My heart no truer, but my words and ways more true to it.--ROBERT
BROWNING.
"Say good by to papa." And Floyd Grandon stoops to kiss his little
daughter. "Jane will take you out to walk, and Aunt Gertrude will show
you the pictures again if you ask her."
The evening before she had evinced a decided liking for Gertrude.
"Where are you going?" There was a quick apprehensiveness in her tone
as she caught his hand.
"On some business," with a smile.
"Take me, too. I don't want to stay here alone," she cries,
imperiously.
There is a soft rustle in the hall. Madame has come down in advance of
Laura. The carriage stands waiting to take them to the station.
Floyd bites his lips in annoyance. Since they left Devonshire, Cecil
has scarcely been an hour out of his sight save when asleep. He cannot
take her now,--the thought is absurd.
"No, my dear. It would not amuse a little girl, and I shall be too
busy. Do not be naughty," he entreats.
"I want to go with you. I will not stay here!"
"Cecil!"
"I will run away," she says, daringly. "I will not look at pictures nor
walk with Jane."
"Then you will be naughty, and papa cannot love you," bending his face
down to hers. "I shall not be glad to come back to a little girl who
will not please or obey me."
"Take me, then!" There is a great, dry sob in her throat.
If only Madame Lepelletier were away! His experience with children is
so very limited, that he is almost weak enough to yield to this sweet
tyranny.
"Kiss me." Eugene has driven around with his horse and the buggy.
Cecil drops her hands by her side, and her large, deep eyes float in
tears, but her brilliant lips are set. Just once they open.
"You are naughty to me," she says, with childish audacity.
"Very well." He takes a slow step as if to give her time for
repentance. He could bestow an undignified shake upon the proud little
mite, but he refrains.
"Jane, come and look after Miss Cecil," he exclaims, authoritatively.
Then he gives her a quick kiss, but she stands with swelling chest and
eyes glittering in tears, watching him out of sight.
Aunt Laura rustles down.
"Mutiny in the camp," says madame, with a little laugh; and though
Cecil does not understand, she knows she is meant.
"Floyd will have his hands full with that child," comments Laura. "She
is not so angelic as she looks."
Floyd has stepped into the buggy. Sultan snuffs with his thin nostrils,
and paces with proud grace.
"There's a beauty for you, Floyd," Eugene says, triumphantly. "You
cannot find his match anywhere about here."
Floyd is very fond of handsome horses, and Sultan stirs a sudden
enthusiasm. Eugene expatiates eloquently upon his merits, which are
evident. The shady road, the fragrant air, the glimpses of the broad
river glittering in the morning sun, and the purple cliff opposite, are
indeed a dream of beauty. He more than half wishes there was no
business to distract one's mind.
"How it has all changed!" he says, presently. "I was amazed yesterday,
looking from the tower, to see how Westbrook had enlarged her borders
and indulged in high chimneys. There must be considerable business in
the town. There is quite a length of dock and shipping, and streets in
every direction."
"Yes. Floyd, will you go to Connery's first or to the factory? The will
is in the safe, the letter of instruction at the lawyer's."
"Why not stop and get that? I want to see both, you know."
"And Connery's room is a stuffy little den. Well, we will stop for it,
and if you want to consult him afterward, you can."
Mr. Connery has gone to the city on important business. The clerk hunts
up the packet, and they go on.
The old factory has altered as well. A new part has been built, with a
pretentious business office, and an ante-room that is quite luxuriously
appointed, with Russia-leather chairs, lounge, a pretty cabinet,
pictures, and several lovely statuettes.
"Now if you want to go through all these things, Floyd, you can do it
at your leisure. We can't talk business until we know what basis it is
to be on, and the will is a sort of dead letter without further
instructions. I have a little errand to do which will take an hour or
so, and----"
"Yes," is the quick affirmative. He is holding his dead father's letter
in his hand and wishing to be alone with it.
"Here is the will," taking it from the safe. "There are cigars, so make
yourself comfortable, and if you should prove the arbiter of my fate,
deal gently." And the young man gives a gay little laugh.
Floyd seats himself by the window, but fond as he is of smoking, the
cigars do not tempt him. His eyes rest upon these words until they all
seem to run together:--"For my eldest son, Floyd Grandon. To be read by
him before any settlement of the business." How different these
irregular letters from his father's usual firm business hand! Ah, how
soon afterward the trembling fingers were cold in death! He presses it
to his lips with an unconscious, reverent tenderness.
The love between them had not been of the romantic kind, but he recalls
his father's pride and pleasure in his young manhood, his interest in
the house and the marriage arrangement. The later letters of his father
have touched him, too, with a sort of secret weariness, as if his
absorbing interest in business had begun to decline. He had planned
some release and journeys for him, but the last journey of all had been
taken, and he was at rest.
