DESIRÉE MAKES PLANS
Next morning, the Granite _Star_ made known to the world at large that
grievous wrong had been done to the city and to its taxpayers when
their two foremost public buildings had been erected. These edifices,
hitherto the pride of Granite, were constructed of cheap, inferior
material: were ill-put together and were, in short, a disgrace, a
byword and a hissing. The city and county had paid for first-class
work. They had received fourth-rate value for their money.
And the miscreant on whom the sole and total blame rested was Caleb
Conover, President of the revivified C. G & X. railroad. He, hiding
behind the honorable name of a man since dead, had robbed the city with
one hand and the county with the other. Now, through the cleverness of
a _Star_ reporter, his culpability was at last unearthed.
Further, the _Star_ desired, editorially, to avoid needless
exploitation of scandal and the bringing to light of misdemeanors for
which there now appeared to be no legal penalty. But it owed a duty to
its constituents, the thinking class of Granite. Perhaps Mr. Conover,
having, since the regrettable transactions, reared upon such fraudulent
foundations a fortune which was estimated as verging upon the two
million mark, would see his way toward making restitution.
To which quip of Caine’s the Fighter retaliated by depressing Steeloid
stock. This bit of practical repartee led to a second editorial to the
effect that what was done was done, and that perhaps the wisest and
most dignified course would be to let the unfortunate matter rest where
it was. The lesser newspapers of the town, having bayed with incredible
loudness and ferocity the moment the _Star_ gave voice, now showed
inclination to follow the leader’s example in letting the scandal die
out.
There were no further developments in the case to warrant continuous
re-hashing of the story through their columns. Ex-Governor Parkman,
finding himself and his crusade unceremoniously side-tracked by this
more interesting turn affairs had taken, sulked in his tent. Caleb,
after that first momentous interview, would see no reporter. A new
sensation was thoughtfully provided by the assistant cashier of the
Aaron Burr National Bank who wandered one day from his post of duty
and neglected to return; taking with him, in equal absent-mindedness,
$18,000 of the bank’s funds.
Caleb and his inspired confession, for all these excellent reasons,
were not even a nine-day wonder. Within a week the volcano had
subsided. The incident, apparently, was closed. Whether or not the
Grand Jury would take steps toward criminal prosecution remained to be
seen.
At the end of the week, Caleb, in answer to a peremptory summons,
called on Desirée.
“Where have you been?” she catechised with the air of an Angora kitten
enacting the role of Rhadamanthus.
“I’ve been busy,” he evaded, “Workin’ on a new deal we’re puttin’
through, an’--”
“Do you know it is eight whole days since you have been near me?” she
demanded.
“Nine,” he corrected humbly. “I--I been busy, an’--”
“And you haven’t called _anywhere_ else?”
“Where else could I?” he asked in amaze. “There’s only one place I
expected to call. That’s at the Standishes’. An’ they’ve got mumps,
there. Besides, I kind of thought I’d wait until some of this noospaper
talk quieted down before I went anywheres. That’s--that’s why I didn’t
come here, either,” he went on, shamefacedly.
“I knew it!” she declared. “I _knew_ that was it. I wondered if you
could be so utterly silly. So I waited. And it seems you could. Aren’t
you ashamed? It would have served you right if I hadn’t sent for you
at all. _Why_ didn’t you come, Caleb? You surely don’t suppose all
that newspaper nonsense made any difference to _me_, do you? Now stop
looking at me as if I’d slapped you and promise not to be so bad any
more. Promise!”
“Look here!” blurted Caleb, at once relieved and puzzled, “How was I
to know you wouldn’t just about hate me when you heard how I’d acted
about those measly public buildin’s? An’ your father’s comp’ny too.
Why, I--”
“You don’t mean to say you thought I _believed_ any of the absurd
story?” she cried, incredulous. “Why, Caleb Conover, I--”
“It was true!” he protested vehemently, “All of it was true. It was me,
an’ not your father that--”
“It was neither of you, if there was anything wrong about the matter,”
she decided with calm finality, “I don’t know business and I don’t
know politics. But I do know you and I knew Dad. And neither of you
could have done a low or dishonest thing if you had tried all day. If
the papers choose to twist your business dealings upside down and try
to make people think either of you defrauded anybody,--why, so much
the worse for people who are stupid enough to believe such falsehoods.
That’s all there is about it. I’ve seen cartoons of you garroting the
city of Granite, and I’ve read editorials that called you ‘Brute’
Conover and I’ve waded through columns of articles abusing you. And
it all made me angry enough to cry. But not at _you_, you old chum of
mine. At the people who wrote such vile things and tried to make the
public believe them. Now let’s talk about _me_. Are you glad I’m going
away? Please be.”
“Am I glad I’m not goin’ to see you for more’n two months?” corrected
Caleb, “Not much I’m not. It gives me the blues ev’ry time I think of
it.”
“But you _are_ going to see me. I’ve thought it all out, and I’ve got
your orders ready for you.”
“You don’t mean to say you’re not goin’?” queried Caleb in dismay. “But
you’ve got to, Dey. Just think how much you’ve wanted to, an’--”
“Oh, I’m going,” she replied serenely. “I’ve promised Mrs. Hawarden.
And, besides, I wouldn’t miss it for worlds. But you’re coming, too.
