THE TRIP TO BOSTON
Mrs. Craighill bore the scrutiny of her new fellow-citizens with
dignity, and by the first of December she had ceased to be a curiosity.
She had met everyone of importance; even Mrs. Wingfield had been
obliged to bow to her at a reception. Those who persisted in their
determination to ignore her advent were too few to count. It had been
hinted that she would prove loud; that she was dull; that she would
make her husband’s money fly--“such women” always did; but no one
worth considering was willing at the end of two months to say that she
was properly to be classed among “such women.” Her severest critics
were those who, habituated to the contemplation of Roger Craighill’s
presence in a front pew at church, feared that by marrying one of
“such women”--they being young adventuresses headed brazenly for the
divorce court--their idol might suffer the pains and penalties of
scandal and alimony. Even the most conservative now admitted that if
Mrs. Craighill’s motives in marrying her elderly husband had not been
the noblest, she was carrying herself well. Members of her own set,
who had been among the original doubters, had waited for the complete
disclosure of Mrs. Craighill’s wardrobe before committing themselves,
but the taste and sobriety of her raiment disarmed criticism; she was
not loud. In another of the circles within the Circle it was questioned
whether the newcomer was fitted intellectually to be Roger Craighill’s
wife, but Fanny Blair vouched for the worthiness of her stepmother’s
interests. “Addie reads everything,” declared Mrs. Blair sweepingly,
whereupon Mrs. Craighill was promptly nominated for membership in the
Woman’s Club. Many were saying that her conduct, in circumstances the
most difficult, had been admirable and the frequency with which, in
these first weeks, Fanny Blair had gone about with her, advertised the
completeness of the new wife’s acceptance in the family. It was even
whispered that Wayne had reformed, and this startling announcement,
where it found credence, was attributed to his stepmother’s influence.
Roger Craighill and his wife were dining alone at home the evening
before the day of their departure for Boston. He had long made a point
of dressing for dinner and she wore a gown he had not seen before and
whose perfection he praised.
“Your taste is exquisite, Addie. I like you in light things; they seem
to be a part of you--to express you. You are the most graceful and
charming woman in the world.”
Her face brightened. They had been dining out a great deal and it was a
pleasure to have this evening at their own table. She felt again the
dignity of her position as Roger Craighill’s wife. She had been hurt
deeply by his exclusion of her on the night he had written his address;
but she thought now how handsome he was, how well he carried his years,
and it was no mean thing to have been chosen by such a man to share his
home and fame. She had found it all too easy to take refuge in Wayne’s
ready comradeship; the stolen references to their earlier acquaintance
that she had suffered him to make had shown her how dangerous it was to
trust to his consolations. Wayne must be kept at a distance; she would
take care that he did not see her again alone.
In this fresh access of loyalty to her husband she excused and
justified his conduct in shutting himself in to prepare his address;
very likely it was the way of busy men who thus give their leisure to
public service. She must sacrifice her own pleasure just as he did
and bring herself into sympathy with these labours of his. There was
flattery in his frequent monologues on public matters and public men;
she was perforce the listener, but he was older and in her ignorance it
was an agreeable relief not to be expected to contribute more than an
inquiry, thrown in to lead him on. She resolved to keep a scrap-book
of the offerings of the clipping bureau to which he subscribed, that
a complete history might be made of his public services. At Boston
she expected to hear him speak for the first time; she had seen the
programme of the conferences and several men of national prominence
were to make addresses.
She poured the coffee and sent the maid away, to prolong the mood of
this hour. The quiet service, the substantial appointments of the
room, the realization that she bore the honoured name of the man who
faced her contributed to her happiness. It was pleasant to be Mrs.
Craighill; she was enjoying her position in the thousand ways possible
to her nature--the stir of the clerks in the shops when she appeared,
the whispered interest her presence occasioned anywhere. She was,
indeed, Mrs. Craighill and everyone was anxious to serve her. To be
sought first by those persons who are forever seeking victims to act
as patronesses; to be asked to head subscription lists; the deference
shown her--these things she enjoyed with a pardonable zest and she
would not jeopardize her right to them.