Slowly he broke the double seal and took the missive out of its
enclosure, and began the perusal.
_To my dear Son Floyd_,--When you read this the hand that penned it
will be mouldering in the dust, its labor ended but not finished.
The pathos blurred his eyes, and he turned them to the window. The sun
shone, the busy feet tramped to and fro, there was the ceaseless hum of
the machinery, but the brain that had planned, the heart that had
hoped, was away from it all, silent and cold, and the mantle had fallen
on one who had no part or lot in the matter.
The letter had been written at intervals, and gave a clear statement of
the business. Mr. Wilmarth had one quarter-share, Mr. St. Vincent had
another quarter-share, and a certain amount of royalty on a patent that
Mr. Grandon felt would secure a fortune to them all if rightly managed.
For this, he asked Floyd's supervision. Eugene was too young to feel
the importance of strict, vigorous attention. There was no ready money,
the factory was mortgaged, and the only maintenance of the family must
come from the business.
A chill sped over Floyd. Commercial pursuits had always wearied and
disgusted him. Now, when he understood the bent and delight of his own
soul, to lay his work aside and take up this--ah, he could not, he
said.
Then he went over the will. To his mother, the furniture and silver,
and, in lieu of dower, the sum of two thousand dollars yearly. To his
sisters, the sum of five thousand apiece, to be paid as soon as the
business would allow, and at the expiration of a term of years five
thousand more. The half-share of the business to belong to Eugene
solely after the legacies were paid. The library and two valuable
pictures were bequeathed to Floyd, and in the tender explanation, he
knew it was from no lack of affection that he had been left out of
other matters.
The heavy bell clangs out the hour of noon. No one comes to disturb
him. It seems like being in the presence of the dead, in a kind of
breathless, waiting mystery. The duty is thrust upon him, if it can be
done. His father seems confident, but how will liabilities and assets
balance? Then he remembers the luxury at home, Eugene's fast horse, and
his air of easy indifference. Certainly there must be something.
After a while the quiet oppresses him. He saunters around the room,
that wears the aspect of indolent ease rather than business. Then he
emerges into a wide hallway, and strolls over opposite. Here is a
well-packed storehouse, then a small place in semi-obscurity, into
which he peers wonderingly, when a figure rises that startles him out
of his self-possession for a moment.
A man whose age would be hard to tell, though his thick, short hair is
iron gray and his beard many shades whiter. Short of stature, with very
high shoulders, that suggest physical deformity, squarely built and
stout, a square, rugged face, with light, steely eyes and overhanging
brows. It _is_ a repellent face and form, and Floyd Grandon says
slowly,--
"Pardon my intrusion. I--" rather embarrassed at the steady gaze--"I am
Mr. Floyd Grandon."
"Ah!" There is something akin to a sneer in the exclamation. "Doubtless
your brother has spoken of me,--Jasper Wilmarth."
This, then, is his father's partner. He is utterly amazed, bewildered.
"I heard of your return," he continues. There is something peculiar, as
if the man weighed every word. "We have been looking for you," rather
dryly.
"I hope my delay has not proved injurious to the business," says
Grandon, recovering his usual dignity. "I find that I am executor of
the estate with my mother, and I suppose some steps are necessary. I
shall qualify immediately. In what condition is the business?"
"Bad enough," is the reply. "Trade is dull, and I am sorry to say that
our new machinery, put in at a great expense, does not work
satisfactorily."
Floyd is startled at the frankness, as well as the admission.
"Where is the other partner, Mr. St. Vincent?"
"Out of town somewhere," indifferently.
"He holds the patent----"
"That we were wild enough to undertake; yes."
"My father seemed to have great hopes of it."
The high shoulders are shrugged higher. There is something bitter and
contemptuous in the man's face, a look that indicates fighting, though
what can there be to fight about?
The great bell rings out again. Nooning is over, and there are hurrying
steps up the wide alleyway.
"I wonder," Floyd begins, "if you know where my brother went. He said
something about Rockwood,--and was to be back shortly."
"If he has gone to Rockwood, I doubt if you see him before
mid-afternoon." The sneer is plainly evident here, and Grandon feels
some antagonistic blood rise.
"I suppose," he continues, in his usual courteous tone, "that it will
be best to have a business meeting as soon as possible. I will consult
Mr. Connery; an inventory was taken, I suppose."
"Yes. It is in his hands."
Wilmarth is certainly hard to get on with. To natural brusqueness is
added an evident disinclination to discuss the business. Floyd is much
too proud to seem curious, though here he has a right to know all, but
he feels that he will not be able to make much headway alone.
