MRS. BLAIR IS DISPLEASED
Wayne went on a Saturday afternoon in November to a matinée of the
Symphony Orchestra, expecting to find Wingfield, who kept close touch
with the box-office in the interest of the guarantors. Not seeing his
friend at once, he climbed to the gallery where Wingfield sometimes
went to study the emotions of those who, he said, got more for their
money than holders of first-floor seats. Wingfield again proved
elusive, but Wayne sat down on the last row and gave heed to the
Tannhaüser overture. His eyes roamed the audience aimlessly; he was,
it seemed, the only man in the place. He was aware, as the familiar
strains wove their spell upon the house, of something familiar in the
dark head before him. He bent forward slightly to make sure; but there
was, he told himself, but one head like that--there was no doubt of its
being Jean Morley.
She did not stir until the end of the number. Then with a little sigh
she turned slightly so that he saw the faint shadow of a dark lash on
her cheek. A scarlet ribbon, tied under a plain collar, flashed an
instant’s colour to her face before she settled herself for the next
number. There was something distinguished, noble even, in the poise of
her head; and soon before the mad flight of the Valkyries it bent as to
a storm. It pleased his fancy that the waves of sound floating upward
surged round her with a particular intent. He was quite sure, however,
that she must not see him here. He knew the quality of her anger;
the ground he had gained at the parish house must not be lost. If he
wished to retain her respect he must avoid the appearance of lying in
wait for her. The sensation of caring for anyone’s respect, least of
all that of this unknown girl, who had instinctively, on first sight,
set up barriers of defense against him, was new to his experience.
He left before the last number to continue his search for Wingfield,
and found a scrawl at the box-office explaining his friend’s absence,
but suggesting that they dine together at the Club. Wayne glanced at
the treasurer’s report, made a note of the day’s proceeds, and as he
mingled in the crowd, found himself walking at Miss Morley’s side.
“It was beautiful, wasn’t it?” she said, as the crowd caught and held
them. One or two women bowed to him distantly and eyed with cold
interest the tall girl in the unfashionable clothes to whom he was
speaking. He was conscious of this inspection of her and it angered
him. He heard his name spoken by someone behind him--“That’s Wayne
Craighill,”--as though he were a notorious character to be pointed out
boldly to strangers.
“You think they liked it? It wasn’t too much on one key?”
“It was lovely, but of course I don’t know, I never heard an orchestra
before. It probably meant more to me for that reason.”
“Yes, I suppose first times bring the rarest sensations. They really
did the Valkyries in great form.”
“That was perfectly glorious; I should like to hear all the opera.”
“You are beyond doubt a natural born Wagnerian; I must tell my friend
Wingfield how well the audience took his programme. He’s the power
behind the orchestra, and he contends that the best is not too good,
that people who never heard these things before are just as competent
to criticize as trained musicians. You should hear a symphony now--give
Beethoven a chance, then try the opera--on and up to the heights.”
“I don’t know about the heights, but I was pretty well up on the slope
this afternoon, and the whole world was mine.” She spoke with feeling,
this girl who had never heard an orchestra before, but who had followed
the trumpets to new and strange summits and still carried dreams in her
eyes.
It was a gray November afternoon and he intended to make it easy for
her to leave him here, under the bright entrance lights.
“I’m going to Mrs. Blair’s,” she explained.
“Won’t you let me go along, please? You see--you see, I’m dining there!”
“Not really!”
He laughed aloud. He had lied and she was not fair game for falsehood.
“Well, I carry a key to my sister’s front door and I can always have a
place there.”
They dropped the discussion for the moment; it was quite a mile to
the Blair’s and the moment was sufficient unto itself. He forgot that
there could be any question of her accepting his escort. His heartbeats
quickened as he found her walking beside him with a free step that fell
in comfortably with his own swinging stride. She walked as people walk
who are bred in a hill country--with a slight sway of the body from
the hips--and she carried her head high. In imagination he robed her
in fashionable raiment, a figure of distinction in any company, only
to protest to himself that her qualities were superior to feathers or
flounces and were as new in her as though no woman had ever possessed
them before. The music still sang in her heart; she had been greatly
moved by it. Before Sargent’s portrait he had felt only her tyro’s
ineptness; but music had stolen her away from herself, and carried her
close to golden lands of promise.
“How does the work go at the Institute?”
“Oh, I keep at it. I have good days and bad. Sometimes my eyes don’t
see straight and my fingers are sticks. This afternoon the music made
it all seem easy; I think it would help if the orchestra played in our
class room.”
