CLOSED DOORS
Wayne stood uncertainly on the boarding-house steps, glancing up and
down the bleak, deserted street. The night was cold and a keen wind
whipped his unbuttoned ulster round him. The woman watching him through
the blind, so near that he was within arm’s reach of her, felt the
tragedy of this hour. Her sense of responsibility for one man’s life
had prompted her confession in the ugly little parlour; but there stood
another, whose need of her was not less great. She had sent Wayne
Craighill away and she must always think of him as he stood there,
outside the threshold of her life as it was to be, blown upon by winds
of destiny. A bit of paper, whirling in the blast, was not more a thing
of chance than he.
A succession of trolleys passed as Wayne lingered, staring out upon the
street. He was hardly conscious of the conflict that raged within, the
turbulent spirit, the appetite already thwarted once to-day, uncoiling
like a serpent and demanding to be satisfied. His heart was in
rebellion against whatever gods he knew. No one in all the city was so
lone as he; but there was always the great resource. He glanced toward
the heart of the city; a car was approaching and he took a step; it
was approaching rapidly and he started to run. It stopped with a harsh
grinding of the brakes, and he put his foot on the step, then swung
round, leaving an angry conductor swearing on the platform, and walked
rapidly toward home. Jean, waiting at the window, saw and read with
relief the meaning of his changed decision.
The spirit of the storm was not fiercer than that in his own heart as
he strode away and as his blood warmed with the exercise he began to
enjoy his buffetting in the gale. He had started up the long avenue
toward the East End, widening at every step the distance between
himself and the haunts he had known in drink. The internal struggle was
less strenuous, now that his body fought the gale; and the remembrance
of Jean nestled bird-like in his heart. She was a woman, unlike any
that had ever been before in the world, and she had opened her soul to
him for a fleeting glimpse and closed the door forever.
He strode on until midnight, with the bare boughs of the trees bending
over him under the lash of the blast; and he found himself at last
quite near home, and suddenly tired and weak, for he had eaten nothing
since his slight luncheon. When he had gained the house and let himself
in he flung himself down in a chair in the hall, and sat there, too
weary to go further. The weakness of hunger was a new sensation and he
felt so strange that he wondered if he were ill, and nothing that had
happened seemed real or possible.
He became aware of a light step on the stair but in the dim light
from the single hall lamp he saw no one. A moment later the switch
clicked and Mrs. Craighill stood gazing at him as he sat in one of the
high-backed hall chairs, his ulster falling loosely round him, his hat
on the floor at his side. There was no mistaking the meaning of her
accusing glance.
“Wayne!” she cried, “what are you doing here?”
He rose and clung wavering to the chair, confirming her impression that
he was drunk.
“I’m all right, Addie. I haven’t been drinking--not a drop. Don’t make
a fuss. I’ll go up to bed in a minute. I’m a little knocked out, that’s
all.”
He shook her off impatiently as she tried to help him out of his coat.
“Please run along, Addie. I’m tired to death, and I guess I’m hungry.
I’ll get some crackers.”
Nothing would serve now but that she must find something for him to
eat; and he followed her into the dining room where she lighted the
alcohol lamp and prepared to make tea. He protested, as she came and
went with things for his luncheon, that far less would do. She moved
about softly in her slippered feet, her dressing gown fluttering about
her, while he sat with his elbows on the table and his head in his
hands, unheedful of her questions. She brought a chair and sat down
near him to tend the kettle and waited what seemed an insufferable time
for him to speak. Finally she said:
“Your father came in only a little while before I heard you. There was
a meeting of the directors of the Hercules National to-night. He seemed
very much troubled when he came home.”
Wayne lifted his head. “Yes; I suppose he is.”
“Have the business troubles affected him? He says there is no panic.”
Wayne roused himself at this and grinned.
“You might be sure father would take a sanguine view of the situation.
That’s his way. It doesn’t make any difference what you call it--a
panic or a shortage of currency or anything else--the country’s been
scared to death and the fright isn’t over yet.”
He drank his tea and ate hungrily the sandwiches she had made. The
news that his father had been at the bank until midnight interested
him; he knew that the Hercules carried his father’s paper for a very
large amount, and that it was maturing. Seeing that the mention of the
financial stringency had interested Wayne, Mrs. Craighill jumped to
the conclusion that the Craighill fortunes were in jeopardy and that
Wayne’s condition was due to the anxious state of affairs downtown.
She had believed her husband very rich and the thought that he might
experience reverses was not pleasing. She had passed an unhappy
day after her interview with her husband that morning touching the
unfortunate Boston excursion. She had spent the evening alone and,
though Wayne did not know it, she had telephoned to the Allequippa Club
and to the Penn and asked for him. She had much to tell him and as he
seemed more like himself, now that the hot tea had warmed his chilled
body, she was quite ready to prolong this interview for her own relief
and pleasure. She was charming _en neglige_ and her hair in long braids
added its note of intimacy.
“It’s nice to see you. If you won’t tell--really and truly--I’ll
confess something.”