"I think I will return," he says. "If my brother comes in, tell him, if
you please, that I have gone home. We have not discussed any business
yet, but will begin to-morrow. Good day."
He goes back, folds up the papers, and places them carefully in his
breast-pocket, takes his hat and walks slowly out, wondering if his
father really trusted this man. He inspires Floyd with a deep,
inveterate dislike, a curious suspicion before he knows there is
anything to suspect. He wishes--ah, at that moment he feels inclined to
pay the legacies and his mother's pension, and wash his hands of the
other distasteful charge. Then some words of his father's come back:
"Remember that Eugene is young and thoughtless, and be patient."
It is very warm as he steps into the street, and he remembers a sort of
river road that used to be shady, where he has rambled many a time.
Everything is changed, the hills levelled, the valleys filled up, but
he presently finds a strip of woodland near the shore edge, and a path
much overgrown with blackberry-vines. He picks his way along, now and
then meeting with a remembered aspect, when he comes across a sort of
Swiss _châlet_ on the sloping hillside. Two peaks of roof, odd, long,
narrow windows, with diamond-shape panes of glass, a vine-covered
porch, an old woman in black, with white kerchief and high-crowned cap
suggestive of Normandy; and through an open window a man sitting at a
table, with instruments or machinery before him, engrossed with some
experiments. A peculiar, delicate face, with a high, narrow forehead,
thin white hair worn rather long and now tumbled, a drooping nose, a
snowy white, pointed beard, and thin, long fingers, as colorless as
Gertrude's.
Somewhere he has seen a picture of an alchemist not unlike this. He can
even discern the intent eagerness of the face as the fingers delicately
manipulate something. So interested is he that he forgets his recent
perplexity, and, seating himself on a rocky ledge, watches. The air is
tensely clear, the river blue as the sky in the intervals of shade.
Here and there a dappled rift of cloud floating slowly, a picture of
virginal beauty, tinctured with the essence of a hundred summers. The
air is drowsily sweet, and he lapses into forgetfulness,--a traveller's
trick.
When he opens his eyes the student is still there; the old woman has
had her nap and is knitting. A large-eyed greyhound sits at her side.
Floyd has half a mind to break in upon the scholar's sanctity, but
remembering that he is now a part and parcel of civilization, refrains
and resumes his journey; and now it is of Cecil he thinks. The
perplexities of the morning have quite excluded baby naughtiness. Will
she be glad to see him,--first in her half-shy, wholly seductive
manner, then with her ardent, entire love? He _is_ pleased to find her
not easily won from him.
The house is very quiet. Bruno, the great dog, comes forward and
studies him with sagacious, penetrating eyes. He pats him and says
kindly,--
"Your mother knew and loved me, good Bruno."
Gertrude is on the library sofa. "Oh," she cries with a start, "where
is Eugene?"
"I have not seen him since morning. Gertrude, is there anything special
at Rockwood?"
"Why no,--the Casino, and the track, you know. They speed horses, and
sometimes have races, I believe. Have you had lunch?"
"Just a biscuit and a glass of wine will do," he says. "Don't disturb
yourself. Where is Cecil?"
"Jane has had her all day. She wouldn't even be friendly with me.
Marcia and mother have gone out for calls, I believe."
Just as he enters the dining-room he turns his head. "Gertrude, do you
know an odd little cottage on the side of what used to be Savin Rock?"
"A sort of chapel-looking place, with pointed roof?"
"Yes. Who lives there?"
"Why, Mr. St. Vincent."
"The partner, do you mean?"
"Yes."
"Did you ever see him? What kind of looking person is he?"
"Yes. He was here several times. He had the patent, you know. O Floyd,
_do_ you understand anything about the business? Papa thought he should
make a great deal of money. Did you see Mr. Wilmarth? Isn't he queer
and----" She ends with a shiver.
"I feel just that way about him myself. But what is St. Vincent like?"
"Tall and thin and deadly pale. A kind of French Canadian, I believe.
You see he was so enthusiastic and so sure, and so was papa, but
something went wrong. Oh, I do hope we will not lose our money! To be
ill and wretched and homeless, for no doubt you will marry again,
and----"
Floyd laughs heartily. "You shall not be homeless," he says, "and I
will even promise to keep you in books. There, don't distress
yourself." How often he has to administer comfort!
His lunch is the matter of a few moments, then he hurries up-stairs.
The tower door is open, and there is no one to be seen. He keeps on and
on until he catches a flutter of a white dress. Cecil is running around
the observatory, and his heart beats as he glances at the dazzling
little sprite, with her sparkling eyes and her hair a golden mist about
her face. He could watch forever, but it is a daring pastime.