“As you haven’t seen Boston in late years,” Colonel Craighill was
saying, “you will find much to interest you while we are there for the
municipal conferences. Though I haven’t the slightest ancestral claim
on New England I feel a certain kinship with her people. If we were not
so firmly planted here I should like to move to Boston to spend my last
years there. Contact with some of her fine, public-spirited citizens
would be an inspiration. Some of my best friends are Bostonians,
friends I have made through my connection with public work. People
ask me--and they will be asking you from time to time--why I spend so
much time on these movements for the public welfare; but they have
been a great resource to me. I have been well repaid for all I have
done. I have had my perplexities and worries, a modern business man
is ground in a hard mill; but I am conscious of having done my little
toward bettering our political and social conditions, and nothing in my
life makes me happier than that thought. Do you know,” and he smiled
depreciatingly, “I heard from one or two quarters that Harvard was
going to confer a degree on me next year for my work in behalf of civic
reform; it was only an intimation, but one of my friends, whom I have
learned to know well at our annual conferences, is a prominent alumnus,
and he has remarked several times that they’d have to make a Harvard
man of me somehow.”
“I think it is so remarkable,” said Mrs. Craighill, “that you never
went to college. You seem like a college man.”
“I have regretted more than I can tell you my lack of systematic
education. My father was hardly more than well-to-do and I went into
business at eighteen. But I have been a diligent reader; you might say
that I have always been a student. It’s possible that I should have
fared poorly in college; my disposition was always, even when a boy, to
brush away details and seek the broader view. I think I owe my success
in life to that--the ability to climb upon the hills and see the lights
afar off.”
He stirred his coffee with the care we give in our ease to unimportant
things. He was satisfied with himself and the world; when he spoke she
felt as though she were eavesdropping upon a reverie.
“It is a great joy to have you here by my side--the house has
brightened since you came. If only Wayne would take the place to which
he was born in the community I should not have a care!”
“But Wayne is doing well; I thought you said yourself that he was
attending very regularly at the office, that he had really begun to
take an interest in business.”
“He’s a boy of moods, poor Wayne! Just now he’s going to the office
every day. His cleverness is amazing when he applies himself; but
let a new kind of motor catch his eye and off he goes! He’s struck
a new humour lately--devoting himself to the study of a lot of most
complicated legal matters--contracts and the like. Such things are best
left to the lawyers. But he has kept straight for some time and that’s
something. It’s a good deal, and I’m grateful for it. I have always let
him do as he pleased at the office in the hope that he would some day
find something that interested him.”
“He’s very bright--and likable,” said Mrs. Craighill. “Fanny says he’s
a genius.”
“Fanny can see no wrong in her brother, and I’m glad of it; but she has
kept me ignorant of many of his worst escapades and I have simply never
been able to get near him. We are very unlike.”
“Isn’t that strange! I’ve been thinking that in so many ways you and he
are much alike.”
“Physically, yes; he has my build. I rather fancy that I’m still as
erect as he is!”
He smiled and waited for her acquiescence, but she had been thinking
intently and did not at once meet his eyes.
They had rarely spoken of Wayne; it could hardly be said that they
avoided mentioning him; but his life was outside theirs; his sleeping
in the house and eating one meal a day with them left him a tolerated
tenant whose ways it were wiser not to question. Mrs. Craighill
observed with interest that her husband seemed willing to take credit
for his son’s admirable physical proportions, but that his paternal
pride stopped there. Her attitude toward her husband was so wholly
sympathetic to-night that she saw Wayne with his eyes. It must indeed
be a grievous thing to have lived an honorable life, to have made a
place for one’s self and to find both name and position brought low by
a profligate son.
“Fanny is very happy,” continued Colonel Craighill. “John is a splendid
fellow--steady as a rock, and with high ideals. A woman like Fanny
needs such a man to check her exuberances.”
“Oh, she’s most delightful and she has certainly been kind to me! She
might have made it hard for me if she had wanted to.”
“Oh, she’s kind!” smiled Colonel Craighill, though his tone implied
that allowances must be made for Fanny. “There’s a good deal of the
Wayne in her, just as there is in her brother.” He shook his head and
sighed. As they left the dining room her husband placed his arm about
her. These intimations of his secret feeling toward his children seemed
to have knit her closer into his life; she felt the ground solider
under her feet. She was not without her sensibilities and she had
realized that a second wife does not at once wear her new robes easily.