“A capital idea; I’ll speak to the directors about it. Music does seem
to pry us loose from the earth. You may be surprised to know that I
used to dabble at the violin myself--a long time ago. I was looked on
as a promising student, and might have been a real good fiddler if I
had kept it up.”
“But you still play, of course?”
“Not by a long shot! I broke my fiddle on my seventeenth birthday and
turned toward a business career.”
“I suppose you had to do that.”
“Well, it didn’t seem quite square to my ancestors to fit myself to
be the third fiddler in an orchestra; they were eminently practical
persons. If I had kept at music as a life business very likely their
shades would have haunted me and snapped my fiddle strings. But I
have no regrets. I should probably have starved to death if my early
ambitions hadn’t been thwarted. Anyhow, I guess I’m a kind of fatalist;
if it had been in the books that I was to go fiddling through the
world--why, I should have fiddled. And in the same way, it was ordained
that you should go in for art, and here you are, spending your days at
it and nothing could head you off.”
“Oh, yes; many things could! Many things tried!”
“I can’t believe it! I believe that everybody has a destiny; I don’t
know what mine is, but I undoubtedly have it. I wouldn’t have you think
that because I fell on my fiddle and smashed it and lost my chance of
immortality that way, I am a person without accomplishments. I would
have you know that I’m a man with a profession. I’m a mining engineer
and can prove it by my diploma, and--no other way!”
His spirits were high; they talked and laughed together without
restraint. He had not in a long time laughed and chaffed with a girl in
this way. This walk through the dusk was oddly complete in itself; he
felt no curiosity about her now, no interest in her life beyond this
half-hour. Her simplicity, the frank way in which she disclosed her
own ignorance, her serious belittling of her work in the art school,
interested and touched him. She did not quite understand him; she was
not used to his kind of banter. His mention of his youthful study of
the violin she had taken soberly and she talked of her own aims to show
her sympathy.
“There are so many students all over the world studying art that it
seems silly for me to be wasting time over it. I had better be learning
to do office work or how to sell things in a shop, or how to cook for
some of these East End people, or dust rooms and wait on table. But
sometimes my teachers have praised me, and that puts off the evil day
when I shall have to come down to hard work and burn my portfolio----”
“Just as I smashed my fiddle! But no! I tell you, the fates have charge
of our business. They are the supreme and ultimate court--the lords
of high decision. They have already fixed the fabulous prices which
you are to get for your portraits. My sister will undoubtedly have
you paint hers. If you and she are friends you can’t escape. Fanny’s
always having her picture painted.”
“Oh, but I’m not so foolish as to think I could do portraits--not if I
lived a thousand years. My ambition stops at pen and ink. If I can only
learn to be just a little bit of an illustrator I shall be satisfied.”
“Excellent! I approve of that! It’s just as hard, they tell me, and
the market is better! When you are not studying or helping at the
settlement house or listening to music what do you do? You must have a
scheme of life all worked out for yourself.”
“Oh, I often go for long walks, in the afternoon--take a trolley as far
as it will carry me and then strike off for the hills, and walk and
walk and walk.”
“I suppose you carry a sketch book to see how nature compares with the
landscapes at the Institute?”
“No; landscape is beyond me; it’s too big for me. People interest me
more, children particularly.”
“Well, of course if you want juvenile models I needn’t offer myself.”
“No, you needn’t,” she said with so crisp an emphasis that he laughed.
“But you might take me along to sit by and sharpen the pencils; that
would save you a lot of bother.”
“It might, but you see I use ink!”
“Then,” he cried in despair, “there is nothing left for me but to hold
the bottle. Let’s change the subject before you tell me I may not do
that!”
They had passed, soon after leaving the concert, the Craighill house,
whose lights flashed at them through the bare trees, and were now
drawing close to the Blairs’. She grew suddenly silent, then stopped
abruptly.
“I don’t believe I’ll go to see your sister now--it’s so late. I’ll
telephone her that I’m not coming.”
“You’re afraid my sister won’t like your coming with me, isn’t that it?”
“No, I’m not afraid of your sister--she’s been kinder to me than anyone
else ever was----”
“But you don’t think you ought to go to her house with me. I would have
you know that my sister thinks rather well of me!”
“I must not do anything she would dislike,” persisted the girl.
“You think she wouldn’t like your going there with me? I could leave
you at the gate!”
