CHAPTER I._Mr. Wayt's Wife's Sister

MR. WAYT’S WIFE’S SISTER

MARION HARLAND

(_Mary Virginia Terhune_)

AUTHOR OF “JUDITH,” “WITH THE BEST INTENTIONS,” “HANDICAPPED,”

“LOITERINGS IN PLEASANT PATHS,” “COMMON SENSE IN

THE HOUSEHOLD,” ETC., ETC.

NEW YORK

THE CASSELL PUBLISHING CO.

31 EAST 17TH ST. (UNION SQUARE)

THE CASSELL PUBLISHING CO.

_All rights reserved._

THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS,

RAHWAY, N. J.

CONTENTS

PAGE

MR. WAYT’S WIFE’S SISTER, 1

A SOCIAL SUCCESS, 203

THE ARTICLES OF SEPARATION, 251

MR. WAYT’S WIFE’S SISTER.

CHAPTER I.

ONE breezy May day, such a little while ago that it is hardly safe to

name the year, a New Jersey ferry “car-boat” was so far behind her time

that the 12.30 train for Fairhill left without waiting for her.

Ignorant, or incredulous of the untoward happening, the passengers

rushed for and through the station to find egress discouraged by

the impassive official whose stentorian tones were roaring through

the building the name and stopping places of the next train. Among

the foremost in the pell-mell run was a hazel-eyed young man with a

gripsack in his hand, and the olive bronze of a sea voyage upon a very

good-looking face. He was always persuaded that he could have eluded

the great-voiced doorkeeper and boarded the last platform of the

moving cars, had he not run afoul of a wheeled chair midway between

the seats and inconveniently set radiators in the waiting room, and

narrowly escaped a “header.” He did not actually fall; neither did he

overset the vehicle. Avoiding both calamities by vaulting the dashboard

and front wheels, he yet dropped his hat and valise in different

directions, and brought up at an obtuse angle by catching at one of the

marble-topped radiators. The first use he made of his hat, which was

picked up by a smiling bystander, was to lift it to a woman who was

propelling what he had mistaken for a baby’s perambulator.

“I beg your pardon, I am sure!” he said, in manly fashion. “I hope

the”—he was about to say “baby,” but changed the phraseology just in

time—“that nobody was hurt!”

A glimpse of the occupant of the chair had showed him a wan face too

old for a child’s, too small for that of a grown person. Before the

woman addressed could reply, elfish accents, husky and precise, said,

“Not at all—thank you!” and there was a cackle of shrill, feeble

laughter.

The young fellow had lost the train that should have returned him in

forty minutes to the family he had not seen in six months; he was just

off shipboard, and felt the need of a bath and toilet upon steady

ground, with plenty of elbow room. He had come near having a bad fall,

and had not missed making a ludicrous spectacle of himself for the

entertainment of a gaping crowd. But he laughed in a jolly, gentlemanly

way, and again raising his hat passed on without a second glance at

the mute personage who had pushed the wagon directly across his track.

Like the rest of the disappointed wayfarers he walked quite up to the

outlet of the station, and peered anxiously through at the empty rails,

still vibrating from the wheels of the vanishing train, yet he neither

frowned nor swore. He did not even ask: “When does the next train go

to Fairhill?” The time-table in his pocket and that upon the wall,

set at “2 P. M.,” told him all and more than he wanted to know. The

excitement and suspense over, his inner man became importunate. He had

had an early breakfast on the _City of Rome_, and was far hungrier now

than then. Doubling upon his tracks, he repaired to the restaurant in

the same building with the vast waiting room and offices. The place was

clean, and full of odors that, for a wonder, were fresh and savory,

instead of hanging on the air and clinging to the walls like a viewless

“In Memoriam” of an innumerable caravan of dead-and-gone feasts. The

_menu_ was promising to an unsated appetite, and having given his

order to a waiter the even-tempered customer sat back in his chair and

surveyed the scene with the air of one whose mind was, as the hymnist

aptly puts it, “at leisure from itself.”