It is as though she blundered upon a stage whose scene has been set by
another hand. Its mechanism, its lights, its exits are unfamiliar. She
is haunted by the dread of missing her cue and of hearing a ghostly
prompter’s voice mocking her off stage.
“I have just been re-writing my will, and I have taken pains to
eliminate, so far as human foresight can do so, the possibility of any
trouble when I am gone. You will have many years beyond my expectation
of life and I want nothing to mar them. It will be unnecessary for you
to deal with my children in any way. I have designated our strongest
trust company--a concern in which I have long been director--to
administer the estate. Of course I hope your relations with my children
will always continue friendly, but it is best not to mingle family
interests in such a case. And now”--he rubbed his hands together as
though freeing himself of every care--“now we may dismiss the future to
take care of itself.”
“I don’t like to think of such things,” she murmured. “I’m just
beginning to appreciate all that you have done for me. It means more
to me, Roger, than you have any idea of. You have been most kind and
considerate, and generous in every way. I have never been so happy--I
never expected such happiness to come to me. It doesn’t seem that I
deserve it.”
She sat down on a stool beside him and he took one of her hands and
held it on his knee and stroked it fondly. This tenderness, keyed
to the domestic tone of the hearthside, soothed and exalted her. He
believed in her, she belonged to him; she wished that this hour might
never end, so perfect were its peace and happiness. He talked to-night
with a new freedom, and she felt the years diminish between them. He
told her many anecdotes of old times in the city, describing the humble
beginnings of some of his fellow-townsmen: “When I first knew him he
was only a truck driver, and now!”--the familiar phrases of American
biography. The hours passed swiftly. At half-past ten a motor stopped
at the side door, and a moment later Wayne’s key snapped the lock.
“I’ll tell him to come in here,” said Addie, rising. He answered her
summons cheerily, and came in and stood with his back to the fire. His
high spirits caused his father to eye him carefully, but Wayne, as
though in answer to this silent inquiry, straightened himself and stood
erect with arms folded for inspection.
“I’m off for a little trip to-night. Wingfield wants me to go over to
Philadelphia with him to see a Mask and Wig show. We’ll come back in
three or four days.”
“Are you sure it isn’t a prize fight?” quizzed Colonel Craighill. “I’m
always a little suspicious of Dick’s expeditions. When you and he leave
town I usually find there’s been a prize fight at the other end of the
line.”
“Oh, I can’t believe such things of Mr. Wingfield!” cried Addie; “he
talks to me only of pictures and music. I can’t imagine him watching
men pound each other.”
“He’s a fellow of first-rate ability,” observed Colonel Craighill,
to whom Wingfield was a deplorable idler who had made no use of his
talents. “But he has never justified his right to exist.”
“Why should he work merely to please his critics? If he took a job,
it would throw somebody else out. What would you have him do?” Wayne
demanded.
“Our rich young men have had too much notoriety; they have brought
scandal upon the city!” ejaculated Colonel Craighill wrathfully and
with unmistakable application.
“You oughtn’t to believe all you see in the yellow papers. Besides,
Dick’s about the decentest man I ever knew. He doesn’t pretend to sole
ownership in all the virtues. That’s why I like him so well.”
Colonel Craighill had frequently made these thrusts at Wingfield and
to-night Wayne resented them more than usual. He turned to Addie,
who had sought a book on the table and was studying the title page
attentively during this interchange. She thought Wayne had not
shown his father proper respect and the disturbance of the room’s
tranquillity annoyed her.
“When do you head for the Hub, Addie?” Wayne asked.
“It’s to-morrow night, isn’t it, Roger?”
“Yes; to-morrow evening,” answered Colonel Craighill reaching for a
magazine.
“Dick and I spend only a few days assailing the impenetrable fastnesses
of the Philadelphia mind. Is there anything special coming up, father?”
“Nothing out of the usual run; I think Gregory may come in, but you
needn’t trouble about him. Tell him I’ll see him when I come back.”
“He was in to-day, now that I think of it,” remarked Wayne, thrusting
his hands into his pockets, “and waited an hour for you.”
