From Antwerp to Munich, from Venice to Constantinople, and thence by
boat to Naples and the eastern coast of Spain, Lary and the other half
of his being wandered, too happy to remember the fiery ordeal wherein
their severed selves had been fused again. When they reached Paris, the
middle of August, a great pile of letters awaited them. Lary thrust one
of them into his inside pocket. It was from his mother. Another he tore
open with eager fingers. A moment later he handed it to Judith, his
eyes shining. It bore the signature of a discriminating editor:
“I never knew why Renaissance art, with all its brilliance and charm,
was unsatisfying to me, until I read your keenly analytical essay.
We would be glad to consider a series of essays, covering other
architectural periods and styles.”
Mr. Denslow read the letter with indifference, but the accompanying
check had weight. He was coming to believe that his daughter had made
a first-rate investment when she went to look after her interests in
Olive Hill, and incidentally acquired a husband who could make good in
New York in six months.
Judith followed Lary to his room, whither he had retreated to read
the letters from home. One glance at his face satisfied her that all
was not well. A moment he wavered, on the point of thrusting that
disturbing letter out of sight. Then he recognized, in his feeling, not
loyalty to his mother but a raw personal chagrin. Judith was his wife.
She had earned the right to share even his humiliation. Yet he dared
not look at her while she read the closely written pages.
His father was breaking. It was his duty to come home and assume
the burden, now that the reason for his absence from Springdale,
with Judith and Eileen, had been removed by an unhoped-for act of
Providence. The building of a great place like the Marksley home was
too much for David, who never could shoulder responsibility. She had
tried to fire his ambition--make him see how proud he ought to be, to
get a chance to put up such fine buildings. It was wasted breath. He
went about as if he had a sack of concrete on his shoulders. He would
certainly have to forfeit money on the contract. She was outdone with
him, and must have help.
“Dearest, cable your father to throw over that contract, no matter what
it costs. Can’t she see that his soul is being ground--because of you
and Eileen?”
“I couldn’t send such a cablegram, dear. I didn’t want ever to see
Springdale again. You and Eileen can stay on here with your mother.”
“But, Lary, I shouldn’t mind Springdale. David and Theo are there--and
an arbour with a summer house--and Indian Summer coming. It would be
worth all the rest ... a cheap price to pay, for another such afternoon
as we had last November, on the road to Littlefield. Is it always as
glorious as that, Lary?”
“Usually, but not always. I remember, once when I was a young boy,
there was no frost at all until the first week of December. The
glorious tints and that silver haze in the air are the result of a
heavy frost that catches the foliage in full sap. But that year--it was
the winter Theo was born--the trees were a sickly gray-green, and all
the shrubs and vines looked as if they were suffering from some wasting
disease. The leaves had shrivelled, and still they clung. The morning
after the frost they fell like rain. Within three days the branches
were stark and bare. It was absolutely startling.”
“You had no crimson and gold, no chiffon webs on the grass?”
“Not that year. It was an open winter, with a frost late in the spring,
that killed all the fruit. Don’t set your heart on--I mean, dear, don’t
go back to Springdale ... just for the Indian Summer.”
“I was going, Lary, to comfort your father.”