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Payment In Full
by
“And papa!” protested the daughter, “I thought he couldn’t leave this winter?”
Mrs. Stuart smiled again provokingly. “Yes?”
“Oh, I can’t understand!” Her pleading was almost passionate, but still low and sweet. “I want so much to go on with my lessons with the other girls. And I want to go out here with all the girls I know.”
“We will have them at Winetka. And Stuyvesant Wheelright–you liked him last summer.”
The girl colored deeply. “I don’t want him in the house. I had rather go away. I’ll go to Vassar with Mary Archer. You needn’t hunt up any man for me.”
“Pray, do you think I would tolerate a college woman in my house? It’s well enough for school-teachers. And what does your painting amount to? You will paint sufficiently well, I dare say, to sell a few daubs, and so take the bread and butter from some poor girl. But I am afraid, my dear, we couldn’t admit your pictures to the gallery.”
The girl’s eyes grew tearful at this tart disdain. “I love it, and papa has money enough to let me paint ‘daubs’ as long as I like. Please, please let me go on with it!”
* * * * *
That afternoon the little caravan started for the deserted summer home at Winetka, on a high bluff above the sandy lake-shore. It had been bought years before, when not even the richest citizens dreamed of going East for the summer. Of late it had been used only rarely, in the autumn or late spring, or as a retreat in which to rusticate the boys with their tutor. When filled with a large house-party, it made a jolly place, though not magnificent enough for the developed hospitalities of Mrs. Stuart.
Old Stuart came home to an empty palace. He had not believed that his reserved wife would take such high measures, and he felt miserably lonely after the usual round of elaborate dinners to which he had grown grumblingly accustomed. His one senile passion was his pride in her, and he was avaricious of the lost days while she was absent from her usual victorious post as the mistress of that great house. The next day his heart sank still lower, for he saw in the Sunday papers a little paragraph to the effect that Mrs. Stuart had invited a brilliant house-party to her autumn home in Winetka, and that it was rumored she and her lovely young daughter would spend the winter in London with their relatives. It made the old man angry, for he could see with what deliberation she had planned for a long campaign. Even the comforts of his club were denied him; everyone knew him and everyone smiled at the little domestic disturbance. So he asked his secretary, young Spencer, to make his home for the present in the sprawling, brand-new “palace” that frowned out on the South Boulevard. Young Spencer accepted, out of pity for the old man; for he wasn’t a toady and he knew his own worth.
People did talk in the clubs and elsewhere about the divided establishments. It would have been worse had the division come earlier, as had been predicted often enough, or had Mrs. Stuart ever given in her younger days a handle for any gossip. But her conduct had been so frigidly correct that it stood in good service at this crisis. She would not have permitted a scandal. That also was in the contract.
Of course there was communication between the two camps, the gay polo- playing, dinner-giving household on the bluff, and the forlorn, tottering old man with his one aide-de-camp, the blithe young secretary. Now and then the sons would turn up at the offices down-town, amiably expectant of large checks. Stuart grimly referred them to their mother. He had some vague idea of starving the opposition out, but his wife’s funds were large and her credit, as long as there should be no recognized rupture, perfect.