“Well?” he scowled.
“Dear me, you’ll have to do a lot better than that, Waynie, dear.”
“Don’t call me Waynie; it makes me sick.”
“Oh,” she pouted and threw herself back in her chair.
“What is it you wanted to tell me?” he demanded.
“Nothing.”
“Then don’t make so much fuss about it. You’d better go to bed.”
“I’m comfortable right now, but I’ve been lonesome and unhappy all day.
I hoped you would come a long time ago. I kept a fine fire going for
you--really just for you--in the library, and now you’re as cross and
uninteresting as you can be. I didn’t suppose you Craighills were all
cross.”
“So father was cross was he?” asked Wayne, scowling into his cigarette
case.
“Oh, terribly cross. I tried to be polite to him and he went into his
room and slammed the door. He was very cross this morning when he came
home from Boston. He saw my mother up there.”
Wayne’s manner changed.
“That’s perfectly bully! If you have any more news like that, Addie,
you may go on and tell me. Let’s move into the library.”
He stirred the fire into life and threw on fresh wood. He was refreshed
by his luncheon and it was the curse of his temperament that he never
ignored the nearest pleasure. Addie was a pretty trifle of a woman and
it was not unpleasant to find her in a receptive mood. She crouched
beside him, so close that he could have placed his hand on her head.
“This is very cozy, isn’t it? It must be hideously cold outside. Your
father was going to take me to Bermuda for Easter, but I suppose we may
all be in the poor-house by that time.”
“Stranger things have happened. But they wouldn’t take you at the
alms-house. You are young and capable. I don’t just see you sitting on
the bench with the old ladies, knitting socks. It would not become you,
Addie. If the worst comes you would go out like a brave little woman
and support your husband.”
She flashed a frightened look at him; she had no idea that her
husband’s difficulties were serious, though she assumed he might
be temporarily embarrassed, as men often were, without finding it
necessary to change their manner of life. She remembered that the roof
over her head belonged to Wayne and she sought to reassure herself as
to the permanence of the arrangement by which Colonel Craighill had the
use of it.
“You wouldn’t let them turn me out-of-doors, would you Wayne?”
“Well, if father went broke it would hardly be up to me to carry on the
house here; it’s an expensive establishment to run. I might have to
sell it myself.”
“Yes; I suppose your interests and your father’s are identical. What
hurts him would hurt you.”
“Not at all! Our interests are anything but identical. We belong”--he
said, with an irony that was for his own satisfaction--“we belong to
different schools of finance. Father’s a plunger without knowing it;
I’m a Wayne and the Waynes were always true Scots and kept what they
had and sat on it. Father likes to be director of things, and the
things liked to have him. He’s been used a good deal as bait--that’s
what it amounts to. He’s just paid about two hundred thousand dollars
for the privilege of sitting with a lot of solemn gentlemen up at
Boston who organized a big corporation to raise bananas or grape
fruit or something in the torrid deserts of Mexico. You know father
well enough by this time to understand how that idea would appeal to
him--irrigation to water the desert and make it blossom as the rose! I
went in for a few thousand and so did Walsh; but we quit, and to-day
when I told father I had sold out he was wounded. Tom Walsh is about
the shrewdest old party there is around here. We sold out at the same
time and both made money.”
He laughed softly to himself and slapped his knee.
“If you knew your father had got into a bad thing you ought to have
told him--don’t you think so?”
“Yes,” he mocked her, still chuckling; “we ought to have told the
Colonel he had bought a dead horse--and been gently kicked for our
trouble. We know the Colonel, Tom and I. You notice that Tom bought
out the mercantile house. Tom’s wiser than a serpent; he knew it
was the best thing father had. Tom likes me. Isn’t it funny? He’s
always settled all claims for damages against me when I’ve ripped
things loose--and done it economically and quietly--never said
anything, but just asked later for my check and said ‘Um’ when I
thanked him. I caught the old rascal once giving an organ to a church
somewhere--Vermont or New Hampshire; I guess it was Vermont, come to
think of it. He was terribly bored when the bill strayed in to my desk.
It was in memory of his father and mother and he growled fiercely
because I got on to it.”
“He’s a strange man; I don’t understand him,” remarked Mrs. Craighill
carelessly.
“By the way, how did you come out with your drive with Tom? Of course
you told father you had been out riding with another man. I don’t know
just how he would have taken it; you see Tom was only a sort of clerk
in father’s office; father never knew him socially. I’ll wager you
didn’t tell the Colonel.”
“No; I didn’t tell him. He was so angry about mother having spoiled his
visit to the Brodericks’ and threatening to come here for a visit that
I couldn’t have told him if I had wanted to.”
“Ah! I suppose you’ll wire her not to come, like a good little girl.”
“No; I’ll do nothing of the kind; but she won’t come.”
Her tone caused him to look at her quickly; but she met his gaze
quietly and asked:
“How did you get on with Miss Morley after I so considerately left you
alone this morning? This has really been a very busy day, hasn’t it?”