“I’m perfectly aware of that,” snapped Colonel Craighill. “I was busy
and sent word for him to see Morehead. He’s so persistent lately that
he’s lost any claim he had as an old acquaintance and we’ll let him
face the facts squarely with our lawyer.”
He spoke with considerable irritation, but he controlled himself and
adjusted his glasses to read.
It was the first time that he had shown anger before his wife.
She had wondered whether anything could shatter his perfect poise
and affability, and his display of temper frightened her, much as
exhibitions of anger in adults alarm and dismay children.
“I must get my bag; I’m holding the car,” said Wayne to Addie. “I hope
you’ll have a fine outing.”
“Wayne,” interposed Colonel Craighill, “your man Joe doesn’t seem
quite essential to this establishment. It seems to me we might get
along with one chauffeur between us.”
“Then,” grinned Wayne, “you had better fire yours. Joe has been here
longer, and we must stick to the merit system if the heavens fall.”
“Joe’s a sporting character; my man is a trained mechanic. A number of
men have spoken to me of Joe’s reckless driving of your machines.”
“They ought to speak to me. If you don’t want Joe on the place I’ll
move my car to a public garage.”
“I’ll trouble you not to speak to me in that tone. I’m not questioning
your right to use the garage; I merely suggested an economy and getting
rid of an idle fellow who is bound to get you into trouble.”
“You don’t know Joe. You couldn’t push him into trouble!” laughed
Wayne, with a return of his good humour. He received a reproachful look
from Addie as he shook hands with her. His father rose and bade him
good-bye with formality.
“We shall be gone about a week,” he remarked; “my address will be the
Beverly if you should wish to communicate with me.”
While Wayne was packing his bag Colonel Craighill continued to turn the
pages of his magazine. Addie moved restlessly about, softly opening and
closing the book-cases and listlessly glancing at titles. The display
of ill-feeling between father and son had spoiled what had been at the
moment of Wayne’s entrance, the happiest evening of her married life.
If sides must be taken, she would, of course, stand with her husband;
but she was displeased that Wayne had made it necessary for her to
take sides at all. Wayne’s unreasonableness had caused the domestic
sanctuary lamp to flicker just at the moment when it had flamed most
auspiciously. With sudden access of feeling she crossed the room and
laid her hand gently on Colonel Craighill’s arm.
“Roger,” she murmured softly, “I’m so sorry!”
“Don’t trouble, dear; it’s too bad you had to witness my humiliation;
but it’s inevitable, I suppose, that you should know.”
She saw that her sympathy was grateful to him; she felt his response
to it in the soft stroking of her hair as she knelt beside him. They
remained thus until they heard Wayne running downstairs humming softly
to himself. He stood at the door a moment later, suit case in hand.
“Good night!” he called, and as he went for his coat and hat she
followed him to the door. He waved his hand to her and as the motor
rolled toward the street she returned to her husband.
Colonel Craighill was again turning the leaves of a periodical, and he
threw it down with a yawn.
“It must be bedtime.” He paused and listened. “Isn’t that the door
bell? I’ll go myself.”
He returned carrying a special delivery letter, and opened it with a
paper cutter which she handed him from the table.
“Why,” he exclaimed, his face lighting, “it’s from Colonel Broderick.”
When he had finished reading he turned back to the beginning again,
murmuring his pleasure, and read aloud:
“I had expected to write earlier, asking you to stay with us during
the meetings of the conference but, in Mrs. Broderick’s absence, I
was afraid to assume the responsibilities of host. She will, however,
be at home to-morrow so I am asking you and Senator Tarleton of
Virginia to accept our shelter. I am very anxious for you to know
Tarleton as he wields great influence in the South and this is the
first time he has lent his countenance to our work. Mrs. Broderick
will allow the three of us full liberty to sit up all night and pass
final judgment on all the things that have so long been dear to you
and me. I hope your annual address is good and salty; the attitude
of this administration toward the civil service has been a keen
disappointment and I look to you to launch a vigorous and effective
protest.”
“That really is a very great compliment, Addie. Colonel Broderick
is one of the leading citizens--if not, indeed, the first citizen
of Boston. I have always been a little afraid that he looked on my
relations with him as purely official and not quite--not wholly social.
