by Basil King
CHAPTER V
I come at last to Hugh's defiance of his father. It took place not onlywithout my incitement, but without my knowledge. No one could have beenmore sick with misgiving than I when I learned that the boy had left hisfather's house and gone to a hotel. If I was to blame at all it was inmentioning from time to time his condition of dependence.
"You haven't the right to defy your father's wishes," I said to him. "solong as you're living on his money. What it comes to is that he pays youto do as he tells you. If you don't do as he tells you, you're notearning your allowance honestly."
The point of view was new to him. "But if I was making a living of myown?"
"Ah, that would be different."
"You'd marry me then?"
I considered this. "It would still have to depend," I was obliged to sayat last.
"Depend on what?"
"On the degree to which you made yourself your own master."
"I should be my own master if I earned a good income."
I admitted this.
"Very well," he declared, with decision. "I shall earn it."
I didn't question his power to do that. I had heard so much of theAmerican man's ability to make money that I took it for granted, as Idid a bird's capacity for flight. As far as Hugh was concerned, itseemed to me more a matter of intention than of opportunity. I reasonedthat if he made up his mind to be independent, independent he would be.It would rest with him. It was not of the future I was thinking so muchas of the present; and in the present I was chiefly dodging his pleathat we settle the matter by taking the law into our own hands.
"It won't be as bad as you think," he kept urging. "Father would be sureto come round to you if you were my wife. He never quarrels with theaccomplished fact. That's been part of the secret of his success. He'llfight a thing as long as he can; but when it's carried over his head noone knows better than he how to make the best of it."
"But, Hugh, I don't want to have him make the best of it that way--atleast, so long as you're not your own master."
One day at the Casino he pointed out Libby Jaynes to me. I was there incharge of the children, and he managed to slip over from the tennis hewas playing for a word:
"There she is--that girl with the orange-silk sweater."
The point of his remark was that Libby Jaynes was one of a group of halfa dozen people, and was apparently received at Newport like anybodyelse. The men were in flannels; the women in the short skirts and easyattitudes developed by a sporting life. The silk sweater in itsbrilliant hues was to the Casino grounds as the parrot to Brazilianwoods. Libby Jaynes wasn't pretty; her lips were too widely parted andher teeth too big; but her figure was adapted to the costume of the day,and her head to the slouching panama. She wore both with a decided_chic_. She was the orange spot where there was another of purple andanother of pink and another of bright emerald-green. As far as I couldsee no one remembered that she had ever rubbed men's finger-nails in thebarber's room of a hotel, and she certainly betrayed no sign of it. Itwas what Hugh begged me to observe. If I liked I could within a year bea member of this privileged troop instead of an outsider looking on."You'd be just as good as she is," he declared with a naivete I couldn'thelp taking with a smile.
I was about to say, "But I don't feel inferior to her as it is," when Irecalled the queer look of incredulity he had given me on the beach.
And then one morning I heard he had quarreled with his father. It wasHugh who told me first, but Mrs. Rossiter gave me all the details withinan hour afterward.
It appeared that they had had a dinner-party in honor of old Mrs.Billing which had gone off with some success. The guests having left,the family had gathered in Mildred's sitting-room to give the invalid anaccount of the entertainment. It was one of those domestic reunions onwhich the household god insisted from time to time, so that his wifeshould seem to have that support from his children which both he and sheknew she didn't have. The Jack Brokenshires were there, and Hugh, andEthel Rossiter.
It was exactly the scene for a tragi-comedy, and had the kind of settingtheatrical producers liked before the new scene-painters set the note ofallegorical simplicity. Mildred had the best corner room up-stairs,though, like the rest of the house, her surroundings suffered from herfather's taste for the Italianate and over-rich. Heavy dark cabinets,heavy dark chairs, gilt candelabra, and splendidly brocaded stuffs threwthe girl's wan face and weak figure into prominence. I think she oftensighed for pretty papers and cretonnes, for Sevres and colored prints,but she took her tapestries and old masters and majolica as decreed by apower she couldn't question. When everything was done for her comfortthe poor thing had nothing to do for herself.
