XI
But there were further poignant emotions in store for the poet, for, ashis cab swung out of the avenue and drew up before the great house onthe southwest corner of Seventy-ninth Street and Madison Avenue, hecaught a glimpse of his eldest daughter, Iole, vanishing into the house,and, at the same moment, he perceived his son-in-law, Mr. Wayne, payingthe driver of a hansom-cab, while several liveried servants borehouseward the luggage of the wedding journey.
"George!" he cried dramatically, thrusting his head from the window ofhis own cab as that vehicle drew up with a jolt that made his stomachvibrate, "George! I am here!"
Wayne looked around, paid the hansom-driver, and, advancing slowly,offered his hand as the poet descended to the sidewalk. "How are you?"he inquired without enthusiasm as the poet evinced a desire to paw him."All is well here, I hope."
"George! Son!" The poet gulped till his dewlap contracted. He laid alarge plump hand on Wayne's shoulders. "Where are my lambs?" hequavered; "where are they?"
"Which lambs?" inquired the young man uneasily. "If you mean Iole andVanessa----"
"No! My ravished lambs! Give me my stolen lambs. Trifle no longer with afather's affections! Lissa!--Cybele! Great Heavens! Where are they?" hesobbed hoarsely.
"Well, _where_ are they?" retorted his son-in-law, horrified. "Come intothe house; people in the street are looking."
In the broad hall the poet paused, staggered, strove to paw Wayne, thenattempted to fold his arms in an attitude of bitter scorn.
"Two penniless wastrels," he muttered, "are wedded to my lambs. Butthere are laws to invoke----"
An avalanche of pretty girls in pink pajamas came tumbling down thebronze and marble staircase, smothering poet and son-in-law in happyembraces; and "Oh, George!" they cried, "how sunburned you are! So isIole, but she is too sweet! Did you have a perfectly lovely honeymoon?When is Vanessa coming? And how is Mr. Briggs? And--oh, do you know thenews? Cybele and Lissa married two such extremely attractive young menthis afternoon----"
"Married!" cried Wayne, releasing Dione's arms from his neck. "_Whom_did they marry?"
"Pups!" sniveled the poet--"penniless, wastrel pups!"
"Their names," said Aphrodite coolly, from the top of the staircase,"are James Harrow and Henry Lethbridge. I wish there had been three----"
"Harrow! Lethbridge!" gasped Wayne. "When"--he turned helplessly to thepoet--"when did they do this?"
Through the gay babble of voices and amid cries and interruptions, Waynemanaged to comprehend the story. He tried to speak, but everybody exceptthe poet laughed and chatted, and the poet, suffused now with a sort ofsad sweetness, waved his hand in slow unctuous waves until even thefootmen's eyes protruded.
"It's all right," said Wayne, raising his voice; "it's topsyturvy andirregular, but it's all right. I've known Harrow and Leth--For Heaven'ssake, Dione, don't kiss me like that; I want to talk!--You're hugging metoo hard, Philodice. Oh, Lord! _will_ you stop chattering all together!I--I--Do you want the house to be pinched?"
He glanced up at Aphrodite, who sat astride the banisters lighting acigarette. "Who taught you to do that?" he cried.
"I'm sixteen, now," she said coolly, "and I thought I'd try it."
Her voice was drowned in the cries and laughter; Wayne, with his handsto his ears, stared up at the piquant figure in its pink pajamas andsandals, then his distracted gaze swept the groups of parlor maids andfootmen around the doors: "Great guns!" he thundered, "this is the limitand they'll pull the house! Morton!"--to a footman--"ring up 7--00--9BMurray Hill. My compliments and congratulations to Mr. Lethbridge and toMr. Harrow, and say that we usually dine at eight! Philodice! stop thathowling! Oh, just you wait until Iole has a talk with you all forrunning about the house half-dressed----"
"I _won't_ wear straight fronts indoors, and my garters hurt!" criedAphrodite defiantly, preparing to slide down the banisters.
"Help!" said Wayne faintly, looking from Dione to Chlorippe, fromChlorippe to Philodice, from Philodice to Aphrodite. "I won't have myhouse turned into a confounded Art Nouveau music hall. I tell you----"
"Let _me_ tell them," said Iole, laughing and kissing her hand to thepoet as she descended the stairs in her pretty bride's traveling gown.
She checked Aphrodite, looked wisely around at her lovely sisters, thenturned to remount the stairs, summoning them with a gay littleconfidential gesture.
And when the breathless crew had trooped after her, and the pad oflittle, eager, sandaled feet had died away on the thick rugs of thelanding above, the poet, clasping his fat white hands, thumbs joined,across his rotund abdomen, stole a glance at his dazed son-in-law, whichwas partly apprehensive and partly significant, almost cunning. "Aninnocent saturnalia," he murmured. "The charming abandon of children."He unclasped one hand and waved it. "Did you note the unstudied beautyof the composition as my babes glided in and out following the naturaland archaic yet exquisitely balanced symmetry of the laws which governmass and line composition, all unconsciously, yet perhaps"--he reversedhis thumb and left his sign manual upon the atmosphere--"perhaps," hemused, overflowing with sweetness--"perhaps the laws of Art Nouveau aredivine!--perhaps angels and cherubim, unseen, watch fondly o'er mybabes, lest all unaware they guiltlessly violate some subtle canon ofArt, marring the perfect symmetry of eternal preciousness."
Wayne's mouth was partly open, his eyes hopeless yet fixed upon the poetwith a fearful fascination.
"Art," breathed the poet, "is a solemn, a fearful responsibility. _You_are responsible, George, and some day you must answer for everyviolation of Art, to the eternal outraged fitness of things. _You_ mustanswer, _I_ must answer, every soul must answer!"
"A-ans--answer! What, for God's sake?" stammered Wayne.
The poet, deliberately joining thumb and forefinger, pinched out aportion of the atmosphere.
"That! _That_ George! For that is Art! And Art is justice! And justice,affronted, demands an answer."
He refolded his arms, mused for a space, then stealing a veiled glancesideways:
"You--you are--ah--convinced that my two lost lambs need dread no bodilyvicissitudes----"
"Cybele and Lissa?"
"Ah--yes----"
"Lethbridge will have money to burn if he likes the aroma of the smoke.Harrow has burnt several stacks already; but his father will continue tofire the furnace. Is _that_ what you mean?"
"No!" said the poet softly, "no, George, that is not what I mean. Wealthis a great thing. Only the little things are precious to me. And themost precious of all is absolutely nothing!" But, as he wandered awayinto the great luxurious habitation of his son-in-law, his smile grewsweeter and sweeter and his half-closed eyes swam, melting into asaccharine reverie.
"The little things," he murmured, thumbing the air absently--"the littlethings are precious, but not as precious as absolutely nothing. Fornothing is perfection. Thank you," he said sweetly to a petrifiedfootman, "thank you for understanding. It is precious--very, veryprecious to know that I am understood."