Edith Wharton - Novel 15 Read Online Free Page B

wander-years were
intended by Mr. Raycie to lead up to a marriage and an establishment after Mr.
Raycie’s own heart, but in which Lewis was not to have even a consulting voice.
                 “He’s
going to give me all the advantages—for his own purpose,” the young man summed
it up as he went down to join the family at the breakfast table.
                 Mr.
Raycie was never more resplendent than at that moment of the day and season.
His spotless white duck trousers, strapped under kid boots, his thin kerseymere
coat, and drab piqué waistcoat crossed below a snowy stock, made him look as
fresh as the morning and as appetizing as the peaches and cream banked before
him.
                 Opposite
sat Mrs. Raycie, immaculate also, but paler than usual, as became a mother
about to part from her only son; and between the two was Sarah Anne, unusually
pink, and apparently occupied in trying to screen her sister’s empty seat.
Lewis greeted them, and seated himself at his mother’s right.
                 Mr.
Raycie drew out his guillochee repeating watch, and detaching it from its heavy
gold chain laid it on the table beside him.
                 “Mary
Adeline is late again. It is a somewhat unusual thing for a sister to be late
at the last meal she is to take—for two years—with her only brother.”
                 “Oh, Mr. Raycie!” Mrs. Raycie faltered.
                 “I
say, the idea is peculiar. Perhaps,” said Mr. Raycie sarcastically, “I am going
to be blessed with a peculiar daughter.”
                 “I’m
afraid Mary Adeline is beginning a sick headache, sir. She tried to get up, but
really could not,” said Sarah Anne in a rush.
                 Mr.
Raycie’s only reply was to arch ironic eyebrows, and
Lewis hastily intervened: “I’m sorry, sir; but it may be my fault—”
                 Mrs.
Raycie paled, Sarah Anne, purpled, and Mr. Raycie echoed with punctilious
incredulity: “Your—fault?”
                 “In
being the occasion, sir, of last night’s too-sumptuous festivity—”
                 “Ha—ha—ha!”
Mr. Raycie laughed, his thunders instantly dispelled.
                 He
pushed back his chair and nodded to his son with a smile; and the two, leaving
the ladies to wash up the teacups (as was still the habit in genteel families)
betook themselves to Mr. Raycie’s study.
                 What
Mr. Raycie studied in this apartment—except the accounts, and ways of making
himself unpleasant to his family—Lewis had never been able to discover. It was
a small bare formidable room; and the young man, who never crossed the
threshold but with a sinking of his heart, felt it sink lower than ever. “ Now !” he thought.
                 Mr.
Raycie took the only easy-chair, and began.
                 “My
dear fellow, our time is short, but long enough for what I have to say. In a
few hours you will be setting out on your great journey: an important event in
the life of any young man. Your talents and character—combined with your means
of improving the opportunity—make me hope that in your case it will be
decisive. I expect you to come home from this trip a man—”
                 So
far, it was all to order, so to speak; Lewis could have recited it beforehand.
He bent his head in acquiescence.
                 “A
man,” Mr. Raycie repeated, “prepared to play a part, a considerable part, in
the social life of the community. I expect you to be a figure in New York ; and I shall give you the means to be so.”
He cleared his throat. “But means are not enough—though you must never forget
that they are essential. Education, polish, experience of the world; these are
what so many of our men of standing lack. What do they know of Art or Letters?
We have had little time here to produce either as