The room had the further resemblance to a scene on the stage since, as Iwas given to understand, no one felt the reality of the friendlinessenacted. To all J. Howard's children it was odious that he shouldworship a woman who was younger than Mildred and very little older thanEthel. They had loved their mother, who had been plain. They resentedthe fact that their father had got hold of her money for himself, hadmade her unhappy, and had forgotten her. That he should have becomeinfatuated with a girl who was their own contemporary would have been ahumiliation to them in any case; but when the story of his fight for herbecame public property, when it was the joke of the Stock Exchange andthe subject of leading articles in the press, they could only hold theirheads high and carry the situation with bravado. It was a proof of hisgrip on New York that he could put Editha Billing where he wished to seeher, and find no authority, social or financial, bold enough to questionhim; it was equally a proof of his dominance in his family that neitherson nor daughter could treat his new wife with anything but deference.She was the _maitresse en titre_ to whom even the princes and princesseshad to bow.
They were bowing on this evening by treating old Mrs. Billing as if theyliked her and counted her one of themselves. As the mother of thefavorite she could reasonably claim this homage, and no one refused itbut poor Hugh. He turned his back on it. Mildred being obliged to lie ona couch, he put himself at her feet, refusing thus to be witness of whathe called a flattering hypocrisy that sickened him. That went on in thedimly, richly lighted room behind him, where the others sat about,pretending to be gay.
Then the match went into the gunpowder all at once.
"I'm the more glad the evening has been pleasant," J. Howard observed,blandly, "since we may consider it a farewell to Hugh. He's sailingon--"
Hugh merely said over his shoulder, "No, father; I'm not."
The startled silence was just long enough to be noticed before thefather went on, as if he had not been interrupted:
"He's sailing on--"
"No, father; I'm not."
There was no change in Hugh's tone any more than in his parent's. Igathered from Mrs. Rossiter that all present held their breaths as if inexpectation that this blasphemer would be struck dead. Mentally theystood off, too, like the chorus in an opera, to see the great tragedyacted to the end without interference of their own. Jack Brokenshire,who was fingering an extinct cigar, twiddled it nervously at his lips.Pauline clasped her hands and leaned forward in excitement. Mrs.Brokenshire affected to hear nothing and arranged her five rows ofpearls. Mrs. Billing, whom Mrs. Rossiter described as a condor with laceon her head and diamonds round her shrunken neck, looked from one toanother through her lorgnette, which she fixed at last on herson-in-law. Ethel Rossiter kept herself detached. Knowing that Hugh hadbeen riding for a fall, she expected him now to come his cropper.
It caused some surprise to the lookers-on that Mr. Brokenshire shouldmerely press the electric bell. "Tell Mr. Spellman to come here," hesaid, quietly, to the footman who answered his ring.
Mr. Spellman appeared, a smooth-shaven man of indefinite age, with darkshadows in the face, and cadaverous. His master instructed him with aword or two. There was silence during the minute that followed the man'swithdrawal, a silence ominous with expectation. When Spellman hadreturned and handed a long envelope to hi
s employer and withdrawn again,the suspended action was renewed.
Hugh, who was playing in seeming unconcern with the tassel of Mildred'sdressing-gown, had given no attention to the small drama going on behindhim.
"Hugh, here's father," Mildred whispered.
Her white face was drawn; she was fond of Hugh; she seemed to scent thecatastrophe. Hugh continued to play with the tassel without glancingupward.
It was not J. Howard's practice to raise his voice or to speak withemphasis except when the occasion demanded it. He was very gentle now ashis hand slipped over Hugh's shoulder.
"Hugh, here's your ticket and your letter of credit. I asked Spellman tosee to them when he was in New York."
The young man barely turned his head. "Thank you, father; but I don'twant them. I can't go over--because I'm going to marry Miss Adare."
As it was no time for the chorus of an opera to intervene, all waitedfor what would happen next. Old Mrs. Billing, turning her lorgnette onthe rebellious boy, saw nothing but the back of his head. The father'shand wavered for a minute over the son's shoulder and let the envelopefall. Hugh continued to play with the tassel.
