The Other Two

by Edith Wharton

Waythorn waited for his wife to come downstairs to dinner.

It was their first night in their home together and he was surprised at his excitement. He was not so old – the mirror made him look not much more than thirty-five, though he had imagined he was already middle-aged; but he was listening for her arrival with some half-remembered lines of love poetry going through his head.

They had been hurriedly called back from their honeymoon by the illness of Lily Haskett, Mrs. Waythorn's child by her first marriage. The little girl had moved to his house on the day of her mother's wedding. The doctor a few days later informed them that she was ill with typhoid but that she was recovering. The nurse said Lily’s was a mild case and, after a moment of alarm, Mrs. Waythorn accepted the situation. She loved Lily – her affection for the child perhaps decided Waythorn to marry her – but no woman ever wasted fewer tears on unproductive worry. Waythorn was therefore quite ready to see her come in, a little late because of a last look at Lily, but very calm and attractive. As he pictured her at the child's bed, he thought how calming she must be to the sick child.

His own life had been grey and he had been attracted to her by the undisturbed happiness which kept her fresh and elastic at an age when most women are growing slack. He knew what was said about her because, although she was popular, there had always been a slight dislike of her too. When she had appeared in New York nine or ten years earlier as the pretty Mrs. Haskett whom Gus Varick had discovered somewhere, high society quickly but, perhaps not completely, accepted her. Her recent divorce was explained as the natural result of a runaway marriage at seventeen and, as nothing was known about Mr. Haskett, it was easy to believe the worst of him.

Alice Haskett's remarriage with Gus Varick was a passport to the high society she longed for and, for a few years, the Varicks were the most popular couple in town. Unfortunately the relationship was brief and stormy, but even Varick's best friends agreed that he was not meant for marriage. Still, when people heard she was going to marry Waythorn, there was a momentary reaction. Her best friends preferred to see her remain in the role of the injured wife. True, some time passed and nobody even suggested that Waythorn had been involved in the reasons for her divorce. However, people shook their heads. He told someone that he was taking the step with his eyes open, but his angry friend replied: "Yes – and with your ears shut."

Waythorn could smile at comments like these. He knew that society had not yet adapted to divorce, and that till the adaptation took place every woman who used the freedom the law gave her must be suspicious. Waythorn had confidence in his wife though. His expectations were right because, before the wedding took place, Alice Varick's group of friends all openly supported her. She accepted everything: she had a way of overcoming obstacles without seeming to know they were there. He had the sense of a richer, warmer nature than his own. And he was sure that when she had done all she could for Lily, she would not be ashamed to enjoy a good dinner.

Enjoyment was not, however, the feeling on Mrs. Waythorn's face when she joined him. Though she had put on her most attractive dress, she had forgotten the smile that went with it and Waythorn thought he had never seen her look so worried.

"What is it?" he asked. "Is anything wrong with Lily?"

"No; I've just been in and she's still sleeping." Mrs. Waythorn hesitated. "But something annoying has happened."

He had taken her hands and now noticed that she was holding a piece of paper between them.

"This letter?"

"Yes – Mr. Haskett has written – I mean his lawyer has written."

Waythorn felt uncomfortable. He dropped his wife's hands.

"What about?"

"About seeing Lily. You know the courts..."

"Yes, yes," he interrupted.

Nobody knew anything about Haskett in New York. Waythorn was one of the few people who knew that he had given up his business and come to the city to be near his little girl. Waythorn had often met Lily on the doorstep, rosy and smiling, on her way "to see papa."

"I am so sorry," Mrs. Waythorn murmured.

"What does he want?"

"He wants to see her. You know she goes to him once a week."

"Well, he doesn't expect her to go to him now, does he?"

"No, he’s heard of her illness, but he expects to come here."

"Here?"

Mrs. Waythorn reddened. They looked away from each other.

"I'm afraid he has the right. . . . You'll see. . . ." She offered him the letter.

