AN UNWELCOME VISITOR.
It was not until spring that James Elwell and his bride returned to
her father’s home. They had spent the fall and winter in Europe, part
of the time rambling through Italy and southern Spain, and, of course,
going up the valley of the Rhine, and skimming over the other places
made famous by history or art. But it was society Fanny wanted. She was
not greatly interested in the picturesque; so they spent the greater
part of the time in the French capital, where they had entered into the
American colony, and also into all the dissipations of that city.
Elwell had not intended to make such a long stay; but Morain had
written him that he could not be of much service in the business
during the winter, and that he had better have as long a play spell as
possible, so that he would be able to work the harder for it when he
returned. And inasmuch as Pat took it for granted that his son-in-law
was to enter the firm on his return, and as he seemed perfectly willing
to pay all the bills they incurred, heavy though they were, Elwell had
been satisfied to enjoy himself after the French fashion, being wise
enough to enjoy the sunshine while it lasted.
It had been a very pleasant winter for them both, and Fanny had been
immensely pleased with the society of Paris. She imagined she had seen
all there was to see; and as she numbered several titled reprobates
among her acquaintances, she was convinced that she had been in very
grand society indeed.
Very clever fellows those society adventurers are in all countries,
and especially so in France. It was not at all hard for them to find
out what this wealthy, frivolous American woman expected to find, and
very little harder to furnish it for her; so Fanny gloried in the list
of titled visitors at her weekly receptions, without the least idea
that they were merely the scum of the elegant Parisian society that she
fondly imagined herself a member of.
Of course, Elwell had a separate existence, after the French model, and
knew as little about his wife’s pleasures as she did about his, and
both were content.
It was a rainy, disagreeable day in March when they arrived at the
city of sand and sawdust, and received the hearty greetings of old
Pat Morain. Perhaps it was merely the effect of the disagreeable
weather that caused Fanny to evince so much disgust at the appearance
of everything. Certainly she was in a very discontented humor, and
submitted to her father’s hearty caress with rather less than a
daughter’s affection.
“There, father,” she cried pettishly, “don’t spoil my hat, for
goodness’ sake!” And Pat retreated after one frosty kiss in rather a
crestfallen manner.
“Ye’ve not changed much anyway,” he muttered to himself, looking at
his daughter reproachfully; but he recovered his usual good nature
directly, and shook hands with his son-in-law with hearty kindness.
“We have had a splendid time, father,” said Elwell gracefully, “and we
thank you for it. You must not mind Fanny now. She is a little tired
and out of spirits.”
“Mind it, me boy? Not a bit!” exclaimed Pat heartily. “You’re as
welcome as a freshet on the river, and I’m mighty glad to think that
you’ve enjoyed yourselves.”
“La, James!” cried Fanny shrilly--perhaps for the benefit of the
bystanders--“who would have thought the old place could look so
intensely disagreeable? Goodness knows, I’m glad I shall not be here
long!”
Perhaps her husband had his own ideas as to the probable length of her
stay; but he remained discreetly silent, and they got into the carriage
that was waiting to take them home.
It took Fanny some days to recover her temper, if she could be said to
have recovered it at all. But by the time her trunks arrived, she had
recovered so far as to unpack and gloat over the numerous expensive
dresses and other articles of feminine wear that she had brought from
beloved Paris. But even in this her pleasure was marred by the thought
that there was no one to exhibit them to, and absolutely no place
in the neighborhood of this city of sand and sawdust that she could
appropriately wear any of her exquisite toilets; so, perforce, she hung
them away to wait as patiently as possible her hoped-for removal to a
more enlightened place.
In the meantime, Elwell was very busy. He had been admitted to an equal
partnership with his father-in-law, and was striving to master the many
details of the business. Morain, like many other self-made men, had a
peculiar method of keeping his accounts.
He understood them perfectly himself, but I doubt if any one else
could. So Elwell, as a first move, was obliged to inventory the vast
business that his partner had built up from nothing, and then proceed,
with the aid of an experienced accountant, to systemize it.
Pat, instead of objecting to all this, allowed the younger man full
swing, and even encouraged him in his innovations.
“Go it, young ’un,” he would say, grinning complacently. “Get a fair
start, and then we will make ’em all stand from under.”
And really, Elwell proved himself a valuable acquisition to the firm;
and his energy and tact, aided by Morain’s native shrewdness and
knowledge of the business, soon began to make itself felt. Then, too,
he was very popular with his fellow townsmen, and rapidly increasing
in popularity. He was certainly a rising young man. His very audacity
compelled success.
He had been a member of the firm of Morain & Elwell two or three months
before there came a ripple over the placid stream of his contentment.
This was caused by a letter from Mr. Peter Coleman, notifying him that
he--Coleman--expected to reach the town of sand and sawdust shortly,
with a view, possibly, of entering into the practice of his profession
at that point, and he desired his friend and former client to give
him as clear an idea as possible of the chances he might have for
accumulating a remunerative practice.
This did not suit Elwell at all. It was well enough that he should make
use of Mr. Peter Coleman, but he had no idea in the world of allowing
Mr. Peter Coleman to use _him_.
“Of course he wants my help,” Elwell thought. “And if I give way to
him, I shall be to a certain extent in his power.”
So he wrote a very short, terse letter, saying that there was not the
slightest chance for a lawyer of Mr. Coleman’s abilities--he understood
that word--in their little town, and strongly advised him not to come,
intimating very plainly that if Mr. Coleman did come, he could expect
neither advice nor assistance from him.
He felt a little uneasy for some time after this, for he dreaded an
open rupture with Peter; but, as the time went on, and he heard no more
about it, he concluded that Mr. Coleman had taken the advice given him
without complaint, and he began to feel easier.
Coleman was the one link between him and his past life--the one being
who had knowledge of things that he wanted buried out of sight forever;
and I think that, if he did not actually wish any harm to befall his
quondam friend, he would have received the news of his death with
patient resignation.
Therefore, when he found that gentleman’s card on his desk one morning
after he had concluded that he had heard the last of it all, he was not
exactly pleased; and his greeting, when Mr. Coleman entered, was far
from being as cordial as could be expected between such old friends.
But Peter did not appear to notice it, and only stayed a few moments.
“I’ll just go up and look over your town,” he said, “and this evening,
if you are at liberty, we will talk things over.”
And from something in his tone and expression, Mr. Elwell concluded
that he had better be at liberty.