This lack of self-consciousness underlay much that made March

Gilchrist popular in his set. He was a clever artist, and wrought

hard and well at his profession, although he had a rich father. His

position in society was assured, his physique fine, and education

excellent—advantages fully appreciated by most of the men, and

all the women he knew. If he recognized their value he was an

adroit dissembler. Simple and frank in manner, he met his world

with outstretched hand. When the hand was not taken he laughed in

good-humored astonishment, went about his business, and forgot the

churl. His schoolmates used to say that it did not pay to quarrel with

him; his parents, that he and his sister May should exchange names.

That his amiability was not the result of a phlegmatic temperament

was apparent in the quick brightness of the eyes that roved about

the dining room, leaving out nothing—from the lunch counter in the

adjoining room, set with long ranks of salvers with globular glass

covers that gave the array the expression of a chemist’s laboratory, to

the whirligig fans that revolved just below the ceiling with the dual

mission of cooling the atmosphere and chasing away flies. Our returned

traveler seemed to find these harbingers of summer weather and summer

pests amusing. He was watching them when a voice behind him accosted a

hurrying waiter.

“There is a young girl over there who cannot walk. Will you lift her

out of her chair and bring her in? It is just at the door, and she is

very light.”

“Busy now, miss! Better ask somebody else!” pushing past.

The baffled applicant stood in the middle of the floor, irresolute,

seeming the more solitary and helpless because young and a woman. Thus

much, and not that she was comely and a lady, March saw before he

sprang to his feet and faced her respectfully.

“I beg pardon! but can I be of use? It will give me pleasure if you

will allow me.” Catching sight in the doorway of the one in whose

behalf she had spoken, an arch smile—respectful still—lighted up his

honest countenance. “If you will let me make amends for my awkwardness

of a while ago!”

He was a society man, and might have been aware how unconventional was

the offer. He palliated the solecism, in describing the incident at

home, by saying that he saw in every elderly woman his mother, in a

young one, his only sister.

“Thank you! if you will be so kind”—accepting the proposal as simply as

it had been made. “I could bring her in myself, but she does not like

to have me do it here.”

“I should think not, indeed! One of the best uses to which a man’s

muscles can be put is to help the weak,” rejoined March heartily.

A gleam crossed the unchildish visage of the cripple when he stooped

to lift her. She recognized him, but offered no verbal remark then, or

when he deposited the light burden in the chair set for her by a waiter

more humane, or less driven than his testy comrade.

“You are very good, and we are much obliged to you,” the guardian said,

with a little bow of acknowledgment which he took as dismissal also,

withdrawing to his own place.

“Set the table for seven, please,” he heard her continue to the

waiter, businesslike and quiet, “and reserve another seat at that

table”—designating one remote from the larger—“for a gentleman who

will come in by and by. There is a man, too, for whom I wish to order

luncheon at the counter in that room. He can get a good meal and be

comfortable there, I suppose?”

“A traveling party of nine!” thought March, apparently intent upon

the depths of his soup tureen. “With this girl as courier. Yet she

mentioned two men!”

The family filed in while he speculated. Twin boys of twelve or

thirteen, dressed exactly alike in gray jackets and knickerbockers,

except that the red-haired one wore a blue necktie and the brown-haired

a scarlet; a pretty, blue-eyed girl of eight, and a toddler of two, led

by a sweet-faced mother, with fair hair and faintly tinted complexion,

of the china shepherdess school. The “courier,” assisted by the

waiter, seated them all without bustle, before addressing an individual

who had followed at a respectful distance and now hung aloof, chewing

the brim of a brand-new straw hat.

“Homer!” said the young lady gently and distinctly, as she might direct

a child, “you will get your dinner in the next room. Come!”

