Sylvia pushed Eileen none too gently aside, to make room for herself in
the hammock beside Mrs. Ascott. Then she fell upon her letter, reading
aloud such passages as involved no violation of the family’s privacy.
The journey had been hot and dusty--not a familiar face on the train
from beginning to end. Theodore had met her in Rochester with the
new car, and she had enjoyed the first part of the ride, along the
Genesee. She was glad Ellen was not along. It gave Ted a chance to tell
her ever so many things, that she would otherwise not have heard.
Ellen could think of nothing but the Stone scandal. Everybody felt
sorry for Calvin. For her part, she thought he got only what he
deserved. She had not seen him, as yet. His life was a terrible example
of the consequences of sin. She hoped he had not forgotten how she
tried for years to lead him into the church. She might remind him of
this, when she saw him ... for Ellen had invited him--oh, much against
her own wishes--to have dinner with them Sunday.
As Sylvia read, the long envelope addressed to Mr. Larimore Trench
slipped from Judith’s lap and fell to the floor. Eileen stooped to
restore it.
“Whee-oo! Lary’ll be down in the back cellar, eating coal to warm his
heart,” she cried. “It certainly does take the tuck out of him to have
the editors give him the back-fire.”
“I can imagine what you mean,” Mrs. Ascott smiled, “but you are wrong
in your surmise. This is not a rejected manuscript. It is a business
letter from one of my attorneys--not Mr. Ramsay.”
* * * * *
That evening, just as Hal and Eileen were driving away in the little
roadster, with Sylvia watching them from a third-floor window, Lary
sprang nimbly over the wall and hurried to the summer house, the long
envelope in his hand. His feet scarce touched the grass ... he walked
like Theodora in her most charming mood.
“It’s the contract for the plans. I couldn’t wait to let you know. It
might have been the other thing. I wouldn’t let myself see how eager I
was for ... success. Mr. Sanderson says they are charmed with the whole
arrangement. They want me to come to New York at once for a conference.
His daughter doesn’t care about the cow barn--since she isn’t operating
a dairy. They would like to have me substitute a studio, somewhere out
in the woods. It appears that the bride-to-be is a sculptor.”
“Yes, she and Hilda Travers were in Paris together--but of course you
don’t know about Hilda.”
A queer, chilly feeling crept over Judith Ascott. She had forgotten
Hilda. She had forgotten everything. It all belonged to another world,
a story she had read in a book on an idle summer’s day.
“You didn’t--let the Marksleys have the cow barn?” she faltered.
“No.”
“I’m glad you didn’t. A lower nature than yours would have taken a mean
revenge--by letting the dwelling of cattle shame the manor house.”
“It wasn’t that, Judith. They offered me a stiff price for that one set
of plans, and I needed the money. But ... seeing anything of mine in
that environment of cairngorms would make me feel the way it does to
see Eileen running around with that--” He checked himself, and the slow
red--Lavinia’s red that betokened impotent rage--crept above the line
of his collar.
“When are they going to begin building? The Sandersons, I mean.”
“Immediately. They want me to go over the ground and outline the
landscape features. I shall probably be back and forth the rest of the
summer. They have asked me to serve in the capacity of supervising
architect. We don’t do things that way in Springdale. But I have
helped my father--long before I was out of college--so I have all the
necessary experience. The only difference is that Mr. Sanderson will
pay me a fee and flaunt my name on sign-boards all over the estate. I
may as well get used to that part of it. I have always insisted that my
father use his name, as contractor, in connection with the actual work.
It’s a distinction I never relished. But if I’m going to invade the New
York field--”
“I’m so happy. Have you told Sylvia?”
“No, I told the baby.”
“That was dear, Lary.”
Larimore Trench turned to look at her. The blue-grey eyes were suffused
and the sweet lips trembled. The man wondered why he had no impulse to
kiss so engaging a mouth. It was all spiritual, that strange contact
that he was experiencing for the first time in his life. Then, too,
kissing had always been associated with his mother, the outward symbol
of a bond he knew did not exist.
“I am going down to the office to talk it over with papa. They have
asked for an immediate answer by wire. It is not necessary to tell you
what the answer will be. Won’t you come with me? I’ll turn the electric
fan on you while we talk shop.”
“But, Lary, won’t I be horribly in the way?”
“How could the other half of me be in the way? Don’t you see, dear, you
must be with me when my father has the proudest moment of his life.
This will be the antidote for all that Marksley poison in his soul.”