For once Howard Brokenshire was disconcerted. Having stepped back a paceor two, he said in his quiet voice, "What did you say, Hugh?"
The answer was quite distinct. "I said I was going to marry Miss Adare."
"Who's that?"
"You know perfectly well, father. She's Ethel's nursery governess.You've been to see her, and she's told you she's going to marry me."
"Oh, but I thought that was over and done with."
"No, you didn't, father. Please don't try to come that. I told younearly a fortnight ago that I was perfectly serious--and I am."
"Oh, are you? Well, so am I. The Goldboroughs are expecting you for thetwelfth--"
"The Goldboroughs can go to--"
"Hugh!" It was Mildred who cut him short with a cry that was almost apetition.
"All right, Milly," he assured her under his breath. "I'm not going tomake a scene."
That J. Howard expected to become the principal in a duel, under theeyes of excited witnesses, I do not think. If he had chosen to speakwhen witnesses were present, it was because of his assumption thatHugh's submission would be thus more easily secured. As it was hispolicy never to enter into a conflict of authorities, or of will againstwill, he was for the moment nonplussed. I have an idea he would haveretired gracefully, waiting for a more convenient opportunity, had itnot been for old Mrs. Billing's lorgnette.
It will, perhaps, not interrupt my narrative too much if I say here thatof all the important women he knew he was most afraid of her. She hadcoached him when he was a beginner in life and she an established youngwoman of the world. She must then have had a certain _beaute du diable_and that nameless thing which men find exciting in women. I have beentold that she was an example of the modern Helen of Troy, over whom menfight while she holds the stakes, and I can believe it. Her history wassaid to be full of dramatic episodes, though I never knew what theywere. Even at sixty, which was the age at which I saw her, she had thatkind of presence which challenges and dares. She was ugly and hook-nosedand withered; but she couldn't be overlooked. To me she suggested thatMadame Poisson who so carefully prepared her daughter to become theMarquise de Pompadour. Stacy Grainger, I believe, was the Louis XV. ofher earlier plans, though, like a born strategist, she changed hermethods when reasons arose for doing so. I shall return to this later inmy story. At present I only want to say that I do not believe that Mr.Brokenshire would have pushed things to an issue that night had herlorgnette not been there to provoke him.
"Has it occurred to you, Hugh," he asked, in his softest tones, onreaching a stand before the chimney which was filled with dwarfed pottedpalms, "that I pay you an allowance of six thousand dollars a year?"
Hugh continued to play with the tassel of Mildred's gown. "Yes, father;and as a Socialist I don't think it right. I've been coming to thedecision that--"
"You'll spare us your poses and let the Socialist nonsense drop. Isimply want to remind you--"
"I can't let the Socialist nonsense drop, father, because--"
The tartness of the tone betrayed a rising irritation.
"Be good enough to turn round this way. I don't understand what you'resaying. Perhaps you'll take a chair, and leave poor Mildred alone."
Mildred whispered: "Oh, Hugh, be careful. I'll do anything for you ifyou won't get him worked up. It'll hurt his face--and his poor eye."
Hugh slouched--the word is Mrs. Rossiter's--to a nearby chair, where hesat down in a hunched position, his hands in his trousers pockets andhis feet thrust out before him. The attitude was neither graceful norrespectful to the company.
"It's no use talking, father," he declared, sulkily, "because I've saidmy last word."
"Oh no, you haven't, for I haven't said my first."
In the tone in which Hugh cried out there must have been something ofthe plea of a little boy before he is punished:
"Please don't give me any orders, father, because I sha'n't be able toobey them."
"Hugh, your expression 'sha'n't be able to obey' is not in thevocabulary with which I'm familiar."
"But it's in the one with which I am."
"Then you've probably learnt it from Ethel's little servant--I'veforgotten the name--"
Hugh spoke with spirit. "She's not a servant; and her name is AlexandraAdare. Please, dad, try to fix it in your memory. You'll find you'llhave a lot of use for it."