By shifting his position slightly, March could see her point the man

to a stool and give orders for his refreshment. He was undersized,

lean, and sandy haired, small of feature and loutish in carriage. His

eyes had red rims, and blinked incessantly, as if excessively weak

or purblind. When he began operations upon coffee and sandwiches,

he gobbled voraciously, gnawing off mouthfuls like a greedy dog.

His clothes were so distressingly ready-made, and accentuated his

uncouthness so unmercifully, as to leave no doubt that the wearing of

coat and vest was a novelty and an equivocal boon.

“An odd fish!” commented March mentally. “Why should a civilized family

haul him after them like a badly made kite tail? And they are not

vulgarians, either!”

His eyes strayed discreetly back to the table set for seven. The

mistress of ceremonies sat at the head, and was studying the printed

_menu_. It lay flat on the cloth that the crippled girl at her right

might read it with her. Their heads were close together, and the

gravity upon the countenance of the elder was reflected by the shrewd

elfin face. Presently they began to whisper, the bare, thin finger

of the younger of the two tracing the lines to the extreme right of

the _carte_. It was plainly a question of comparative expense, March

perceived with a pang of his kind heart. For he had been a boy himself,

and the children were hungry.

“Hurry up—won’t you, Hetty,” called the redheaded twin impatiently.

“Give us the first thing you come to so long as it isn’t corned beef,

pork and beans, or rice pudding. I’m _starved!_”

“Me, too!” echoed his fellow.

“You needn’t make mincemeat of your English on that account!” piped the

crippled sister tartly. “It is no little matter to order just the right

things for such a host. Mamma, you must have a cup of tea, I suppose?”

The young lady interposed, writing while she talked:

“Of course! And all of us will be the better for some good, hot soup.

This is luncheon, not dinner, recollect. We only need something to stay

our appetites until six o’clock,” she added, putting the paper in the

waiter’s hand.

She did not look like one who did things for effect, yet there was

meaning in her manner of saying it. If she was obliged to cut her coat

according to her cloth, she would just now make the scantiness of the

pattern seem a matter of choice and carry out the seaming gallantly.

“How much further have we to go?” queried eight-year-old, somewhat

ruefully.

Six o’clock was to her apprehension a long time ahead.

“We are within half an hour of home. We might have been there by now,

but we thought it better to wait over a train to rest and get rid of

the dust we brought off the cars.”

“And to let _him_ get shaved and barbered and prinked up generally!”

shrilled the cripple malevolently.

“Hester!” The mother’s voice was heard for the first time.

“Well, mamma?”

“That is not respectful, my love. You are tired, I am afraid.”

The shrewd face jerked fretfully, and the lips were opened for a

retort, checked by a gloved hand laid upon the forward child’s. There

was only a murmur, accompanied by a pettish shrug.

March was ashamed of the impulse that made him steal a look at the tray

bearing the result of the whispered consultation. Three tureens, each

containing two generous portions of excellent English gravy soup with

barley in it, a pot of tea, bread and milk for the baby and plenty of

bread and butter were duly deposited upon the board.

“I’ll take the rest of your order now,” said the waiter, civilly

suggestive.

“This is all. Thank you!” in a matter-of-course tone that was not

resentfully positive.

The “courier” understood herself, and having taken ground, how to hold

it. This was luncheon. March caught himself speculating as to the

dinner bill of fare.

The spokeswoman may have been two-and-twenty. She was slightly above

the middle height of healthy womanhood, had gray, serious eyes, with

brown shadows in them when the lids drooped; well-formed lips that

curled roguishly at the corners in smiling; a straight nose with mobile

nostrils, and a firm chin. There was character in plenty in the face.

Such free air and sunshine as falls into most girls’ lives might have

made it beautiful. The pose of her head, the habitual gravity of eyes

and mouth, the very carriage of the shoulders and her gait testified

to the untimely sense of responsibility borne by this one. She was

slight and straight; her gown of fawn-colored cloth fitted well, and a

toque of the same material with no trimming, except a knot of velvet

ribbon, was becoming; yet March, who designed his sister’s costumes,

was quite certain that gown and hat were homemade and the product of

the wearer’s skill. Both women were unmistakably gentle in breeding,

and the children’s chatter, although sometimes pert, was not rude or

boisterous.

