THE BELATED APPEARANCE OF JOHN McCANDLESS BLAIR
The calendar swings us almost into contemporaneous history. It is
September of the Year of our Lord Nineteen Hundred and Nine. Mrs.
John McCandless Blair’s excuse for returning to town so early was the
dilatoriness of the workmen who were making over her house. It had been
remodelled, so often that only her own ingenuity could have devised
further changes, and her long-suffering architect shuddered when he
heard her voice on the telephone. She was a terror to contractors, and
even plumbers were humble before her. Her husband, John Blair--who has
had no chance at all in this chronicle for the simple reason that he
was, in all matters that engaged his wife’s attention, a negligible
quantity--had thought her safe at York Harbour until the first of
October. As one motive was never enough to assign for any of Mrs.
Blair’s actions, her husband waited patiently for the disclosure of the
real cause of her coming. He was a philosopher, and her appearance did
not interrupt his work on the brief he was writing; but he was sorry
for the architect, who was a friend of his.
Wayne was at home, and he and Wingfield were teaching Walsh to play
golf, and Pittsburg had hardly seen anything funnier than this. Colonel
Craighill, who was quite himself again, was with Mrs. Craighill in the
Berkshires, at a point convenient to Williamstown, where there was to
be a meeting of the executive committee of Something or Other a little
later. People had been saying lately that the Colonel was a different
man, now that Wayne had given up his evil ways; but Dick Wingfield
changed the subject when Wayne’s reformation was broached. He declared
that Colonel Craighill would be in the poor-house if Tom Walsh had not
fished him out of bankruptcy. But Dick’s opinions were coloured by his
prejudices; and besides, he never knew what Wayne did for his father at
Walsh’s behest.
John Blair was staying at the Country Club, while the house was out of
commission, and Mrs. Blair joined him in his office in the Craighill
Building for the motor flight to Rosedale. On the second afternoon
following her descent she broke in upon her husband at midday,
ostensibly to go to luncheon with him in the ladies’ cafe of the
Allequippa, but as he begged her not to disturb the open volumes that
bristled on the tables and chairs of his private room, he was aware of
a new light in her eye. It was hardly twelve o’clock, and Fanny did not
usually care for luncheon. Blair made a place for her, and waited.
“Jean Morley’s coming. She’ll be in at four o’clock. Poor girl! She’s
been out in New Mexico in all this heat, doing pictures of Indians.
I’ve been wiring her aboard trains for two days to meet me here, and I
just now heard from her.”
Blair carefully marked his place in “Dillon on Municipal Corporations”
and sighed.
“So that’s it, is it Fanny? I wondered what on earth brought you to
town just now.”
“What are you talking about!” she demanded.
John McCandless Blair received large sums from corporations for
anticipating the movements of their enemies. His wife’s complex mental
processes did not baffle him. They were, however, excellent practice,
and they amused him.
“Oh, I see Wayne’s finish now if you’re going to pull the girl off the
train here and bring them together. Which one of your protégées is this
Jean--the pretty manicurist with the short upper lip you wanted to make
a harpist of, or that interesting Swedish girl you launched in the
delicatessen business? The manicurist was pleasing to the eye--I won’t
deny that she affected me strongly; but I hope it isn’t the Swede. Her
creditors still pursue me.”
“You’re so unsympathetic, John. You know Jean Morley well enough. You
told me yourself you thought her wonderfully interesting--and Mr.
Richardson says she will go far.”
“I dare say she will, Fanny. And now we’re to have her in the family, I
hope she’ll be a good sister to me.”
“Please don’t make fun, John. This has all been so terribly tragic. And
the girl is so proud! She wouldn’t come to the Harbour this summer for
fear of meeting Wayne there and she positively refused to see him in
New York.”
“But trapped in Pittsburg, she’s going to see him now if you die in the
attempt. I’m for it. Do you want me to ask the Sheriff to help? Maybe
I’d better get a _ne exeat_ to hold Wayne--he may have changed his
mind.”
He took her to luncheon and received his instructions humbly. Wayne
must be asked to dine with them at Rosedale, and it would be a good
plan, she thought, to have him come up to the office to ride out with
them in their car. In no other way could she be sure her plans would
not miscarry. And Blair made careful note of his orders, which included
the menu of a dinner for four which he must perforce telephone to
Rosedale.
“Wayne’s probably lunching in the general dining room--why not give him
a tip now that the adorable one approacheth--he might like a chance to
brush up a bit,” he suggested.
“You never understand anything, John Blair! You telephone Wayne that
you want to see him at your office at five o’clock, and tell him about
dining with us at Rosedale, and by the time I bring Jean to the office
he will be there....”
“Fanny, I wish I had your resourceful mind! So my office is to be the
rendezvous. The library is at your disposal, but you might wait till we
get them to Rosedale and give them a quiet corner of the veranda; the
setting would be more romantic.”
“Oh, you stupid! If she sees him first it’s all over! She knows what
he wants to say to her and she won’t face it; she believes he’s going
to offer himself out of gratitude for what he thinks she’s done for
him; it’s all very complicated.”
“It’s too deep for me, Fanny. But you will undoubtedly land them. I
see Wayne’s finish--I hear the first strains of the organ in dear old
Memorial over the way--Wingfield best man, Wayne scared to death--and
‘Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?’”
“You may do that yourself, dear, if you are good!”
* * * * *
The western train was late so that Blair’s ingenuity was severely taxed
by the effort to hold Wayne, who was the least bit surprised to find
himself summoned to his brother-in-law’s office to discuss Fanny’s
investments, which Blair was perfectly competent to manage without help
from him. It was half-past five when Mrs. Blair appeared, so demure and
indifferent that Blair almost laughed outright.
“Oh, Wayne!” she cried, “I think I dropped my handkerchief as I came
through the library--would you be so kind----”
She herself, admirable woman, closed the door upon them.