"Don't be impertinent."
"I'm not impertinent. I'm stating a fact. I ask every one here toremember that name--"
"We needn't bring any one else into this foolish business. It's betweenyou and me. Even so, I wish to have no argument."
"Nor I."
"Then in that case we understand each other. You'll be with theGoldboroughs for the twelfth--"
Hugh spoke very distinctly: "Father--I'm--not--going."
In the silence that followed one could hear the ticking of themantelpiece clock.
"Then may I ask where you are going?"
Hugh raised himself from his sprawling attitude, holding his bulky youngfigure erect. "I'm going to earn a living."
Some one, perhaps old Mrs. Billing, laughed. The father continued tospeak with great if dangerous courtesy.
"Ah? Indeed! That's interesting. And may I ask at what?"
"At what I can find."
"That's more interesting still. Earning a living in New York is like theproverbial looking for the needle in the haystack. The needle is there,but it takes--"
"Very good eyesight to detect it. All right, dad. I shall be on thejob."
"Good! And when do you propose to begin?"
It had not been Hugh's intention to begin at any time in particular,but, thus challenged, he said, boldly, "To-morrow."
"That's excellent. But why put it off so long? I should think you'dstart out--to-night."
Mrs. Billing's "Ha-a!" subdued and prolonged, was like that tenseexclamation which the spectators utter at some exiting moment of a game.It took no sides, but it did justice to a sporting situation. As Hughtold me the story on the following day he confessed that more than anyother occurrence it put the next move "up to him." According to EthelRossiter he lumbered heavily to his feet and crossed the room toward hisfather. He began to speak as he neared the architectural chimneypiece,merely throwing the words at J. Howard as he passed.
"All right, father. Since you wish it--"
"Oh no. My wishes are out of it. As you defy those I've expressed,there's no more to be said."
Hugh paused in his walk, his hands in the pockets of his dinner-jacket,and eyed his father obliquely. "I don't defy your wishes, dad. I onlyclaim the right, as a man of twenty-six, to live my own life. If youwouldn't make yourself God--"
The handsome hand went up. "We'll not talk about that, if you please.I'd no intention of discussing the matter any longer. I merely thoughtthat if I were in the situation in which you'v
e placed yourself, Ishould be--getting busy. Still, if you want to stay the night--"
"Oh, not in the least." Hugh was as nonchalant as he had the power tomake himself. "Thanks awfully, father, all the same." He looked round onthe circle where each of the chorus sat with an appropriate expressionof horror--that is, with the exception of the old lady Billing, who,with her lorgnette still to her eyes, nodded approval of so much spirit."Good night, every one," Hugh continued, coolly, and made his way towardthe door.
He had nearly reached it when Mildred cried out: "Hugh! Hughie! You'renot going away like that!"
He retraced his steps to the couch, where he stooped, pressed hissister's thin fingers, and kissed her. In doing so he was able towhisper:
"Don't worry, Milly dear. Going to be all right. Shall be a man now. Seeyou soon again." Having raised himself, he nodded once more. "Goodnight, every one."
Mrs. Rossiter said that he was so much like a young fellow going to hisexecution that she couldn't respond by a word.
Hugh then marched up to his father and held out his hand. "Good night,dad. We needn't have any ill-feeling even if we don't agree."
But the Great Dispenser didn't see him. An imposing figure standing withhis hands behind his back, he kept his fingers clasped. Looking throughhis son as if he was no more than air, he remarked to the company ingeneral:
"I don't think I've ever seen Daisy Burke appear better than she didto-night. She's usually so badly dressed." He turned with a littledeferential stoop to where Mrs. Brokenshire--whom Ethel Rossiterdescribed as a rigid, exquisite thing staring off into vacancy--sat on asmall upright chair. "What do you think, darling?"
Hugh could hear the family trying to rally to the hint that had thusbeen given them, and doing their best to discuss the merits and demeritsof Daisy Burke, as he stood in the big, square hall outside, wonderingwhere he should seek shelter.