A man entered by the side door while the chatter was stilling under

the supreme attraction of the savory luncheon, and, after a word to a

waiter, took the chair which had been tilted, face downward, against

the far table at the “courier’s” order. He was tall, and had an

aquiline, intellectual cast of countenance. His hands—the artist had

an appreciative eye for hands and fingers—were a student’s; his linen

was irreproachable; his chin and cheeks were blue-shaven, and his black

hair was cut straight across at the back, just clearing the collar of

his coat, instead of being shingled.

“A clergyman!” deduced Gilchrist, from the latter peculiarity.

“That—not the white choker—is the trade-mark of the profession. Did

barber or preacher establish the fashion?”

After inspection of the _menu_, the newcomer ordered a repast which was

sumptuous when compared with the frugal one course of the seven seated

at the table in the middle of the room. He took no notice of them nor

they of him. His mien was studiously abstracted. While waiting for

his food he drew a small blotting pad from his pocket and wrote upon

it with a stylographic pen, his profile keener as his work went on.

In pausing to collect thoughts or choose words the inclination of his

eyes was upward. After his entrance profound silence settled upon the

central table. Not even the baby prattled. This singular taciturnity

took on significance to the alert wits of the unsuspected observer

when he saw a swift interchange of looks between the cripple and her

left-hand neighbor, attended by a grimace of such bitter disdain

directed by the junior of the pair at the student as fairly startled

the artist.

The unconscious object of the shaft put up paper and pen, and

addressed himself with deliberate dignity, upon the arrival of his

raw oysters, to the lower task of filling the material part of him.

He was discussing a juicy square of porterhouse steak, as March bowed

respectfully on his way out to the girl at the head of the board, a

smile in his pleasant eyes being especially intended for the dwarfed

cripple beside her.

Homer had bolted the last fragment of a huge segment of custard pie,

washed down the crust with a second jorum of coffee, and sat, satiate

and sheepish, upon the tall stool, awaiting orders.

“The most extraordinary combinery, taken in all its parts, it was ever

my luck to behold,” declared March Gilchrist at his father’s dinner

table that evening. “Intensely American throughout, though. I wish I

knew whether or not the man who appropriated the reserved seat was a

usurper. If he were, that spirited little economist of a courier was

quite capable of dispossessing him, or, at least, of calling the waiter

to account for neglect of duty. And what relation did blind Homer bear

to the party?”

“Dear old March!” said his sister affectionately. “Story weaving in the

old fashion! How natural it sounds! What jolly times you and I have

had over our amateur romances and make believes! Which reminds me of

a remarkable sermon preached Sunday before last by our new pastor. (I

told you we had one, didn’t I?) The text was: ‘Six waterpots of stone,

containing two or three firkins apiece!’”

“Absurd!”

“True; but listen! The text was only a hook from which he hung an

eloquent discourse upon the power of faith to make wine—‘old and mellow

and flavorous,’ _he_ called it—out of what to grosser souls seems

insipid water. It was a plea for the pleasures of imagination—_alias_

faith—and elevated our favorite amusement into a fine art, and the fine

art into religion. I came home feeling like a spiritual chameleon,

fully convinced that rarefied air is the rightful sustenance of an

immortal being. According to our Mr. Wayt, what you haven’t got is the

only thing you ought to be sure of. Life is a sort of ‘Now you see it

and now you don’t see it’ business throughout. Only, when you don’t see

it you are richer and happier than when you do. Did you ever think to

hear me babble metaphysics? Now, where are those portfolios?”

“Make believe that you have overhauled them, and be blest,” retorted

her brother. “There’s a chance to practice your metaphysical cant—with

a new, deep meaning in it, too, which you will detect when you inspect

my daubs. I did some fairish things in Norway, however, which may prove

that your rule has an exception.”

