________________________________________________
_ WAYTHORN, on the drawing-room hearth, waited for his wife to come
down to dinner.
It was their first night under his own roof, and he was surprised at
his thrill of boyish agitation. He was not so old, to be sure--his
glass gave him little more than the five-and-thirty years to which
his wife confessed--but he had fancied himself already in the
temperate zone; yet here he was listening for her step with a tender
sense of all it symbolized, with some old trail of verse about the
garlanded nuptial door-posts floating through his enjoyment of the
pleasant room and the good dinner just beyond it.
They had been hastily recalled from their honeymoon by the illness
of Lily Haskett, the child of Mrs. Waythorn's first marriage. The
little girl, at Waythorn's desire, had been transferred to his house
on the day of her mother's wedding, and the doctor, on their
arrival, broke the news that she was ill with typhoid, but declared
that all the symptoms were favorable. Lily could show twelve years
of unblemished health, and the case promised to be a light one. The
nurse spoke as reassuringly, and after a moment of alarm Mrs.
Waythorn had adjusted herself to the situation. She was very fond of
Lily--her affection for the child had perhaps been her decisive
charm in Waythorn's eyes--but she had the perfectly balanced nerves
which her little girl had inherited, and no woman ever wasted less
tissue in unproductive worry. Waythorn was therefore quite prepared
to see her come in presently, a little late because of a last look
at Lily, but as serene and well-appointed as if her good-night kiss
had been laid on the brow of health. Her composure was restful to
him; it acted as ballast to his somewhat unstable sensibilities. As
he pictured her bending over the child's bed he thought how soothing
her presence must be in illness: her very step would prognosticate
recovery.
His own life had been a gray one, from temperament rather than
circumstance, and he had been drawn to her by the unperturbed gayety
which kept her fresh and elastic at an age when most women's
activities are growing either slack or febrile. He knew what was
said about her; for, popular as she was, there had always been a
faint undercurrent of detraction. When she had appeared in New York,
nine or ten years earlier, as the pretty Mrs. Haskett whom Gus
Varick had unearthed somewhere--was it in Pittsburgh or
Utica?--society, while promptly accepting her, had reserved the
right to cast a doubt on its own discrimination. Inquiry, however,
established her undoubted connection with a socially reigning
family, and explained her recent divorce as the natural result of a
runaway match at seventeen; and as nothing was known of Mr. Haskett
it was easy to believe the worst of him.
Alice Haskett's remarriage with Gus Varick was a passport to the set
whose recognition she coveted, and for a few years the Varicks were
the most popular couple in town. Unfortunately the alliance was
brief and stormy, and this time the husband had his champions.
Still, even Varick's stanchest supporters admitted that he was not
meant for matrimony, and Mrs. Varick's grievances were of a nature
to bear the inspection of the New York courts. A New York divorce is
in itself a diploma of virtue, and in the semi-widowhood of this
second separation Mrs. Varick took on an air of sanctity, and was
allowed to confide her wrongs to some of the most scrupulous ears in
town. But when it was known that she was to marry Waythorn there was
a momentary reaction. Her best friends would have preferred to see
her remain in the role of the injured wife, which was as becoming to
her as crape to a rosy complexion. True, a decent time had elapsed,
and it was not even suggested that Waythorn had supplanted his
predecessor. Still, people shook their heads over him, and one
grudging friend, to whom he affirmed that he took the step with his
eyes open, replied oracularly: "Yes--and with your ears shut."
Waythorn could afford to smile at these innuendoes. In the Wall
Street phrase, he had "discounted" them. He knew that society has
not yet adapted itself to the consequences of divorce, and that till
the adaptation takes place every woman who uses the freedom the law
accords her must be her own social justification. Waythorn had an
amused confidence in his wife's ability to justify herself. His
expectations were fulfilled, and before the wedding took place Alice
Varick's group had rallied openly to her support. She took it all
imperturbably: she had a way of surmounting obstacles without
seeming to be aware of them, and Waythorn looked back with wonder at
the trivialities over which he had worn his nerves thin. He had the
sense of having found refuge in a richer, warmer nature than his
own, and his satisfaction, at the moment, was humorously summed up
in the thought that his wife, when she had done all she could for
Lily, would not be ashamed to come down and enjoy a good dinner.
The anticipation of such enjoyment was not, however, the sentiment
expressed by Mrs. Waythorn's charming face when she presently joined
him. Though she had put on her most engaging teagown she had
neglected to assume the smile that went with it, and Waythorn
thought he had never seen her look so nearly worried.
"What is it?" he asked. "Is anything wrong with Lily?"
"No; I've just been in and she's still sleeping." Mrs. Waythorn
hesitated. "But something tiresome has happened."
He had taken her two hands, and now perceived that he was crushing a
paper between them.
"This letter?"
"Yes--Mr. Haskett has written--I mean his lawyer has written."
Waythorn felt himself flush uncomfortably. He dropped his wife's
hands.
"What about?"
"About seeing Lily. You know the courts--"
"Yes, yes," he interrupted nervously.
Nothing was known about Haskett in New York. He was vaguely supposed
to have remained in the outer darkness from which his wife had been
rescued, and Waythorn was one of the few who were aware that he had
given up his business in Utica and followed her to New York in order
to be near his little girl. In the days of his wooing, Waythorn had
often met Lily on the doorstep, rosy and smiling, on her way "to see
papa."
"I am so sorry," Mrs. Waythorn murmured.
He roused himself. "What does he want?"
"He wants to see her. You know she goes to him once a week."
"Well--he doesn't expect her to go to him now, does he?"
"No--he has heard of her illness; but he expects to come here."
"_Here?_"
Mrs. Waythorn reddened under his gaze. They looked away from each
other.
"I'm afraid he has the right....You'll see...." She made a
proffer of the letter.
Waythorn moved away with a gesture of refusal. He stood staring
about the softly lighted room, which a moment before had seemed so
full of bridal intimacy.
"I'm so sorry," she repeated. "If Lily could have been moved--"
"That's out of the question," he returned impatiently.
"I suppose so."
Her lip was beginning to tremble, and he felt himself a brute.
"He must come, of course," he said. "When is--his day?"
"I'm afraid--to-morrow."
"Very well. Send a note in the morning."
The butler entered to announce dinner.
Waythorn turned to his wife. "Come--you must be tired. It's beastly,
but try to forget about it," he said, drawing her hand through his
arm.
"You're so good, dear. I'll try," she whispered back.
Her face cleared at once, and as she looked at him across the
flowers, between the rosy candle-shades, he saw her lips waver back
into a smile.
"How pretty everything is!" she sighed luxuriously.
He turned to the butler. "The champagne at once, please. Mrs.
Waythorn is tired."
In a moment or two their eyes met above the sparkling glasses. Her
own were quite clear and untroubled: he saw that she had obeyed his
injunction and forgotten.
Waythorn moved away with a gesture of refusal _
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