Waythorn moved away without taking it. He stared about the softly lit room, which a moment before had seemed so full of newly-married happiness.

"I'm so sorry," she repeated. "If Lily could move..."

"That's out of the question," he answered impatiently.

"I suppose so."

Her lip was beginning to tremble, and he felt ashamed of himself.

"He must come, of course," he said. "When?"

"I'm afraid it’s tomorrow."

"Alright. Send a note in the morning."

"You're so good, dear."

Her face brightened at once, and as she looked at him across the flowers, he saw her lips return to a smile.

He turned to the servant. "The champagne at once, please. Mrs. Waythorn is tired."

In a moment or two their eyes met above the sparkling glasses. Her own were untroubled: he saw that she had forgotten.

2

Waythorn, the next morning, went to his office earlier than usual. Haskett was not likely to come till the afternoon, but he wanted to escape. He planned to stay away all day.

He caught the tram at rush hour. It was very crowded. Waythorn glanced up and saw that the man next to him was Gus Varick. The men were so close together that it was impossible not to see the smile on Varick's handsome, unhealthy face. And why not? They had always been friendly and Varick had been divorced before Waythorn’s interest in his wife began. The two said a word about crowded trains and when a seat at their side was left empty, Waythorn and Varick sat down.

Varick looked unconcernedly at Waythorn. "Sorry to hear that Sellers is ill again."

"Sellers?" repeated Waythorn, surprised at hearing his partner's name.

Varick looked surprised. "You didn't know he was unwell?"

"No. I've been away – I only got back last night." Waythorn felt uncomfortable mentioning his honeymoon in front of this man.

"Ah, yes. Sellers fell ill two days ago. I'm afraid he's pretty bad. Very awkward for me, as it happens, because he was just doing something rather important for me."

Waythorn wondered when Varick had started dealing in "important things."

It occurred to him that Varick might be talking just to relieve the strain of their meeting. That strain was becoming clearer to Waythorn every moment and when he caught sight of an acquaintance and had a sudden idea of the picture he and Varick must make to anyone who knew them both, he jumped up with an excuse.

"I hope you'll find Sellers better," said Varick politely, and he stammered back: "If I can be of any use to you..." and let the crowd push him to the exit.

At his office he heard that Sellers was, in fact, ill and would probably not leave his house for some weeks.

"I'm sorry it has happened like this, Mr. Waythorn," his clerk said. "Mr. Sellers was very upset at the idea of giving you so much extra work just now."

"Oh, that's not important," said Waythorn quickly. He secretly welcomed the pressure of more business and was glad to think that, when the day's work was over, he would have to call at his partner's on the way home.

He was late for lunch and went to the nearest restaurant. The place was full and the waiter hurried him to the back of the room to the only empty table. In the cloud of cigar smoke Waythorn did not notice his neighbours; but soon, looking around him, he saw Varick sitting nearby. This time, luckily, they were too far apart for conversation, and Varick, who was facing another way, had probably not even seen him.

Varick was fond of good living and, as Waythorn sat eating his hurried lunch, he looked across. He was just pouring his coffee. He poured slowly; then he filled a glass with brandy and poured it into his coffee cup. A very unusual way to drink brandy!

Waythorn watched him. What was he thinking about? Had his wife disappeared from his life so completely that even his morning meeting with her present husband was not important for him? And as Waythorn was considering, he had another idea: had Haskett ever met Varick as Varick and he had just met? The recollection of Haskett disturbed him, and he got up and left the restaurant, walking the long way out to avoid Varick.

It was after seven when Waythorn reached home.

"How is Miss Lily?" he asked quickly.

"Doing very well, sir. A gentleman..."

"Delay dinner for half an hour," Waythorn said and hurried upstairs.

He went straight to his room without seeing his wife. When he reached the dining room she was there, fresh and bright. Lily had been good that day; the doctor was not coming back that evening.