The Gilchrists freely acknowledged themselves to be what the son and

daughter styled “a mutual admiration square.” March’s portfolios were

not the only engrossing subject that drew them together in the library,

where coffee and cigars were served.

May and her father turned over sketches and examined finished pictures

at the table, passing them afterward to the mother, who was a fixture

in her easy-chair by reason of a head, covered with crisp chestnut

curls, lying upon her lap. May was her companion and co-laborer,

dutiful and beloved, despite the impetuosity of mood and temper which

seemed inharmonious with the calmer nature of the matron. The mother’s

idol was the long-limbed fellow who, stretched upon the tiger-skin

rug, one arm cast about her waist, submitted to her mute fondling with

grace as cheerful as that with which she endured the scent of the cigar

she would not let him resign when he threw himself into his accustomed

place. She was a good wife, but she never pretended to like the odor

of the judge’s best weed. March’s cigars, she confessed, were “really

delightful.” Perhaps she recognized in his affluent, joyous nature

something hers lacked and had craved all her life; the golden side of

the iron shield. Assuredly, her children drew the ideality in which

they reveled from the father.

The tall, dignified woman who queened it in the best circles of

Fairhill society, and was the chiefest pillar in the parish which had

just called Mr. Wayt to become its spiritual head, was the embodiment

of what is known as hard sense. Mind and character were laid out and

down in straight lines. Right was right; duty was duty, and not to be

shirked. Wrong was wrong, and the shading off of sin into foible was of

the devil. She believed in a personal devil, comprehended the doctrines

of the Trinity, of election and reprobation, and the resurrection

of the physical body. Twice each Sabbath, once during the week, she

repaired to the courts of the Lord with joys unknown to worldly souls.

The ministry she held in the old-fashioned veneration we have cast

behind us with many worse and a few better things. Others might and did

criticise the men who wore white neckties upon weekdays and had their

hair cut straight behind. The hands of the presbytery had been laid

in ordination upon them. That was a sacred shield to her. In spirit

she approached the awful circle of the church with bared feet and bent

brow. Within it was her home. To her church her toils were literally

given. For it her prayers continually ascended.

She had looked grave during May’s flippant abstract of the new

preacher’s discourse anent the six stone waterpots. Her family might

suspect that she could not easily assimilate spiritual bread so unlike

that broken to his flock by a good man who had been gathered to his

fathers six months before, after a pastorate of thirty years in

Fairhill. Nobody could elicit a hint to this effect from her lips. Mr.

Wayt was the choice of a respectable majority of church and parish. The

presbytery had accepted his credentials and solemnly installed him in

his new place. Henceforward he was her pastor, and as such above the

touch of censure. He had been the guest of the Gilchrists for a week

prior to the removal of his family to the flourishing suburban town,

and received such entertainment for body and spirit as strengthened his

belief in the Divine authority of the call he had answered.

He left Fairhill four days before March landed in New York, to meet

his wife and children in Syracuse and escort them to their new abiding

place. During these days the mothers and daughters of the household of

faith had worked diligently to prepare the parsonage for the reception

of the travelers, Mrs. Gilchrist being the guiding spirit. And while

she drew the shining silk of her boy’s curls through fingers that

looked strong, yet touched tenderly, the Rev. Percy Wayt, A. M. and M.

A., with feet directed by gratitude and heart swollen with pastoral

affection, was nearing the domicile of his best “member.”

A long French window upon the piazza framed the tableau he halted to

survey, his foot upon the upper step of the broad flight leading from

the lawn. It was a noble room, planned by March and built with his

proud father’s money. Breast-high shelves filled with choice books

lined the wall; above them were a few fine pictures. Oriental rugs were

strewed upon the polished floor; lounging and upright chairs stood

about in social attitudes. The light of the shaded reading lamp shone

silvery upon Judge Gilchrist’s head and heightened the brightness of

May’s face. March’s happy gaze, upturned to meet his mother’s look of

full content, might have meant as much in a cottage as here, but they

seemed to the spectator accessories of the luxurious well-being which

stamped the environment.