Isn’t that nice?”
She leaned back to watch his delight in her revelation. But he eyed her
without a ray of understanding.
“I mean,” she explained, “you’re going to take a nice, long vacation in
August or September and coming up to the Antlers. I talked it over with
Jack Hawarden and it’s all arranged. There won’t be room for you in the
cottage, but you can get a tent or a lodge within a stone’s throw of
it; and we’ll have the gloriousest time you ever dreamed of. Isn’t that
splendid? _Say_ it is!”
“But Dey,” he objected. “You don’t understand. I never took a vacation
in my life. I ain’t got time to. This is goin’ to be the busiest summer
yet, for me. I’ve a dozen irons in the fire. I’d like awful well to
come an’ see you there, but--”
“I’ve settled it all,” she replied calmly, “And you’re coming. It will
only be two weeks;--if you can’t get away for longer. But you’re coming
for those two weeks.”
“I _can’t_, Dey. I’ve got--”
“Now, I suppose you expect me to be a lowly squidge, and sigh and say
‘Oh, very well!’” she retorted. “But I’m not going to do anything of
the sort. Listen: You’ve never had a vacation. Then it’s time you took
one. I’d be _ashamed_ to be so inexperienced, if I were you. You’ve got
a lot of irons in the fire. Very well then; you have two whole months
to get enough of them out to let you take a fortnight’s rest. You’ve
never gone _anywhere_ with me, Caleb. You’ve just been with me for
an afternoon or an evening when half your mind was on that wretched
railroad. Think of our being together for two gorgeous outdoor weeks,
with nothing to do but have all the good times there are. And in the
Adirondacks, too. _Caleb!_”
“I’d--I’d love to, Dey, if--”
“So then it’s all arranged!” she cried, happily.
“Hold on!” he exclaimed, “I can’t. I--”
“Now, I shall have to discipline you,” she sighed. “I see that. I was
afraid I’d have to. Look me in the eyes! Now, say after me: ‘I promise
to come to the Antlers for a fortnight this summer.’ _Say_ it!”
“I--Why, Dey, I--”
“That isn’t what I told you to say!” she broke in, sternly. “Say it
now. Slowly. ‘I promise to--’--Say it!”
“I promise to--” he repeated in resignation.
“Come to the Antlers for a fortnight this summer. Say it!”
“Come to the Antlers for a fortnight this summer,” he groaned, “Lord!
What’ll my work do, while I--?”
“_Now_ see how nice you are!” exulted Desirée, “You’re being good
at last. Don’t you feel happier now you’ve stopped being bad and
obstinate? _Say_ so!”
“Does it make _you_ happier?” he evaded.
“Of course it does. But,” she added, paying truth its strict due, “of
course I knew you were coming anyhow. Now let’s talk about it.”
“But say,” he protested, “S’pose you an’ your aunt run down to Coney
Island or Atlantic City after you leave the Adirondacks; an’ let me
come down there instead? There’s lots of fun to be had at those places.
But what can _I_ do up in the woods? Just measly trees an’ sky an’
water; an’ not even a Loop the Loop or a music hall, I s’pose. Gee!
It’s too slow for my taste.”
“Then it is my mission to improve your taste,” she insisted, frowning
down his amendment as unworthy of note, “Don’t you _want_ to like the
things I like?”
“Yes,” he answered, obediently.
“And when you know it will give me twice as much fun if you’re there
with me, you’ll want to come to the Adirondacks, won’t you?”
“If it’d make any sort of a hit with you, Dey,” he answered in full
honesty, “I’d spend those two weeks in a contagion ward. An’ you know
it. But what in thunder is there to do, up in the wilderness?”
“We can go on camping trips, for one thing,” she said eagerly, “and
cook our own meals out in the forest and sit around camp fires and--”
“I did all those things when I was workin’ on the section gang eighteen
years ago,” interpolated Caleb, “An’ got one-eighty-five a day for
doin’ it. It didn’t get much enthoosiasm out of me then. Maybe it’s
better fun though when you have to pay _ho_tel rates for the priv’lege.
Any more aloorments?”
“A _great_ many,” said she coldly. “But I shall punish you by not
telling you any of them. You haven’t seen Miss Standish since the day
we went to the Arareek Club?”
“No,” he answered, too accustomed to her quick changes of theme to
see anything significant in the careless question, “But I hope to see
quite a lot of her this summer. She’s stayin’ late in town. An’ it’ll
be lonesome for me after you’re gone. I guess she an’ I’ll get better
acquainted before fall.”
“You still have that--plan--you spoke of?” she answered, speaking low
and hurriedly.
“Sure!” he answered, “I don’t let go of plans, once I’ve took the
trouble to make ’em. I’ll let you know how I come out. But there ain’t
much doubt.”
He checked himself, remembering all at once how a similar vaunt had
been received by Desirée a few weeks earlier. But now, to his covert
glance of apprehension, the girl’s delicate face showed no sign of
resentment. He noticed, however, for the first time, that her aspect
had but a shade of its usual fresh buoyancy; that the soft rounded
cheek was paler than was its wont.
“You’re lookin’ all run down, Dey!” he cried, in quick concern, “This
hot weather’s hurtin’ you. It’s high time you went away to--”
“Yes,” she interrupted wearily, “It’s time I went away.”