“He didn’t have to; the doctors’ verdict made it unnecessary. And so we’ll never know just what would have happened. We’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. Well, how are things going?”
“Your father’s business affairs have troubled him. He never talks to me of them, but I know he worries. Mr. Walsh has been helping him, and he has been very kind to me, too—in many ways. Since he began to help your father he has come to the house a good deal. He thinks your father will pull out in time; he’s trying to get the dead horses out of the stable—that’s what he calls the poor investments.”
“Tom can straighten father out if anybody can. Has father spoken of me since that night?”
“No; not once.”
“Hasn’t mentioned me at all?”
“I’m sorry, but he hasn’t, Wayne.”
“Where’s Fanny?”
“She’s at York Harbour. She was terribly cut up over your going away; but Mr. Walsh knew where you were all the time, and what you were doing. So he told me and I told her. Your man Joe kept Mr. Walsh posted.”
“He did, did he?” and Wayne laughed. “I’ve been at work, Addie. I’ve been driving mules up there in the anthracite country to try to get the general cussedness out of my system. I haven’t tasted a drop of anything for so long that I’ve forgotten the names of the drinks I used to lap up so abundantly. I saw a trayful of cocktails go by me in the club to-night, and the sight of them tickled my throat for a minute, but I poured a gallon of ice water into the serpent and was all right. As soon as I’m dead sure I’ve got a grip on myself I’m coming back to go into the mercantile company with Walsh.”
In the dim light of the summer house she studied this new Wayne Craighill, puzzled by deeper changes than those of outward person. A new simplicity and directness, a certain self-confidence and definiteness of aim that had been lacking in the Wayne she had known of old set him apart. She wished to let him know that she realized the wide sweep of the change.