He sighed deeply—perhaps at the contrast the scene offered to the half

furnished abode he had just left—perhaps under the weight of memories

aroused by the family group. He was as capable of appreciating beauty

and enjoying ease as were those who took these as an installment of the

debt the world owed them. The will of the holy man who preaches the

great gain of godliness when wedded to contentment, ought to be one

with that of the Judge of all the earth. Sometimes it is. Sometimes——

“Ah, Mr. Wayt!” Judge Gilchrist’s proverbially gracious manner was

never more urbane than as he offered a welcoming hand to his wife’s

spiritual director. “You find us in the full flood of rejoicing over

our returned prodigal,” he continued, when the visitor had saluted the

ladies. “Let me introduce my son.”

Mr. Wayt was “honored and happy at being allowed to participate in

the reunion,” yet apologetic for his “intrusion upon that with which

strangers should not intermeddle.”

While saying it he squeezed March’s hand in a grasp more nervous than

firm, and looked admiringly into the sunny eyes.

“Your mother’s son will forgive the interruption when he learns why I

am here,” he went on, tightening and relaxing his hold at alternate

periods. “I brought my wife and babies _home_ to-day. I use the word

advisedly. I left a desolate, empty house. Merely walls, ceilings,

doors, windows, and floors. A shell without sentiment. A chrysalis

without the germ of life. This was on last Monday morning.”

By now the brief sentences had come to imply depth of emotion with

which March was unable to sympathize, and he felt convicted of

inhumanity that this was so.

“I advised Mrs. Wayt of what she would find. Hers is a brave spirit

encased in a fragile frame, and she was not daunted. You, madam,”

letting go the son’s hand and facing the mother, “know, and we can

never forget what we found when, weary and faint and travel-stained, we

alighted this afternoon at the parsonage gate.”

With all her native aplomb and half-century of world knowledge Mrs.

Gilchrist blushed, much to the covert amusement of husband and son. If

the judge had manner Mr. Wayt had deportment, and with it fluency. His

weighty words pressed her hard for breath.

“Please don’t speak of it!” she hastened to implore. “We did very

little—and I no more than others.”

“Allow me!” Gesture and tone were rhetorical. “You—or others under your

command—laid carpets and set our humble plenishing in order. There is

not much of it, but such as it is, it has followed our varied fortunes

so long that it is endeared by association. You arranged it to the best

advantage. You stocked larders and made up beds, and kindled the fire

upon the household altar, typified by the kitchen range, and spread

a toothsome feast for our refreshment. You and your sister angels.

If this be not true, then benevolent pixies have been at work, for,

although we found the premises swept and garnished, not a creature

was to be seen. Generosity and tact had met together; beneficence and

modesty had kissed each other. I assure you, Mr. Gilchrist”—wheeling

back in good order upon March—“that in seventeen years of the

vicissitudes of a pastoral life that has had its high lights and

depressing shades, such delicacy of kindness is without a parallel.”

“Let me express my sympathy in the shape of a cigar,” said March,

taking one from the table. “I brought over a lot, which my father, who

is a connoisseur in tobacco, pronounces fit to smoke. Should you agree

with him, I shall esteem it a compliment if you will let me send a box

to the parsonage to-morrow.”

Mr. Wayt’s was an opaque and not a healthy complexion. It was mottled

now with a curious, dull glow; the muscles of his mouth twitched. He

waved aside the offering with more energy than courtesy.

“You are good, sir—very good! But I never smoke! My nervous

system is idiosyncratic. Common prudence inhibits the use on my

part of all narcotics and stimulants, if principle did not. To be

frank”—inclusively to all present—“I am what is known as ‘a temperance

crank.’ You may think the less of me for the confession; in point of

fact, I lost one charge in direct consequence of my peculiar views

upon this subject; but if I speak at all, I must be candid. Believe me

nevertheless, Mr. Gilchrist, your grateful debtor for the proffered

gift. If you will now and then let a kindly thought of me mingle with

the smoke of your burnt offering, the favor will be still greater.”