At dinner Waythorn told her about Sellers's illness. She listened sympathetically, telling him not to work too hard, and asking vague questions about the routine of the office. Then she told him about Lily's day and quoted the nurse and doctor. He had never seen her calmer. She was clearly very happy with him, so happy that she found a childish pleasure in repeating the trivial incidents of her day.

After dinner they went to the library, and the servant put the coffee and brandy on a low table in front of her and left the room. She looked especially soft and girlish in her rosy pale dress. A day earlier he would have loved it.

He turned away now, choosing a cigar with care.

"Did Haskett come?" he asked, with his back to her.

"Oh, yes, he came."

"You didn't see him, of course?"

She hesitated a moment. "I let the nurse see him."

That was all. There was nothing more to ask. Well, it was over for a week. He would try not to think about it. She looked up at him, a little pinker than usual, with a smile in her eyes.

"Ready for your coffee, dear?"

As the thought of Haskett slowly disappeared, Waythorn felt the happiness of ownership again. They were his, those white hands, the light hair, the lips and eyes. . . .

She put down the coffee pot and measured a glass of brandy and poured it into his cup.

Waythorn moved quickly, almost without realising.

"What’s the matter?" she said, startled.

"Nothing. But I don't put brandy in my coffee."

"Oh, how stupid of me," she cried.

Their eyes met, and she went red very suddenly.

3

Ten days later, Mr. Sellers, still house-bound, asked Waythorn to call on his way to work.

The senior partner, with his bandaged foot resting by the fire, seemed uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry but I've got to ask you to do something awkward for me."

Waythorn waited, and the other went on after a pause: "The fact is, when I became ill, I had just gone into a rather complicated piece of business for Gus Varick."

"Well?" said Waythorn, trying to make him feel comfortable.

"Well, it's like this: Varick came to me the day before. He had a tip from somebody, and had made about a hundred thousand. He came to me for advice, and I suggested his investing in Vanderlyn."

Waythorn saw in a flash what had happened. The investment was an attractive one, but required negotiation. He listened carefully while Sellers explained it to him, and then replied: "You think I should see Varick?"

"I'm afraid I can't. The doctor is adamant. And Varick’s business can't wait. I hate to ask you, but no-one else in the office knows the ins and outs of it."

Waythorn stood silent. He did not care about the success of Varick's investment, but the business must be looked after and he could not refuse.

"Alright," he said, "I'll do it."

That afternoon, Varick called at the office. Waythorn wondered what the others thought about it. The newspapers, at the time of Mrs. Waythorn's marriage, had informed their readers about every detail of her previous marriages, and Waythorn could imagine the clerks smiling behind Varick's back as he came in.

Varick behaved admirably. He was very comfortable, much more so than Waythorn. Varick had no head for business, and the talk went on for nearly an hour while Waythorn explained everything in minute detail.

"I'm very grateful to you," Varick said as he got up. "The fact is I'm not used to having much money to look after, and I don't want to look stupid." He smiled, "It feels very strange to have enough cash to pay the bills!"

Waythorn had heard rumours that a lack of funds had been one of the deciding factors in the Varick divorce.

"We'll do the best we can for you," he said. "I think this is a good investment you've made."

"Oh, I'm sure. It's very good of you..." Varick broke off. "I suppose everything's settled – but if..."

"If anything happens before Sellers gets back, I'll see you again," said Waythorn quietly. He was glad, in the end, to appear the more self-confident of the two.

Lily's condition continued to improve and, as the days passed, Waythorn got used to the idea of Haskett's weekly visit. The first time the day came round, he stayed out late, and questioned his wife about the visit on his return. She replied at once that Haskett had only seen the nurse downstairs, as the doctor did not want anyone in the child's sickroom till after the crisis.

The following week Waythorn had forgotten Lily’s father’s visit by the time he came home to dinner. The crisis of the disease came a few days later and the little girl was out of danger. In the happiness which followed, the thought of Haskett disappeared from Waythorn's mind and one afternoon, letting himself into the house with his key, he went straight to his library without noticing a shabby hat and umbrella in the hall.

