IV
That evening when Shepherd Mills went home he found Constance seated at her dressing table, her heavy golden-brown hair piled loosely upon her head, while her maid rubbed cold cream into her throat and face. She espied him in the mirror and greeted him with a careless, “Hello, Shep. How did the day go with you?”—the question employed by countless American wives in saluting their husbands at the end of a toilsome day.
“Oh, pretty good!” he replied. No husband ever admits that a day has been wholly easy and prosperous.
She put out her hand for him to kiss and bade him sit down beside her. He was always diffident before the mysteries of his wife’s toilet. He glanced at the gown laid across a chair and surveyed the crystal and silver on the dressing table with a confused air as though he had never seen them before.
The room denoted Constance Mills’s love of luxury, and incidentally her self-love. The walls on two sides were set in mirrors that reached from ceiling to floor. The furniture, the rugs, the few pictures, the window draperies had been chosen with an exquisite care and combined in an evocation of the spirit of indolence. There was a much be-pillowed divan across one corner, so placed that when she enjoyed a siesta Constance could contemplate herself in the mirrors opposite. Scents—a mingling of faint exotic odors—hung upon the air.
She was quick to note that something was on Shepherd’s mind and half from curiosity, half in a spirit of kindness, dismissed the maid as quickly as possible.
“You can hook me up, Shep. I’ll do my hair myself. I won’t need you any more, Marie. Yes—my blue cloak. Now, little boy, go ahead and tell me what’s bothering you.”
Shepherd frowned and twisted his mustache as he sat huddled on the divan.
“It’s about father; nothing new, just our old failure to understand each other. It’s getting worse. I never know where I stand with him.”
“Well, does anyone?” Constance asked serenely. “You really mustn’t let him get on your nerves. There are things you’ve got to take because we all do; but by studying him a little and practicing a little patience you’ll escape a lot of worry.”
“Yes,” he assented eagerly. “You know he just pretends that I’m the head of the plant; Fields is the real authority there. It’s not the president but the vice-president who has the say about things. Father consults Fields constantly. He doesn’t trust me—I’m just a figurehead.”
“Fields is such an ass,” remarked Constance with a shrug of her shapely shoulders. “An utterly impossible person. Why not just let him do all the explaining to your father? If any mistakes are made at the plant, then it’s on him.”
“But that’s not the way of it,” Shepherd protested plaintively. “He gets the praise; I get the blame.”
“Oh, well, you can’t make your father over. You ought to be glad you’re not of his hard-boiled variety. You’re human, Sheppy, and that’s better than being a magnificent iceberg.”
“Father doesn’t see things; he doesn’t realize that the world’s changing,” Shepherd went on stubbornly. “He doesn’t see that the old attitude toward labor won’t do any more.”
“He’ll never see it,” said Constance. “Things like that don’t hit him at all. He’s like those silly people who didn’t know there was anything wrong in France till their necks were in the guillotine.”
“I told you about that clubhouse I wanted to build for our people on the Milton farm? I hate to give that up. It would mean so much to those people. And he was all wrong in thinking it would injure the property. I think it’s only decent to do something for them.”
“Well, how can you do it without your father?” she asked, shifting herself for a better scrutiny of her head in the mirror.
“You know that little tract of land—about twenty acres, back of the plant? I could buy that and put the clubhouse there. I have some stock in the Rogers Trust Company I can sell—about two hundred shares. It came to me through mother’s estate. Father has nothing to do with it. The last quotation on it is two hundred. What do you think of that?”
“Well, I think pretty well of it,” said Constance. “Your father ought to let you build the clubhouse, but he has a positive passion for making people uncomfortable.”
“I suppose,” continued Shepherd dubiously, “if I go ahead and build the thing—even with my own money—he would be angry. Of course there may be something in his idea that if we do a thing of this kind it would make the workmen at other plants restless——”
“Piffle!” exclaimed Constance. “That’s the regular old stock whimper of the back-number. You might just as well say that it would be a forward step other employers ought to follow!”
“Yes, there’s that!” he agreed, his eyes brightening at the suggestion.
“If you built the house on your own land the storage battery company wouldn’t be responsible for it in any way.”
“Certainly not!” Shepherd was increasingly pleased that she saw it all so clearly.
She had slipped on her gown and was instructing him as to the position of the hooks.
“No; the other side, Shep. That’s right. There’s another bunch on the left shoulder. Now you’ve got it! Thanks ever so much.”
He watched her admiringly as she paraded before the mirrors to make sure that the skirt hung properly.
“If there’s to be a row——” he began as she opened a drawer and selected a handkerchief.
“Let there be a row! My dear Shep, you’re always too afraid of asserting yourself. What could he do? He might get you up to his office and give you a bad quarter of an hour; but he’d respect you more afterwards if you stood to your guns. His vanity and family pride protect you. Catch him doing anything that might get him into the newspapers—not Franklin Mills!”
Relieved and encouraged by her understanding and sympathy, he explained more particularly the location of the property he proposed buying. It was quite as convenient to the industrial colony that had grown up about the storage battery plant as the Milton land his father had declined to let him use. The land was bound to appreciate in value, he said.
“What if it doesn’t!” exclaimed Constance with mild scorn. “You’ll have been doing good with your money, anyhow.”
“You think, then, you’d go ahead—sell the stock and buy the land? It’s so late now, maybe I’d better wait till spring?”
“That might be better, Shep, but use your own judgment. You asked your father to help and he turned you down. Your going ahead will have a good effect on him. He needs a jar. Now run along and dress. You’re going to be late for dinner.”
“Yes, I know,” he said, rising and looking down at her as she sat turning over the leaves of a book. “Connie——”
“Yes, Shep,” she murmured absently; and then, “Oh, by the way, Shep, I was at Helen’s this afternoon.”
“Helen Torrence’s? What was it—a tea?”
“In a manner of speaking—tea! Dramatic Club business. George Whitford was there—he’s concentrating on theatricals. George is such a dear!”
“One of the best fellows in the world!” said Shep.
“He certainly is!” Constance affirmed.
“Connie——” he stammered and took her hand. “Connie—you’re awfully good to me. You know I love you——”
“Why, of course, you dear baby!” She lifted her head with a quick, reassuring smile. “But for goodness’ sake run along and change your clothes!”