“May I trouble you to say to Mrs. Wayt that the cook you asked me

to engage for her cannot come until next Monday morning?” said the

practical hostess. Mr. Wayt’s sonorous periods always impelled her to

monosyllabic commonplaces. “Perhaps she cannot wait so long?”

“I take the responsibility of promising for her, madam, that she

_will_. Apart from the fact that her desire to secure a servant

recommended by yourself would reconcile her to a still longer delay,

her household, as at present composed, has in itself the elements of

independence. We have a faithful, if eccentric, servitor, who has an

abnormal passion for work in all its varieties. He is gardener, house

servant, cook, groom, mason and builder, as need requires. He mends his

own clothes, cobbles his shoes—and I am not without a suspicion of his

proficiency as a laundryman.”

He rendered the catalogue with relish for the humor of the situation.

The exigencies of parsonage life which had developed the talents of his

trusty retainer seemed to have no pathos for the master.

“Where did you find this treasure? And is he a Unique?” asked May

laughingly.

“I believe the credit of raking the protoplasmic germ out of the slums

of Chicago, where we were then sojourning, belongs to my wife’s sister,

Miss Alling. The atmosphere of our home has warmed into growth latent

possibilities, I fancy. It was a white day for poor Tony when the

gutter-wash landed him at our door. Even now he has physical weaknesses

and mental deficiencies that make him a striking object-lesson as to

the terrible truths of heredity.”

“How many children have you, Mr. Wayt?” questioned March, with

irrelevance verging upon abruptness.

“George W. Cable’s number—five. You may recall the witty puzzle he set

for a Massachusetts Sunday School. ‘I have five children,’ he said,

‘and half of them are girls. What is the half of five?’ ‘Two and a

half,’ came from the perplexed listeners. It transpired, eventually,

that the other half were girls also.”

He was an entertaining man, or would have been had he been colloquial

instead of hortatory. Yet what he said was telling rather from the

degree of importance he evidently attached to it than from the worth

of the matter. In a smaller speaker, his style would have been

airy. Standing, as he did, six feet in his slippers, he was always

nearly—occasionally, quite—imposing. Men of his profession seldom

converse well. The habit of hebdomadal speech-making runs over and

saturates the six working days. Pastoral visitation is undoubtedly

measurably responsible for the trick of talking as for duty’s sake, and

to a roomful. The essential need of the public speaker is audience, and

to this, actual or visionary, he is prone to address himself. Mr. Wayt

could not bid an acquaintance “Good-morning,” in a chance encounter

upon boat or car, without embracing every passenger within the scope

of his orotund tones, in the salutation. A _poseur_ during his waking

hours, he probably continued to cater to the ubiquitous audience in his

dreams.

“Come out for a turn on the piazza, May!” proposed March, after the

guest had taken his leave.

The night was filled with divine calm. The Gilchrist house surmounted

a knoll from which the beautiful town rolled away on all sides. In the

distance a glistening line showed where the bay divided Jersey meadows

from the ramparts of the Highlands. The turf of the lawn was ringed

and crossed by beds of hyacinths and tulips. The buds of the great

horse-chestnut trees were big with promise; the finer tracery of the

elms against the moonlit sky showed tufts of tender foliage. Faint,

delicious breaths of sweetness met brother and sister at the upper end

of their walk, telling that the fruit trees were ablow.

“East or West, Hame is Best!”

quoted March, taking in a mighty draught of satisfaction. “Not that

I brought you out here to listen to stale Scotch rhymes. Don’t annoy

the precious mother by letting her into the secret, May, but Mr. Wayt

is the man I saw in the restaurant to-day, and I believe that was his

family!”