Wayne’s heart sank at the mention of Jean. It was in this room that
very morning that heaven had seemed so near. Mrs. Craighill had
followed her inquiry with a glance to see why he ignored her question.
He had turned forward the table by which Jean had stood when he took
her hand and held it to his face. He did not answer her question but
stared dully into the fire where the events of the day mocked him in
kinetoscopic flashes. Mrs. Craighill raised herself to her knees and
brought her face close to his.
“Are you in love with her, Wayne?”
“What if I am?” he snapped, stirring uneasily and drawing slightly away
from her.
“I’d be sorry if you were in love with anyone, I think; but you musn’t
let her hurt you. I shouldn’t like that. She is too handsome for a poor
girl; I suppose I was too,” she concluded with a sigh.
She found and caressed his hand. The faint, elusive perfume of her
silken robe, the light touch of her hand, the fine precision of her
profile, the pretty red lips and heavy-lidded, smiling eyes combined to
quicken his heartbeats. She was here, quite within his reach, a wounded
bird, with bruised wings, asking shelter. The revenge he had carried in
his heart since the night he read her letter announcing her engagement
to marry his father was attainable--he knew it by all the manifold
testimonies of his senses, the response of his nature to hers. She was,
as Tom Walsh had said, fragile, like glass; and he was a veritable
weathercock, the wind’s plaything. His hand closed over hers, she drew
nearer and her head lay on his breast, and he stroked her fair, bright
hair.
“It’s good to be happy. I wish I belonged to you. If things only went
right in this world I should, and we should have dear times together.”
Her bare arm stole about his neck; the touch of it kindled his blood
like flame.
“You are tired of it?” he asked in a low voice.
“Yes,” she answered softly.
“You’ve been cheated; you paid a big price for the happiness you didn’t
get.”
“He doesn’t care the least bit. I don’t interest him. You might think
he would talk to me when he was in trouble, but he keeps as far away
as he can. But--I’m really not so bad--am I, Wayne? I’m not ugly, or
stupid, or so very foolish?”
He pressed her hand for answer.
“Don’t you think I’m as nice as Jean? She’s big and strong and
handsome--and she’s interesting--I can see how she appeals to you; but
there’s so much she doesn’t know. Don’t you believe I know more than
she does?”
His hand relaxed; she was aware that he drew away from her. He rose,
almost flinging her away.
“For God’s sake, Addie, don’t talk to me of her; don’t speak of her.”
“Oh!” It was the exclamation of a rebuked child. “Of course I didn’t
understand,” she pouted. “You seemed lonely and I was trying to be good
to you. Of course, then, she is wiser than I am. If I’d known how it
stood with you I shouldn’t have spoken of her at all.”
“She knows what you don’t know; she knows me.”
“Then she must be very wise!”
“She knows ten thousand things you never dreamed of; she has watched
them bring dead men out of the pit; she has heard grimy children crying
for their dead fathers. She knows the real things; but life to you is
only a candy box with pretty pictures on the cover.”
“This may be very interesting,” she remarked coldly, “but I’m afraid
you’re going to bore me. I don’t think I care to hear about dead men
and the pit and children crying. Good night.”
He was safe for the moment. Her reference to Jean had steadied him, but
he was not sure of himself. He felt that Jean was there by the table
where he had pressed her hand to his face; the viol-like chords of her
voice were in his ears; he saw the light of her countenance and felt
the benediction of her spirit.
Mrs. Craighill had never understood him less than in that instant when,
half turning to leave, she saw the far-away look of his eyes, the
straightening of his figure and the indifferent glance that showed his
acquiescence in her departure.
It was at this moment that the lights in the hall, which they had
turned off when they sought the library, flashed on again. Mrs.
Craighill sprang to the switch inside the library door and darkened the
room. The hall lights fell only faintly across the library threshold,
but as she peered out through the portières Mrs. Craighill saw her
husband slowly descending, clad in his dressing gown, some papers in
his hand. Her heart tore at her breast as she waited. When he reached
the hall she was quite sure that he would come into the library and
she put her hand over her mouth to stifle her frightened breathing.
But he turned toward the little coat room and she heard him at the
telephone. She was faint from fear, but Wayne caught her wrist and held
her. Colonel Craighill was dictating a message to the telegraph office;
cries for help these messages were, Wayne knew, to friends in New York
and Philadelphia, and they added testimony to the worst Wayne knew of
his father’s plight.
“Come,” Wayne whispered to the shrinking woman--“come.”
He drew her across the room and through a little-used door that
communicated with the rear of the house, to a circular stairway that
led to the upper floors, and waited until he heard the door above open
and shut softly. Then he went back to the library and saw his father
pass into the lighted area of the hall and mount the stair slowly.
The lights were snapped out from above and the house was still. Wayne
sighed deeply and sought in the dark the chair in which Jean had sat
that morning. When the light of the late winter dawn crept in grayly he
was still there, his head bowed in his arms on the table.