
"We will have them at Winetka. And Stuyvesant Wheelright--you liked him
last summer."
The girl colored deeply. "I don't want him in the house. I had rather
go away. I'll go to Vassar with Mary Archer. You needn't hunt up any
man for me."
"Pray, do you think I would tolerate a college woman in my house? It's
well enough for school-teachers. And what does your painting amount to?
You will paint sufficiently well, I dare say, to sell a few daubs, and
so take the bread and butter from some poor girl. But I am afraid, my
dear, we couldn't admit your pictures to the gallery."
The girl's eyes grew tearful at this tart disdain. "I love it, and papa
has money enough to let me paint 'daubs' as long as I like. Please,
please let me go on with it!"
* * * * *
That afternoon the little caravan started for the deserted summer home
at Winetka, on a high bluff above the sandy lake-shore. It had been
bought years before, when not even the richest citizens dreamed of
going East for the summer. Of late it had been used only rarely, in the
autumn or late spring, or as a retreat in which to rusticate the boys
with their tutor. When filled with a large house-party, it made a jolly
place, though not magnificent enough for the developed hospitalities of
Mrs. Stuart.
Old Stuart came home to an empty palace. He had not believed that his
reserved wife would take such high measures, and he felt miserably
lonely after the usual round of elaborate dinners to which he had grown
grumblingly accustomed. His one senile passion was his pride in her,
and he was avaricious of the lost days while she was absent from her
usual victorious post as the mistress of that great house. The next day
his heart sank still lower, for he saw in the Sunday papers a little
paragraph to the effect that Mrs. Stuart had invited a brilliant
house-party to her autumn home in Winetka, and that it was rumored she
and her lovely young daughter would spend the winter in London with
their relatives. It made the old man angry, for he could see with what
deliberation she had planned for a long campaign. Even the comforts of
his club were denied him; everyone knew him and everyone smiled at the
little domestic disturbance. So he asked his secretary, young Spencer,
to make his home for the present in the sprawling, brand-new "palace"
that frowned out on the South Boulevard. Young Spencer accepted, out of
pity for the old man; for he wasn't a toady and he knew his own worth.
People did talk in the clubs and elsewhere about the divided
establishments. It would have been worse had the division come earlier,
as had been predicted often enough, or had Mrs. Stuart ever given in
her younger days a handle for any gossip. But her conduct had been so
frigidly correct that it stood in good service at this crisis. She
would not have permitted a scandal. That also was in the contract.
Of course there was communication between the two camps, the gay
polo-playing, dinner-giving household on the bluff, and the forlorn,
tottering old man with his one aide-de-camp, the blithe young
secretary. Now and then the sons would turn up at the offices
down-town, amiably expectant of large checks. Stuart grimly referred
them to their mother. He had some vague idea of starving the opposition
out, but his wife's funds were large and her credit, as long as there
should be no recognized rupture, perfect.
The daughter, Edith, frequently established connections. In some way
she had got permission to take her lessons at the Art Institute. Her
mother's open contempt for her aesthetic impulses had ruined her
illusion about her ability, for Mrs. Stuart knew her ground in
painting. But she still loved the atmosphere of the great studio-room
at the Art Institute. She liked the poor girls and the Western
bohemianism and the queer dresses, and above all she liked to linger
over her own little easel, undisturbed by the creative flurry around,
dreaming of woods and soft English gardens and happy hours along a
river where the water went gently, tenderly, on to the sea. And her
sweet eyes, large and black like her mother's, but softer and gentler,
to go with her low voice, would moisten a bit from the dream. "So
nice," he would murmur to her picture, "to sit here and think of the
quiet and rest, such as good pictures always paint. I'd like not to go
back with Thomas to the train--to Winetka where they play polo and
dress up and dance and flirt, but to sail away over the sea----"
Then her eyes would see in the purplish light of her picture a certain
face that meant another life. She would blush to herself, and her voice
would stop. For she couldn't think aloud about him.
Some days, when the murky twilight came on early, she would steal away
altogether from the gay party in Winetka and spend the night with her
lonely father. They would have a queer, stately dinner for three served
in the grand dining-room by the English butler and footman. Stuart
never had much to say to her; she wasn't his "smart," queenly wife who
brought all people to her feet. When he came to his cigar and his
whiskey, she would take young Spencer to the gallery, where they
discussed the new French pictures, very knowingly, Spencer thought. She
would describe for him the intricacies of a color-scheme of some tender
Diaz, and that would lead them into the leafy woods about Barbizon and
other realms of sentiment.
When they returned to the library she would feel that there were
compensations for this dreary separation at Winetka and that her
enormous home had never been so nice and comfortable before. As she
bade the two men good-night, her father would come to the door, rubbing
his eyes and forlorn over his great loss, and to her murmured
"Good-night" he would sigh, "so like her mother." "Quite the softest
voice in the world," thought Spencer.