They had resumed their walk to avoid the appearance of dallying. He
had no wish to jeopardize the girl’s relations with his sister; but it
was pleasant to talk to her; he had never known just this kind of girl
before. Her poverty, her ignorance, her ambitions interested him and
set her apart. It had never been his way to hide his iniquities; he was
persuaded that he meant her no harm and he rebelled against the thought
that there were reasons why she should not be seen with him. His own
sister had expressed this clearly enough and he did not know what
Fanny would say to him--one never knew about Fanny!--and the hope that
his sister would seat Jean Morley and himself at her dinner table only
rose to fade. Fanny was capable of it, but she was capable, also, of
scolding him sharply before the girl and sending him out of the house.
“Mrs. Blair has a right to question anything I do. She is doing a great
many beautiful things for me.”
“Oh, I’ll explain it to Fanny. She and I are great pals,” he said
lightly.
“I couldn’t deceive your sister. If she should learn that you had
walked to her house with me without telling her, she wouldn’t like it
and if she knew she wouldn’t like it; so you can’t know me--you mustn’t
know me! Nothing could be clearer than that.”
“I certainly can’t know you this way; that’s as plain as daylight.”
“There’s no way of knowing me at all! You must understand that
now--once and for all. I’m very busy and have my work to do.”
“Well, we’ll put it up to Fanny.”
And so, the girl still reluctant, they entered the house, where Mrs.
Blair darted out from the library with many exclamations. She seemed,
on the surface, to take the appearance of her callers as a matter of
course, but she waved him into the library with an air of brushing him
out of existence.
While he waited he scrutinized the new books with a view to determining
in just what field of thought his sister now disported. Miss Morley’s
errand with Mrs. Blair was of the briefest and as they concluded their
conference in the hall he appeared before them promptly. His sister’s
glance did not encourage his hope to carry off the situation lightly;
but he could not do less then accept full responsibility for the visit
and he resolved to put a bold face upon it. Mrs. Blair had just rung
for her motor, and she sent the maid upstairs for her wraps with the
obvious intention of making it unnecessary for Wayne to accompany the
girl further.
“Fanny,” he began, “Miss Morley and I have become acquainted in the
most astonishing fashion. We met at Paddock’s parish house not long ago
by the merest chance; this afternoon, while at the concert, estimating
the deficit for the day, I ran into her again; and I begged Miss
Morley’s consent to walk up here with her; and here I am.”
“It really was unnecessary,” murmured the girl.
“I think you ought to tell Miss Morley to give me just a little of her
time, Fanny--just a little. Of course she is busy; but then----”
Mrs. Blair looked from one to the other. The girl was so plainly
embarrassed, Wayne’s good humour and high spirits were so appealing,
that Fanny Blair found this one of her most difficult occasions.
“I’m sure Miss Morley is quite able to manage her affairs without any
help from me. Are you dining here, Wayne?”
“I’m afraid I intimated as much to Miss Morley so she would let me
come with her; I promise never to tell another lie.” He bowed in mock
humility but the frown on his sister’s face showed her displeasure.
“I’m going to take Miss Morley home in the motor. If you are dining
here you can make yourself comfortable as usual.”
“Oh, but I really can’t stay! You’ll have to take me along. Now that I
think of it, Dick expects me at the Club.”
Fanny was clearly not pleased, but he was confident of mollifying her
later. The girl’s plight was a more serious matter: he had taken an
unfair advantage, he had put her in a false position with his sister,
and he bitterly accused himself. Fanny pointedly ignored him while they
waited for the motor, and he stood by like a boy in disgrace while she
talked to Miss Morley about a dozen irrelevant things. He sought to
save his dignity by hastening the arrival of the motor from the garage;
and when the car came and he shut them in--Fanny left him to find a
seat outside.
She gave him Miss Morley’s address as though he had been the footman,
and he climbed humbly to a seat beside the chauffeur. When the boarding
house was reached Mrs. Blair descended and rang the bell herself, and
when a slatternly maid opened the door Mrs. Blair stepped inside for
a few minutes, that there might be no question of the sex of Miss
Morley’s escort.
“Well?” demanded Mrs. Blair as soon as he had seated himself beside her
in the tonneau.
“Why so tragic, Fanny? Paddock asked me to come and see him and his
good works--I went; he insisted that I look at his kitchen and there
was your girl with the adorable head dutifully wiping the dishes--a
pretty picture! Paddock was going to take her and a friend into town on
the trolley, but the hour was late and I took them home in my car--she
and the other girl inside, poor old me decorously out in the cold.
Then I went to see how much Wagner the dear people were swallowing at
popular prices this afternoon; went into the balcony to look for Dick,
and lo! the adorable head was just in front of me. But no, I did not
let her see me; I knew she would lose faith in me if she thought I was
pursuing her; I went about my business, but on my way out ran into
her again. What could be more natural than that I should walk to my
sister’s house with her?”