"Cecil," he calls softly.
"O papa!" She stops and flushes a deeper pink, then suddenly remembers
in the midst of her delight, and there is a tacit reproach in her eyes.
"Have you a kiss for papa?"
She considers gravely, then with a quick bound she is in his arms.
"What are you doing up here, alone?"
"I ran away, a little. I am close up to the birdies, papa, see!"
A flock of swallows were wheeling and circling around. She claps her
hands in glee. "Couldn't you open the windows?"
"Not now. The sun is too warm. And, my darling, I wish you would not
come up here without Jane. You might fall."
"Miss Cecil, are you up there?" calls Jane.
Grandon takes her down in his arms. "Jane," he says in a low tone,
"never let Miss Cecil out of your sight."
"Papa," she begins again, "grandmamma went out in such a pretty
carriage. Can't we go, too?"
"Why, yes, I think so. Stay here until I see whether I can find a
horse."
He goes out to the stables. The coachman and the gardener are enjoying
their afternoon pipes. Everything out here seems on the same lavish
scale. There must be money somewhere, Floyd thinks, or debt, and of
that he has a horror.
The carriage horses are in, and Mr. Eugene's pretty saddle mare,
Beauty. Then Marcia has a pony, and Sultan counts up five. He orders
the carriage without any comment, and actually persuades Gertrude to
accompany them, or takes her against her will.
The sun is slipping westward now. They leave the beaten ways and go out
among farm-houses and orchards, broad fields of grain and waving
grasses, making a mass of subtile harmonies. A feeling of rare content
fills Floyd Grandon's soul again. There will be so much to enjoy that
he need not grudge the few months spent in this wearisome business.
Dinner is ready when they return. Marcia is in unusually high spirits,
but Eugene seems tired and out of humor. He apologizes to Floyd for his
defection, something quite unexpected detained him.
"Eugene," he says afterward, "let us have a little talk. I want to know
how matters stand. I saw Mr. Wilmarth and he feels doubtful, I should
say. What is there about the machinery? The new arrangement does not
work? Is there any special indebtedness?"
"Wilmarth is looking after that. Trade has somehow fallen off, but it
is out of season. What are you to do?" he asks, cautiously.
"First, begin to pay the legacies,--fifteen thousand to the girls."
"Well, you can't. There are two notes falling due, and the whole thing
will have to be squeezed,--if it can be raised. Floyd, you are a lucky
chap, with a fortune ready made to your hand. I wish I stood in your
shoes. I hate business!"
He says this with a kind of vicious fling.
The handsome, ease-loving face deepens into a frown. It is eager for
enjoyment and indifferent to consequences, at once fascinating and
careless.
"Would you really like to keep the business, Eugene?" asks the elder.
"I wouldn't keep it a day if Wilmarth could take the whole thing. But
there are so many complications and so much money to pay out. I really
do not see what is to be left for me," discontentedly.
"If the other two make anything, your half-share ought to be worth
something."
"But you see it never _can_ pay the--the family."
"It does not seem to me that father would have made just such a will if
he had not believed it equitable or possible. I shall ask Connery to
call a meeting to-morrow or as soon as possible. When does this note
fall due?"
"I really do not know. I told you Wilmarth looked out for those
things," he says impatiently.
"Have you any clear idea about the new patent? Is it really worth
working? What are Mr. Wilmarth's views on the subject?"
"St. Vincent has to change something or other. He is very sanguine, and
wants Wilmarth to wait a little. I don't believe he _has_ perfect faith
in it."
"I want you to read father's letter," Floyd says gravely.
"Not to-night, old fellow. To tell the truth, my head aches and I feel
stupid. We'll look into things to-morrow. Only, Floyd, don't bring up a
fellow with too sharp a turn."
Floyd sighs. He will not have much help in his task, he can plainly
foresee. There remains Mr. St. Vincent.
"Eugene," and there is a touch of deep feeling in his tone, "I want us
to work together harmoniously. Remember that I have nothing to gain in
all this. Whatever I do must be for your benefit and that of the
family. I have my own plans and aims, but you will always find me
brotherly."
"Oh, well, don't pull such a solemn face about it. I dare say it will
come out right. St. Vincent will get everything fixed up presently.
Every business gets in a tight place now and then. Let us wind up our
conclave with a friendly cigar."
Floyd is still holding Cecil in his arms, now asleep, but he will not
relinquish his precious burden. Marcia has some guests on the porch; he
hears their chatter and laughter. Is he, too; growing captious and
uncomfortable?