When he had gone, she did an unaccountable thing. She sent a telegram
to her father. It was simple and direct. She would be married on
Wednesday. It would please her if he could be with her. There would
be a train through Littlefield at four o’clock in the afternoon, and
she would have Dutton meet him with the car. He could return, via
Detroit, at eleven the same night. When the message had gone, she fell
to wondering what motive had actuated her. She and her father were, as
Griff Ramsay had said, strangers. Lary’s mother? The thought angered
her. Yes, she had had recourse to her father ... the only available
shield against the small-town criticism that would be reiterated,
in veiled innuendo, the rest of her life. It was her father who had
pursued her--brought her back to the path of rectitude. Such a father
would lend reasonable sanctity to her second marriage! Was she, too, in
the thrall of that woman, the slave of that cunning, provincial mind?
She sought for relief in the meeting between Lary and her father. Would
he see in her beloved nothing more than a village architect? Would her
mother be furious--her mother who had approved Raoul?
At six o’clock the reply came. Mr. Denslow was starting Tuesday for the
southwest, where he was to look over some oil properties. He would stop
off in Springdale, providing he could get a late train to St. Louis.
His explicit telegram made no mention of the occasion for his brief
visit in his daughter’s home.
V
The train schedule was propitious. He came. The instant after he had
deposited his travelling bag on the floor of the guest room, he began
to ply Judith with questions concerning the deucedly clever fellow
who was building Avis Sanderson’s house. He had driven over the place
with some friends, had inspected the drawings, and had commissioned
Ramsay to enter into negotiations with the architect. By-the-way, he
had sold the house at Pelham. He was thinking of a princely estate on
Long Island--French château style--to be finished before her mother’s
return from Paris. This man, Trench, would be the one to handle it.
“Papa, you don’t seem to understand that I am going to marry Larimore
Trench this evening!”
“Oh, quite so, quite so. Ramsay told me he would be the one. It’s a
singular piece of good fortune. I never liked the idea of putting Ben
in one of those big offices, where a young draughtsman is swallowed
up. The boy hasn’t brains enough to go it alone. This way, Trench can
take him into a partnership. I’ll talk it over with his mother. I’m
crossing, the first of December, for a couple of months in London and
on the Continent. I’m worn out, and the doctors say--Damn it all,
Judith, I can’t give up ... go to the wall at fifty four, with a
family to support. Black specks floating in the air, no appetite for
breakfast. It’s a dog’s life, and they’ll skin me out of my eye teeth
while I’m gone.” He stopped, disconsolate. After a moment he resumed,
his manner somewhat detached:
“I was thinking that you might have the apartment. I’m not in it
once a week. Hotel so much more convenient. Maids sleep their heads
off--nothing to do. I sold off everything, at Pelham, except the rugs
and a few pictures that the beggars wouldn’t give me a price for.
Thought I didn’t know what Orientals were worth. Offered me thirty
dollars for that little Blakelock. An idiotic smear of red and yellow
paint; but it’ll be worth money some day, mark my word. And that
reminds me ... Jack has got over his craze for flying machines and
wants to study art. The boy’s a failure--no good on earth. Perhaps
Trench will steady him.”
“Larimore, his name is, papa.”
“Larimore? Ramsay said the name was Trench.”
Judith gave it up.