He spoke half to himself, and when Wayne asked what he had said, Walsh grunted “Um” and rose from the table.
Wayne found a letter in the club office. It was from Jean, written in New York. A large, plain sheet of paper with the writing confined to a square in the centre; the handwriting small, even, distinctive. It was the first message he had ever received from her and he carried it to a quiet corner of the lounging room to read.
“My grandfather is again in Pittsburg. He persists in pressing his claim against your father, though I have begged him to drop it. I am sorry to trouble you about such a matter, but if you can see him I wish you would try to persuade him to go home. He has brooded over his claim until he is no longer himself, and he insisted on staying there at the boarding house when I left.
“The Richardsons have been kind to me in every way. I am at their house and shall be here all the time I spend in New York. I go to my work over on the East Side every day, and the settlement house people look out for me and help me find the models I need.
“I hope you are well and that the new work with Mr. Walsh will prosper.”
Many readings could not torture into this unexpected message any personal interest in himself. This was one reflection, but it was something that she had thought of him in her perplexity. Her shabby old grandfather, with his long-neglected claim, was an unfortunate encumbrance; it was too bad the girl had to be bothered with him. It flashed upon him that he might go to New York and see her, but he dismissed the idea at once. It would only distress her, and he was Wayne Craighill, and to call on Jean at the Richardsons might injure her—a bitter reflection, but one he met squarely. In the end, after he had studied it in all possible angles, he felt happier for this contact with something that had touched her hand. It was almost like her own presence, this sheet of paper with its simple, straightforward message, and the block of script that showed the artist’s “touch.” He would find the bothersome grandfather to-morrow and settle the old claim out of his own pocket and send him back to Denbeigh.
Wayne ordered a motor from a public garage, and rode to his father’s house. It had been his intention to get his things together and leave without seeing his father again. The lower floor was deserted and he kept on to his own room. The remodelling of the house shortly before his mother’s death had made no change in the rooms that had been set apart to him in his youth. There were things there—pieces of furniture that had been in his grandfather Wayne’s house, a number of old engravings and some books, that he could send for later. He packed his trunk as for a journey; making a pile of the excess clothing to be called for later by the club valet. Then he filled a suit case and portmanteau and rang for the house man to carry them down. As he stood at the door taking a last look at the walls that had known him so long, the little travelling clock on the mantel, which had timed him during his years at St. John’s and at the “Tech,” tinkled nine, and on the hint, he picked it up and reopened the portmanteau to make room for it.
The clock on the stair was still chiming as he closed the door. He was rather sorry now that he had not made an effort to say good-bye to Mrs. Craighill—poor Addie; this was, in all the circumstances, almost desertion, this leaving her to fight her troubles alone. To his surprise her sitting room door was open and she stood just outside it, leaning over the stair rail, as though intent upon something below. She raised her hand warningly.
“What’s the matter, Addie?”
“There’s someone in the library with your father. I heard you when you came, and then a moment later this card was brought up. Your father was in my sitting room talking and he seemed very angry at being interrupted—it was a matter of business, he said, and the man had no right to follow him home.”