Once in her old little tower room that she still preferred to keep,
covered with her various attempts at sea, and sky, and forest, she was
blissfully conscious of independence, so far from Stuyvesant Wheelright
and his mother--quite an ugly old dame with no better manners than the
plain Chicago people (who despised them all as "pork-packers" and
"shop-keepers," nevertheless).
On one of these visits late in October, Edith had found her father
ailing from a cold. He asked her, shamefacedly, to tell her mother that
"he was very bad." Mrs. Stuart, leaving the house-party in full go,
started at once for the town-house. Old Stuart had purposely stayed at
home on the chances that his wife would relent. When she came in, she
found him lying in the same morning-room, where hostilities had begun
three months before. He grew confused, like an erring school-boy, as
his wife kissed him and asked after his health in a neutral sort of
way. He made out that he was threatened with a complication of diseases
that might finally end him.
"Well, what can I do for you now," Mrs. Stuart said, with business-like
directness.
"Spencer's looking after things pretty much. He's honest and faithful,
but he ain't got any head like yours, Beatty, and times are awful hard.
People won't pay rents, and I don't dare to throw 'em out. Stores and
houses would lie empty these days. Then there's the North Shore
Electric--I was a fool to go in so heavy the Fair year and tie up all
my money. I s'pose you know the bonds ain't reached fifty this fall.
I'm not so tremendously wealthy as folks think."
Mrs. Stuart exactly comprehended this sly speech; she knew also that
there was some truth in it.
"Say, Beatty, it's so nice to have you here!" The old man raised
himself and capered about like a gouty old house-dog.
He made the most of his illness, for he suspected that it was a
condition of truce, not a bond of peace. While he was in bed Mrs.
Stuart drove to the city each day and, with Spencer's help, conducted
business for long hours. She had had experience in managing large
charities; she knew people, and when a tenant could pay, with a little
effort, he found Madam more pitiless than the old shop-keeper. Every
afternoon she would take her stenographer to Stuart's room and consult
with him.
"Ain't she a wonder?" the old man would exclaim to Spencer, in new
admiration for his wife. And Spencer, watching the stately,
authoritative woman day after day as she worked quickly, exactly, with
the repose and dignity of a perfect machine, shivered back an unwilling
assent.
"She's marvellous!"
All accidents played into the hands of this masterful woman. Her own
presence in town kept her daughter at Winetka _en evidence_ for
Stuyvesant Wheelright and Mrs. Wheelright. For Mrs. Stuart had
determined upon him as, on the whole, the most likely arrangement that
she could make. He was American, but of the best, and Mrs. Stuart was
wise enough to prefer the domestic aristocracy. So to her mind affairs
were not going badly. The truce would conclude ultimately in a senile
capitulation; meantime, she could advance money for the household in
London.
When Stuart had been nursed back into comparative activity, the grand
dinners began once more--a convenient rebuttal for all gossip. The
usual lists of distinguished strangers, wandering English story-tellers
in search of material for a new "shilling shocker," artists suing to
paint her or "Mademoiselle l'Inconnue," crept from time to time into
the genial social column of the newspaper.
Stuart spent the evenings in state on a couch at the head of the
drawing-room, where he usually remained until the guests departed. In
this way he got a few words with his wife before she sent him to bed.
One night his enthusiasm over her bubbled out.
"You're a great woman, Beatty!" She looked a little pale, but otherwise
unworn by her laborious month. It was not blood that fed those even
pulses.
"You will not need my help now. You can see to your business yourself,"
she remarked.
"Say, Beatty, you won't leave me again, will you!" he quavered,
beseechingly. "I need you these last years; 'twon't be for long."
"Oh, you are strong and quite well again," she asserted, not unkindly.
"Will a hundred thousand do?" he pleaded. "Times are bad and ready
money is scarce, as you know."
"Sell the electric bonds," she replied, sitting down, as if to settle
the matter.
"Sell them bonds at fifty?" The old shop-keeper grew red in the face.
"What's that!" she remarked, disdainfully. "What have I given?" Her
husband said nothing. "As I told you when we first talked the matter
over, I have done my part to the exact letter of the law. You admit I
have been a good and faithful wife, don't you? You know," a note of
passion crept into her colorless voice, "You know that there hasn't
been a suggestion of scandal with our home. I married you, young,
beautiful, admired; I am handsome now." She drew herself up
disdainfully. "I have not wanted for opportunity, I think you might
know; but not one man in all the world can boast I have dropped an
eyelash for his words. Not one syllable of favor have I given any man
but you. Am I not right?"
Stuart nodded.
"Then what do you haggle for over a few dollars? Have I ever given you
reason to repent our arrangement? Have I not helped you in business, in
social matters put you where you never could go by yourself? And do you
think my price is high?"
"Money is so scarce," Stuart protested, feebly.
"Suppose it left you only half a million, all told! What's that, in
comparison to what I have given? Think of that. I don't complain, but
you know we women estimate things differently. And when we sell
ourselves, we name the price; and it matters little how big it is,"
Her scorn pierced the old man's somewhat leathery sensibilities.