In the library he found a small, quiet man with a thinnish grey beard sitting on the edge of a chair. The stranger looked like one of those people who are called in for household emergencies to fix kitchen equipment. He blinked at Waythorn and said quietly: "Mr. Waythorn? I am Lily's father."

Waythorn blushed. "Oh..." he stammered. He stopped, not wanting to seem rude. Inwardly, he was trying to adjust the actual Haskett to the image made by his wife's descriptions. Waythorn had been encouraged to suppose that Alice's first husband was a cruel, wild man.

"I am sorry to disturb you," said Haskett, with politeness.

"Don't mention it," replied Waythorn. "I suppose the nurse has been told?"

"I suppose so. I can wait," said Haskett. He had a tired way of speaking, as though life had exhausted him.

Waythorn stood at the door.

"I'm sorry you've been kept waiting. I’ll send for the nurse," he said; and as he opened the door he added with an effort: "I'm glad we can give you a good report of Lily."

"Thank you, Mr. Waythorn. It's been an anxious time for me."

"Ah, well, that's past. Soon she'll be able to go to you." Waythorn nodded and left.

In his own room, he threw himself on his bed. He hated the emotion which made him suffer so much from the unhappy accidents of life. He had known when he married that his wife's former husbands were both living, and that there was every chance that he would meet one or the other, but he was very disturbed by his brief meeting with Haskett.

Waythorn jumped up and began to walk about the room nervously. He had not suffered half so much from his two meetings with Varick. It was Haskett in his own house that made the situation so unacceptable. He stood still, hearing steps in the hall.

"This way, please," he heard the nurse say. Haskett was going upstairs, then. Waythorn sat tiredly in another chair, staring ahead of him. On his table stood a photograph of Alice, taken when he had first known her. She was Alice Varick then – how perfect he had thought she was! Those were Varick's pearls around her neck. Waythorn had insisted they were returned before her marriage. Had Haskett ever given her any gifts – and what had happened to them, Waythorn wondered?

He realized suddenly that he knew very little of Haskett's past or present; but from the man's appearance and way of speaking he could imagine the surroundings of Alice's first marriage. And it startled him to think that she had, in her background, a life so different from hers now. Varick, whatever his faults, was a gentleman, in the traditional sense of the term: the sense that seemed to have most meaning to Waythorn. He and Varick had the same social habits and spoke the same language. But this other man . . . Haskett had worn a tie attached with elastic. Why should that ridiculous detail symbolise the whole man?

The tie became the key to Alice's past. He could see her, as Mrs. Haskett, going to the theatre. On the way home she and her husband would stop and look at the shop-windows, at the photographs of New York actresses. On Sunday afternoons, Haskett would take her for a walk and Waythorn had a vision of the people they would stop and talk to. He could imagine how pretty Alice must look, in a dress cleverly put together from descriptions in a New York fashion magazine; how she must have felt that she belonged in a bigger place.

For the moment he was amazed at the way she had so completely left that part of her life behind. It was as if her whole appearance, every gesture, was a studied denial of that period of her life.

Waythorn stopped himself. What right had he got to create an imaginary picture of her and then judge it? She had spoken of her first marriage as unhappy. It was a pity for Waythorn's peace of mind that Haskett's inoffensiveness shed a new light on that unhappiness. A man would rather think that his wife has been injured by her first husband than that the man had been injured by her.

4

"Mr. Waythorn, I don't like that French governess of Lily's."

Haskett, quiet and apologetic, stood in front of Waythorn in the library, turning his shabby hat in his hand.

Waythorn, surprised in his armchair over the evening paper, stared back confusedly at his visitor.

"You'll excuse my asking to see you," Haskett continued. "But this is my last visit and I thought if I could have a word with you, it would be better than writing to Mrs. Waythorn's lawyer."

Waythorn got up uneasily. He did not like the French governess either; but that was irrelevant.

"I’m not so sure," he answered; "but if you want, I will give your message to – my wife." He always hesitated over the ‘my’ wife, when talking to Haskett.