You see, your Bostonians have their notions of such things, and they
are entitled to what they would themselves call their point of view.
Mrs. Broderick is, even more than he, the New England aristocrat, a
very cultivated woman; and she was enormously rich. It is the greatest
possible honour to be asked to stay there. I won’t conceal it from
you, Addie, that I’ve rather feared once or twice, when I’ve been in
Boston, that Broderick avoided asking me to the house!”
“Why should he?” asked Mrs. Craighill coldly.
“Well, after all, I’m a Western man, and our city has seemed--I would
confess it to no one but you--to have lost its early social dignity.”
“You could hardly expect it to be another Boston any more than you
could make Paris of it.”
“But now that the invitation has come in this perfectly cordial way,
it’s too bad they still look on me as a widower. They certainly had
cards.”
“Maybe you were not expected to understand; it’s merely a matter of
fact.” Her words were accompanied by a smile, so slight as to be almost
imperceptible, and a narrowing of the lids as she watched and studied
him.
“Of course they didn’t know of my marriage; you may be sure it was not
by intention.”
“I should say that the invitation leaves room for that doubt. The
Brodericks were certainly on the list of people to whom cards were
sent; I noticed the name the other day when I was looking over my
calling book.”
“But, my dear Addie! What motive would they have for ignoring the fact,
assuming that they knew of my marriage?”
“Then, of course, if it’s an error, they would be grateful to have it
corrected.”
She started to speak further, but bit her lip upon a renunciation of
the trip. She had resolved to see what solution of the matter he would
himself suggest. He pondered a moment.
“I hope you won’t misunderstand me, Addie, but I really don’t quite
see how I could suggest their asking you. In fact, it is clearly by
intention that Tarleton and I are being brought together there quietly,
and while it’s a bit awkward to be asked in this way so shortly after
our marriage, I hardly feel--the Brodericks being what they are and all
that--that I ought to----”
He broke off with a light laugh and a graceful outward fling of the
hands, in despair of these complications.
“It would be a pity for you to miss the opportunity of visiting so
distinguished a family--with Mrs. Broderick being the rare woman she
is, and all that!”
“Of course there is that side of it,” he agreed, with bland eagerness.
He did not see that she was laughing bitterly at him. “But I really
don’t see how that takes care of you!”
“Oh, you musn’t think of that! I should undoubtedly be bored to death.
I always hate visiting; when I’m away from home I much prefer going to
a hotel.”
“Well, I’m not thinking of myself so much--it’s whether visiting
Broderick that way and meeting Tarleton in the intimate way he
suggests, I shouldn’t be able to effect alliances of real value in one
way and another.”
“Why, of course,” she acquiesced with ironical readiness. “It’s a
masculine affair entirely; the fewer women the better. I know nothing
of such things, but Mrs. Broderick is a reformer herself, isn’t she?
I think I have read her name in the newspapers in connection with
meetings of various kinds--I don’t remember just what it was--but of
course she is interested in large affairs, and must be a great help to
her husband.”
She broke off in a pretty reverie, wide-eyed and with lips parted--an
expression that marked a fine shading of delicate mockery. “You are not
going there for fun, but to aid your reform work.”
“That is precisely it! I’m glad to see how you catch the spirit of the
matter. If it were not that I really believe I am doing my little mite
of good I should be unable to justify myself in giving so much time to
these things. But, this is really awkward! It is generous of you to
wish me to go----”
“Generous? Nonsense! It’s a wife’s first duty to be a help to her
husband. Just now it’s important for you to stay with the Brodericks
while you’re in Boston. I should be only an encumbrance----”
“No! I can’t allow you to say that! It’s merely a matter of your
abandoning the trip to----”
“To help the cause!” she supplied.
“I really appreciate this more than I can tell you, Addie. And in proof
of it I’m going to take you to Bermuda for Easter.”
“No, indeed! You musn’t feel that I have to be bought off--that
would spoil it all. You go to Boston and get all you can out of the
experience. You must remember to tell me just what they have for
breakfast, and about Mrs. Broderick’s gowns.”
“Fancy me!” he laughed.
He went out with the note in his hand to telephone his acceptance to
the telegraph office. When he had shut himself in with the telephone
she laughed; a light, mirthless laugh.