“You must have known she was going to the settlement house; it’s a
little hard to accept so many coincidences. And I had asked you to let
her alone.”
“Paddock invited me to visit him; she and her friend were cleaning up
the dishes. It was her first visit, too.”
“So you took her home in your car? You did that?”
“And her friend with her. Joe is a kind of usher and policeman at the
settlement house. Paddock seems to be gathering in all sorts and
conditions--even me!”
“Joe!” exclaimed Mrs. Blair with more animation; and then: “You must
get rid of that fellow. I don’t like him.”
Mrs. Blair spoke with so much energy that Wayne laughed aloud.
“Why, Fanny, Joe has saved my life many times. He’s been so miserable
when I went bad that I’ve been ashamed to face him.”
Mrs. Blair relapsed into silence, and he saw by the flashes of the
electric lamps at the corners that she was seriously troubled.
“You know without my telling you that you must let this girl alone.
These chance meetings won’t occur again--if they _have_ been chance
meetings!”
“I swear it, Fanny!”
“She’s terribly poor; she has ambitions, and I’m trying to help her.
She’s utterly unsophisticated, as you can see; you will ruin her future
and make her wretchedly unhappy if you don’t avoid her.”
“When do you think a man can begin to be good? Do you think I am so
utterly rotten that no decent women may ever dare know me? Come now,
Fanny.”
“There are plenty of girls you can know if you want to--who don’t live
in boarding houses and starve their way through art schools.”
“But they haven’t her eyes; they don’t carry their heads like
goddesses,” he persisted.
“You’ve seen too many eyes in too many divine heads. I tell you, it
won’t do! If you will think of it a minute you will see that only a
word is enough to wreck that girl’s life. Do you suppose you can call
on her at her boarding house? Are you going to walk with her to her
lessons? Do you quite see yourself taking her to concerts and to church
Sunday mornings? My big brother, if you don’t stop being preposterous I
shall get angry.”
“Oh, no. Please don’t! I’m disappointed; I thought you had advised me
to be good and marry and settle down.”
“Marry! That girl? Wayne, you are impossible!”
“Very likely; but the girl isn’t so impossible. I hadn’t thought
of marrying her, but the idea doesn’t exactly terrify me. She’s an
immensely interesting person--she haunts me like a theme in music.
She’s poor and if I could save her from the pitfalls of art--the
failures, the heartache of failing to arrive--that isn’t so impossible,
is it?”
“Yes, it’s absolutely out of the question. And if you don’t let her
alone I’ll ship her back where she came from; just one more of these
coincidences and I’ll do that. We’ve had enough marriages in the
family, I hope, to last for some time.”
“Ah! So this bitterness of spirit is not all for me? Has John taken to
evil ways?”
“What’s the matter at father’s? Why was Addie crying this morning when
I went in to see her?”
“I dare say she cried because you came, if you were as fierce as you
are now.”
“She had been crying and looked miserably unhappy.”
“Probably a row with the cook. She isn’t used to keeping house. She’s
going to Boston with the Colonel and that will set her up again.”
Mrs. Blair was silent for a moment then flashed:
“How much do you see of her?”
“Precious little. Breakfast, and a glimpse sometimes as I go to my
couch at night.”
“You must leave the house; you must come and live with us at once,”
declared Mrs. Blair with impressive finality.
“Thanks!” Wayne laughed. “Do you think I tease my stepmother to make
her cry? Do you think my moral example is bad for her? Addie snubs
me every chance she gets. Only this morning at breakfast, while the
Colonel read a papal encyclical or something equally exciting, Addie
and I discussed the relative merits of country sausage and chocolate
éclaires. To see me sitting at the breakfast table between the Colonel
and my stepmother is edifying beyond any words. Addie is a good girl; I
like Addie. But she isn’t in the same class with your protégée. Here’s
the Club; shall I detach John McCandless from the sacred rye-pots and
send him out?”
“You know John never drinks; and he’s in Buffalo to-day.”
“Then he will drink beyond any doubt; one must--in Buffalo!”
While he stood chaffing her at the car door, she clasped his hand
tightly and begged him to see her soon. As the car started a newsboy
hailed Wayne familiarly from the street and Fanny saw her brother’s
broad shoulders bent over the lad and his elbow crooked as he felt for
a coin. How true it was that everyone liked Wayne! His generosity was
boundless; the very recklessness and extravagance of his derelictions
endeared him to many. As the Club door closed upon him the newsboy
dashed off with an exultant shout on the wings of new fortune.