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_ "MR. WAYTHORN, I don't like that French governess of Lily's."
Haskett, subdued and apologetic, stood before Waythorn in the
library, revolving his shabby hat in his hand.
Waythorn, surprised in his armchair over the evening paper, stared
back perplexedly at his visitor.
"You'll excuse my asking to see you," Haskett continued. "But this
is my last visit, and I thought if I could have a word with you it
would be a better way than writing to Mrs. Waythorn's lawyer."
Waythorn rose uneasily. He did not like the French governess either;
but that was irrelevant.
"I am not so sure of that," he returned stiffly; "but since you wish
it I will give your message to--my wife." He always hesitated over
the possessive pronoun in addressing Haskett.
The latter sighed. "I don't know as that will help much. She didn't
like it when I spoke to her."
Waythorn turned red. "When did you see her?" he asked.
"Not since the first day I came to see Lily--right after she was
taken sick. I remarked to her then that I didn't like the
governess."
Waythorn made no answer. He remembered distinctly that, after that
first visit, he had asked his wife if she had seen Haskett. She had
lied to him then, but she had respected his wishes since; and the
incident cast a curious light on her character. He was sure she
would not have seen Haskett that first day if she had divined that
Waythorn would object, and the fact that she did not divine it was
almost as disagreeable to the latter as the discovery that she had
lied to him.
"I don't like the woman," Haskett was repeating with mild
persistency. "She ain't straight, Mr. Waythorn--she'll teach the
child to be underhand. I've noticed a change in Lily--she's too
anxious to please--and she don't always tell the truth. She used to
be the straightest child, Mr. Waythorn--" He broke off, his voice a
little thick. "Not but what I want her to have a stylish education,"
he ended.
Waythorn was touched. "I'm sorry, Mr. Haskett; but frankly, I don't
quite see what I can do."
Haskett hesitated. Then he laid his hat on the table, and advanced
to the hearth-rug, on which Waythorn was standing. There was nothing
aggressive in his manner; but he had the solemnity of a timid man
resolved on a decisive measure.
"There's just one thing you can do, Mr. Waythorn," he said. "You can
remind Mrs. Waythorn that, by the decree of the courts, I am
entitled to have a voice in Lily's bringing up." He paused, and went
on more deprecatingly: "I'm not the kind to talk about enforcing my
rights, Mr. Waythorn. I don't know as I think a man is entitled to
rights he hasn't known how to hold on to; but this business of the
child is different. I've never let go there--and I never mean to."
The scene left Waythorn deeply shaken. Shamefacedly, in indirect
ways, he had been finding out about Haskett; and all that he had
learned was favorable. The little man, in order to be near his
daughter, had sold out his share in a profitable business in Utica,
and accepted a modest clerkship in a New York manufacturing house.
He boarded in a shabby street and had few acquaintances. His passion
for Lily filled his life. Waythorn felt that this exploration of
Haskett was like groping about with a dark-lantern in his wife's
past; but he saw now that there were recesses his lantern had not
explored. He had never inquired into the exact circumstances of his
wife's first matrimonial rupture. On the surface all had been fair.
It was she who had obtained the divorce, and the court had given her
the child. But Waythorn knew how many ambiguities such a verdict
might cover. The mere fact that Haskett retained a right over his
daughter implied an unsuspected compromise. Waythorn was an
idealist. He always refused to recognize unpleasant contingencies
till he found himself confronted with them, and then he saw them
followed by a special train of consequences. His next days were thus
haunted, and he determined to try to lay the ghosts by conjuring
them up in his wife's presence.
When he repeated Haskett's request a flame of anger passed over her
face; but she subdued it instantly and spoke with a slight quiver of
outraged motherhood.
"It is very ungentlemanly of him," she said.
The word grated on Waythorn. "That is neither here nor there. It's a
bare question of rights."
She murmured: "It's not as if he could ever be a help to Lily--"
Waythorn flushed. This was even less to his taste. "The question
is," he repeated, "what authority has he over her?"
She looked downward, twisting herself a little in her seat. "I am
willing to see him--I thought you objected," she faltered.
In a flash he understood that she knew the extent of Haskett's
claims. Perhaps it was not the first time she had resisted them.
"My objecting has nothing to do with it," he said coldly; "if
Haskett has a right to be consulted you must consult him."
She burst into tears, and he saw that she expected him to regard her
as a victim.
Haskett did not abuse his rights. Waythorn had felt miserably sure
that he would not. But the governess was dismissed, and from time to
time the little man demanded an interview with Alice. After the
first outburst she accepted the situation with her usual
adaptability. Haskett had once reminded Waythorn of the piano-tuner,
and Mrs. Waythorn, after a month or two, appeared to class him with
that domestic familiar. Waythorn could not but respect the father's
tenacity. At first he had tried to cultivate the suspicion that
Haskett might be "up to" something, that he had an object in
securing a foothold in the house. But in his heart Waythorn was sure
of Haskett's single-mindedness; he even guessed in the latter a mild
contempt for such advantages as his relation with the Waythorns
might offer. Haskett's sincerity of purpose made him invulnerable,
and his successor had to accept him as a lien on the property.
Mr. Sellers was sent to Europe to recover from his gout, and
Varick's affairs hung on Waythorn's hands. The negotiations were
prolonged and complicated; they necessitated frequent conferences
between the two men, and the interests of the firm forbade
Waythorn's suggesting that his client should transfer his business
to another office.
Varick appeared well in the transaction. In moments of relaxation
his coarse streak appeared, and Waythorn dreaded his geniality; but
in the office he was concise and clear-headed, with a flattering
deference to Waythorn's judgment. Their business relations being so
affably established, it would have been absurd for the two men to
ignore each other in society. The first time they met in a
drawing-room, Varick took up their intercourse in the same easy key,
and his hostess's grateful glance obliged Waythorn to respond to it.
After that they ran across each other frequently, and one evening at
a ball Waythorn, wandering through the remoter rooms, came upon
Varick seated beside his wife. She colored a little, and faltered in
what she was saying; but Varick nodded to Waythorn without rising,
and the latter strolled on.
In the carriage, on the way home, he broke out nervously: "I didn't
know you spoke to Varick."
Her voice trembled a little. "It's the first time--he happened to be
standing near me; I didn't know what to do. It's so awkward, meeting
everywhere--and he said you had been very kind about some business."
"That's different," said Waythorn.
She paused a moment. "I'll do just as you wish," she returned
pliantly. "I thought it would be less awkward to speak to him when
we meet."
Her pliancy was beginning to sicken him. Had she really no will of
her own--no theory about her relation to these men? She had accepted
Haskett--did she mean to accept Varick? It was "less awkward," as
she had said, and her instinct was to evade difficulties or to
circumvent them. With sudden vividness Waythorn saw how the instinct
had developed. She was "as easy as an old shoe"--a shoe that too
many feet had worn. Her elasticity was the result of tension in too
many different directions. Alice Haskett--Alice Varick--Alice
Waythorn--she had been each in turn, and had left hanging to each
name a little of her privacy, a little of her personality, a little
of the inmost self where the unknown god abides.
"Yes--it's better to speak to Varick," said Waythorn wearily.
"Earth's Martyrs." By Stephen Phillips. _
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