"Well, if it's a question of price, when is it going to end--when shall
I have paid up? Next year you'll want half a million hard cash."
"There is no end."
The next morning, Mrs. Stuart returned to Winetka; the rupture
threatened to prolong itself indefinitely. Stuart found it hard to give
in completely, and it made him sore to think that their marriage had
remained a business matter for over twenty years. And yet it was hard
to face death without all the satisfaction money could buy him. The
crisis came, however, in an unexpected manner.
One morning Stuart found his daughter waiting for him at his office.
She had slipped away from Winetka, and taken an early train.
"What's up, Ede?"
"Oh, papa!" the young girl gasped "They make me so unhappy, every day,
and I can't stand it. Mamma wants me to marry Stuyvesant Wheelright,
and he's there all the time."
"Who's he?" Stuart asked, sharply. His daughter explained briefly.
"He is what mamma calls 'eligible'; he is a great swell in New York,
and I don't like him. Oh, papa, I can't be a _grande dame_, like mamma,
can I? Won't you tell her so, papa? Make up with her; pay her the money
she wants for Aunt Helen, and then perhaps she'll let me paint."
"No, you're not the figure your mother is, and never will be," Stuart
said, almost slightingly. "I don't think, Ede, you'll ever make a great
lady like her."
"I don't think she is very happy," the girl bridled, in her own defence.
"Well, perhaps not, perhaps not. But who do you want to marry, anyway?
You had better marry someone, Ede, 'fore I die."
"I don't know--that is, it doesn't matter much just now. I should like
to go to California, perhaps, with the Stearns girls. I want to paint,
just daubs, you know--I can't do any better. But you tell mamma I can't
be a great swell. I shouldn't be happy, either."'
The old man resolved to yield. That very afternoon he drove out to
Winetka along the lake shore. He had himself gotten up in his stiffest
best. He held the reins high and tight, his body erect in the approved
form; while now and then he glanced back to see if the footmen were as
rigid as my lady demanded. For Mrs. Stuart loved good form, and he felt
nervously apprehensive, as if he were again suing for her maiden
favors. He was conscious, too, that he had little enough to offer
her--the last months had brought humility. Beside him young Spencer
lolled, enjoying, with a free heart, his day off in the gentle,
spring-like air. Perhaps he divined that his lady would not need so
much propitiation.
They surprised a party just setting forth from the Winetka house as
they drove up with a final flourish. Their unexpected arrival scattered
the guests into little, curious groups; everyone anticipated immediate
dissolution. They speculated on the terms, and the opinion prevailed
that Stuart's expedition from town indicated complete surrender.
Meanwhile Stuart asked for an immediate audience, and husband and wife
went up at once to Mrs. Stuart's little library facing out over the
bluff that descended to the lake.
"Well, Beatty," old Stuart cried, without preliminary effort, "I just
can't live without you--that's the whole of it." She smiled. "I ain't
much longer to live, and then you're to have it all. So why shouldn't
you take what you want now?" He drew out several checks from his
pocket-book.
"You can cable your folks at once and go ahead. You've been the best
sort of wife, as you said, and--I guess I owe you more'n I've paid for
your puttin' up with an old fellow like me all these years."
Mrs. Stuart had a new sensation of pity for his pathetic surrender.
"There's one thing, Beatty," he continued, "so long as I live you'll
own I oughter rule in my own house, manage the boys, and that." Mrs.
Stuart nodded. "Now I want you to come back with me and break up this
party."
Mrs. Stuart took the checks.
"You've made it a bargain, Beatty. You said I was to pay your family
what you wanted, and you were to obey me at that price?"
"Well," replied Mrs. Stuart, good-humoredly. "We'll all go up
to-morrow. Isn't that early enough?"
"That ain't all, Beatty. You can't make everybody over; you couldn't
brush me up much; you can't make a grand lady out of Edith."
Mrs. Stuart looked up inquiringly.
"Now you've had your way about your family, and I want you to let Ede
alone."
"Why?"
"She doesn't want that Wheelright fellow, and if you think it over
you'll see that she couldn't do as you have. She ain't the sort."
Mrs. Stuart twitched at the checks nervously.
"I sort of think Spencer wants her; in fact, he said so coming out
here."
"Impertinent puppy!"
"And I told him he could have her, if she wanted him. I don't think I
should like to see another woman of mine live the sort of life you have
with me. It's hard on 'em." His voice quivered.
Beatrice, Lady Stuart of Winetka, as they called her, stood silently
looking out to the lake, reviewing "the sort of life she had lived"
from the time she had made up her mind to take the shop-keeper's
millions to this moment of concession. It was a grim panorama, and she
realized now that it had not meant complete satisfaction to either
party. Her twenty or more frozen years made her uncomfortable. While
they waited, young Spencer and Miss Stuart came slowly up the terraced
bluff.
"Well, John," Mrs. Stuart smiled kindly. "I think this is the last
payment,--in full. Let's go down to congratulate them."
CHICAGO, March, 1895.