"I don't know that will help much. She didn't like it when I spoke to her."

Waythorn turned red. "When did you see her?" he asked.

"The first day I came to see Lily, right after she was taken sick. I told her then that I didn't like the governess."

Waythorn made no answer. He remembered clearly that, after the first visit, he had asked his wife if she had seen Haskett. She had lied to him then; and the incident showed her character in a curious light. He was sure she would not have seen Haskett that first day if she had guessed that Waythorn would be angry, and the fact that she did not guess it was almost as disagreeable as the discovery that she had lied to him.

"I don't like the woman," Haskett was repeating. "She ain't honest, Mr. Waythorn – she'll teach the child to be underhand. I've noticed a change in Lily – she's too anxious to please – and she doesn't always tell the truth. She used to be the simplest child, Mr. Waythorn..." He stopped, his voice a little thick. "Of course, I want her to have a stylish education," he ended.

Waythorn was touched. "I'm sorry, Mr. Haskett, but frankly I don't see what I can do."

Haskett hesitated. Then he put his hat on the table and walked to where Waythorn was standing. There was nothing aggressive in his behaviour; but he had the seriousness of a timid man who had made a decision.

"There's just one thing you can do, Mr. Waythorn," he said. "You can remind Mrs. Waythorn that I have the right to have a say in Lily's upbringing." He paused, and then said: "I'm not the kind of man to talk about my rights, Mr. Waythorn, but the child is different. I've never let her go and I never plan to."

The scene left Waythorn deeply shaken. In indirect ways, he had been finding out about Haskett; and all that he had learned was favourable. The little man, to be near his daughter, had sold his profitable business in Utica, and accepted a job as a clerk in New York. He stayed in a shabby street and knew very few people. His love for Lily filled his life.

Waythorn saw now that he had not explored everything about his wife’s past. He had never asked about the exact circumstances of the break-up of his wife's first marriage. On the surface everything had been fair. It was she who had got the divorce and the court had given her the child. But Waythorn knew how little that meant. The fact that Haskett had rights over his daughter suggested a compromise. Waythorn was an idealist. He never recognised unpleasantness till he found himself faced with it. His next days were full of ghosts from his wife’s past and he decided to ask her about them.

When he repeated Haskett's request about the governess, a flame of anger passed over her face; but she hid it immediately. She looked downwards, turning a little in her seat, and burst into tears. He saw she expected him to see her as a victim.

Haskett did not abuse his rights. Waythorn felt miserably sure that he would not. But the French governess was dismissed. Waythorn could only respect the father’s decision.

Mr. Sellers was sent to Europe to recover from his illness and Varick's business passed to Waythorn. The negotiations were long and complicated; the two men had to meet very often.

Varick behaved well in the business. In the office he was concise and clear-headed, always paying close attention to Waythorn's opinion. Their business relations being so friendly, it would have been laughable for the two men to ignore each other in public. The first time they met at a dinner party, Varick spoke in the same easy way. After that they came across each other frequently, and one evening at a dance Waythorn, wandering around the rooms of the house, found Varick sitting next to his wife. She blushed a little and stopped what she was saying; but Varick nodded without getting up, and Waythorn walked by.

On the way home, he muttered nervously: "I didn't know you spoke to Varick."

Her voice trembled a little. "It's the first time – he was standing near me; I didn't know what to do. It's so awkward, meeting everywhere - and he said you had been very kind about some business."

"That's different," said Waythorn.

She paused a moment. "I'll do as you wish," she replied. "I thought it would be more comfortable to speak to him when we meet."

Her acceptance of all his decisions was beginning to sicken him. Had she really got no opinion of her own about these men? She had accepted Haskett – did she mean to accept Varick? It was "more comfortable," as she had said, and her instinct was to avoid difficulties. Suddenly, Waythorn saw how the instinct had developed. Alice Haskett – Alice Varick – Alice Waythorn – she had been each in turn, and had left a little of her privacy, a little of her personality, a little of herself behind with each change of name.

