“There’s a prevailing impression that it will do that,” retorted Wayne.
“What a happy future would be yours, my son, if you would take life a little more seriously,” sighed Colonel Craighill. “I’ve spoken of you very little to Adelaide; but you must consider her hereafter. I hope that her coming may mark a new era for you. I cannot but think that her influence will be for good in the family.”
“I dare say it will,” assented Wayne. “You need have no fears about Fanny and me and our treatment of your wife. You know—about my habits and all that—I think I’m ready to quit. I’ve decided that there’s nothing in drink, and I’ve given it up.”
“God grant that it may be so!”
Colonel Craighill spoke with deep emotion. Wayne had, in the old times when his father used to pray over him, often promised under pressure: this morning he had voluntarily announced his intention to reform. It was in Colonel Craighill’s mind at once that already good was coming of the marriage; that Wayne’s pride was aroused; that he wished thus to mark the coming of the new wife. Wayne was pouring himself a third cup of coffee, and this unusual indulgence he associated with some method which his son had adopted for breaking down the baser appetite.
“I have given up drink,” repeated Wayne, helping himself to sugar; “there’s nothing in it”; and while his words and tone were not quite what Roger Craighill would have liked, he could not quibble over phrases or question the sincerity of this voluntary declaration. He had long ago ceased trying to understand Wayne’s moods; his son’s state of mind this morning was unusually baffling.
“That you should be an honourable man has been the great prayer of my life, Wayne,” he said, with feeling.
“I’m afraid you’ve been praying in the wrong place. If God never helped me, maybe the devil will; he knows me better!” Wayne dropped his spoon into his saucer and laughed. “That’s almost blasphemy, isn’t it? The car’s at the door and whenever you’re ready——”
They rode into town together, each in his own corner of the tonneau as was the morning habit, and Colonel Craighill spoke only once or twice. In the lobby of the building that bore his name the day’s sensation was already in the air. One or two friends, tenants of his building, greeted Colonel Craighill cordially as the elevator shot them skyward and congratulated him with warmth; and every clerk in the Craighill offices, where the announcement had already been freely discussed, watched father and son pass on to their own rooms with a newly awakened curiosity.
“Oh, Wayne,” said Colonel Craighill, as they separated, “I should like you to lunch with me at the Club to-day—the Allequippa—about one. We’ll walk over together.”