"Yes, it's better to speak to Varick," said Waythorn tiredly.

5

The winter wore on and their friends took advantage of the Waythorns' acceptance of Varick. They were grateful to them for overcoming a social difficulty. And Mrs. Waythorn's behaviour was perfect. She neither avoided Varick nor looked for him. Even Waythorn admitted she had discovered the solution to the newest social problem.

He had married her without giving much thought to that problem. He had imagined that a woman can leave her past behind like a man. But now he saw that Alice was tied to hers both by their social circumstances which forced her into continued relationships with her former husbands and by the scars it had left on her character. Miserably, Waythorn compared himself to a shareholder. He held so many shares in his wife and his predecessors were his partners in the business. The fact that Alice took her change of husbands like a change of weather reduced the situation to ordinariness. He could have forgiven her for her mistakes; forgiven her for anything except her acceptance.

And then, gradually, habit protected him from his sensibilities. He even began to calculate the advantages, to ask himself if it was not better to own a third of a wife who knew how to make a man happy than a whole one who did not have practice in doing so.

Eventually, he passed to complete acceptance. Even the sight of Haskett's hat on the hall table did not touch him. The hat was often seen there now because it was decided that it was better for Lily's father to visit her than for the little girl to go to his cheap and shabby house. Waythorn, agreeing to this arrangement, was surprised to find how little difference it made. Waythorn did not know how often he saw Alice, but Haskett was seldom in contact with him personally.

One afternoon, however, he learnt that Lily's father was waiting to see him.

"I hope you'll excuse me, Mr. Waythorn," he said getting up. "I wanted to see Mrs. Waythorn about Lily, and your servant asked me to wait here till she came in."

"Of course," said Waythorn.

He opened his cigar case and held it out to his visitor, and Haskett's acceptance seemed to mark a new stage in their relationship. The spring evening was chilly, and Waythorn invited his guest nearer to the fire. He meant to leave Haskett in a moment; but he was tired and cold, and the little man no longer annoyed him.

The two were sitting in their cigar smoke when the door opened and Varick walked into the room. Waythorn quickly got up. It was the first time that Varick had come to the house, and the surprise of seeing him made Waythorn remember some of the pain he had felt earlier. He stared at his visitor without speaking.

Varick seemed too preoccupied to notice his host's embarrassment.

"I must apologise for dropping in on you in this way, but I was too late to catch you at the office and so I thought..." He stopped, seeing Haskett, and his usual pink colour deepened to red under his blond hair. But in a moment he recovered and nodded slightly. A servant came in with tea.

Waythorn held out the cigar case to Varick just as he had to Haskett, and Varick helped himself with a smile. Waythorn looked for a match, and finding none, offered a light from his own cigar. Haskett examined his cigar now and then and, at the right moment, stepped forward to knock the ash into the fire.

Varick immediately began: "If I could just say half a word to you about this business..."

"Certainly," stammered Waythorn; "in the dining room..."

But as he put his hand on the door, it opened and his wife appeared.

She came in fresh and smiling.

"Shall we have tea in here, dear?" she began; and then she saw Varick. Her smile deepened, covering a slight surprise. "How are you?" she said with pleasure.

As she shook hands with Varick, she saw Haskett standing behind him. Her smile faded for a moment, but only for a moment.

"How are you, Mr. Haskett?" she said, and shook hands with him a little less warmly.

The three men stood awkwardly in front of her, till Varick rushed into an explanation.

"We... I had to see Waythorn a moment on business," he stammered.

Haskett stepped forward. "I am sorry to disturb you but you said five o'clock..." He looked at the clock.

"I'm so sorry – I'm always late; but the afternoon was so lovely. But before talking business," she added brightly, "I'm sure everyone wants a cup of tea."

She sat in her low chair by the tea table, and the two visitors came to receive the cups she held out.

She glanced about for Waythorn and he took the third cup with a laugh.