The next day Quin sold his dinner-coat for a fourth of what he paid for
it, and forswore society forever. There was absolutely nothing in it, he
assured the Martels, a conviction that assorted strangely with the fact
that he devoured the columns in the daily papers devoted to the doings of
the social elect, and waded through endless lists under the caption
"Among Those Present." Every hour in the day he invented a new scheme for
seeing Eleanor, which pride alone prevented him from carrying out. He
wrote her a dozen notes, all of which he tore up; he went out of his way
to pass through the streets where he might catch a glimpse of her, and
seized the slightest excuse for errands to the Bartlett house. But the
days of her holiday slipped away, and he neither saw nor heard from her.
Each morning at breakfast Mr. Martel would say hopefully, "Well, Eleanor
will surely grace our humble abode to-day," or, "Something tells me my
lady-bird will come to-day!" And each evening Quin would rush home from
work buoyed up by the hope that he might find her.
"I bet she'd come to-day if she knew Captain Phipps was going to be
here," said Myrna one morning, wagging her head wisely.
"What's that got to do with it?" Rose asked sharply.
"They're sweethearts," said Myrna, with the frightful astuteness of
twelve. "And old Madam Bartlett won't let him come to the house, and Nell
has to see him on the sly."
"Tut, tut, child! Where did you get that notion?" asked Mr. Martel,
peeling an orange with his little fingers gracefully extended. "Harold
Phipps is years older than Nellie. He is interested solely in her
professional career. He has a lovely, detached soul, as impersonal--What
is the matter, Rosalind?"
"Nothing--crumb went down wrong. What are _you_ laughing at, Quinby
Graham?"
"Another crumb," said Quin.
Between him and Rose there had sprung up a curious intimacy. All sorts of
little wireless messages flashed between them, and Rose always seemed to
know things without being told. She had discovered long ago that he was
in love with Eleanor, and, instead of scoffing at him or teasing him, she
did him the supreme favor of listening to him. Many a night, after the
rest of the family had gone to bed, they lingered on before the fire in
the shabby sitting-room, Rose invariably curled up in the sofa corner and
Quin stretched out on the floor with his head against her knees.
After his somewhat rigorous discipline at the Bartletts' it was like
slipping out of the harness to be back at the Martels'. They held him up
to no standard, and offered no counsel of perfection. He could tell his
best stories without fear of reproof, laugh as loud as he liked, and
whistle and sing without disturbing anybody. Rose mended his clothes,
doctored him when he was sick, petted him in public as well as in
private, and even made free to pawn his uniform when the collector
threatened to turn off the gas if the bill was not paid.
One evening, coming in unexpectedly, he had surprised her kissing Harold
Phipps in the front hall. Harold's back had been to the door, and at a
signal from Rose Quin had beat a hasty retreat. She explained later that
she was letting the magnificent Harold have just enough rope to hang
himself; and Quin, glad of anything that deflected Phipps from the
pursuit of Eleanor, laughed with her over the secret flirtation and
failed to see the danger lights that hung in her eyes.
Financial affairs were evidently going worse than usual with the Martels
these days. Cass, adamant in his resolve to pay off the numerous debts
contracted by the family during his absence abroad, refused to contribute
more than the barest living expenses. Rose had given up the dancing
classes and taken a position in one of the big department-stores. Edwin
B. had had to leave high school and go to work. The adopted baby had been
regretfully sent to the Orphans' Home. The little brown house was reefing
all its sails in a vain effort to weather the coming storm.
The one member of the family who soared on wings of hope above the sordid
facts of the situation was Claude Martel. After years of search, he had
at last found the generous benefactor, the noble young patron, who
recognized the merit of his work. They spent hours together elaborating
the plot of "Phantom Love" and discussing every detail of its
construction. Occasionally on Saturday night Mr. Martel would mention
quite confidentially to Quin that, owing to some delayed payments, he was
a little pressed for ready money and that a small loan would be
appreciated. This request invariably resulted in an elaborate Sunday
dinner, capped with a couple of bottles of Haut Sauterne in which Mr.
Martel took the precaution of drinking everybody's health twice over.
Ten days after the Easter party, when Quin had almost despaired of seeing
Eleanor at all, he found her car parked in front of the house when he
returned in the evening. Mounting the front steps two at a time, he
opened the door with his latch-key, then paused with his hand still on
the knob. Queer sounds were coming from the sitting-room--sounds of a
man's agitated voice, broken by sobs. Undeterred by any sense of
delicacy, Quin pushed open the door and bolted in.
Mr. Martel was sitting in the arm-chair in an attitude _King Lear_ might
have envied. Every line of his face and figure suggested unmitigated
tragedy. Even the tender ministrations of Eleanor Bartlett who knelt
beside him, failed to console him or to stem the tide of his
lamentations.
"What's the matter?" cried Quin in alarm. "What has happened?"
Papa Claude, resting one expressive hand on Eleanor's head, extended the
other to Quin.
"Come in, my boy, come in," he said brokenly. "You are one of us: nothing
shall be kept from you in this hour of great affliction. I am ruined,
Quinby--utterly, irrevocably ruined!"
"But how? What's happened?"
"It's grandmother!" exclaimed Eleanor, struggling to her feet and
speaking with dramatic indignation. "She's written him a letter I'll
never forgive--never! I don't care if the money _is_ due me. I don't
want it. I won't have it! What is six thousand dollars to me if it turns
Papa Claude out in the street?"
"But here--hold on a minute!" said Quin. "What's all the racket about?"
"It's about money," Mr. Martel roused himself to explain--"the grossest
and most material thing in the world. Years ago Eleanor's father and I
entered into a purely personal arrangement by which he advanced me a few
thousand dollars in a time of temporary financial depression, and as a
mere matter of form I put up this house as security. Had the dear lad
lived, nothing more would ever have been said about it. He was the soul
of generosity, a prince among men. But, unfortunately, at his death he
left his mother Eleanor's trustee."
"And she has simply _hounded_ Papa Claude," Eleanor broke in. "She has
tried to make him pay interest on that old note every single year, when
she knew I didn't need the money in the least. And now she had notified
him she will not renew the note on any terms."
"She can't collect what you haven't got, can she?" Quin asked.
"She can sell the roof over our heads," said Papa Claude, with streaming
eyes lifted to the object referred to. "She can scatter my beloved family
and drive me back into the treadmill of teaching. And all through this
blessed, innocent child, who would give all she has in the world to see
her poor old grandfather happy!"
Again Eleanor, moved to a passion of sympathy, flung her arms around him,
declaring that if they made him pay the note she would refund every penny
of it the day she was twenty-one.
But Papa Claude was not to be consoled.
"It will be too late," he said hopelessly. "All I required was one year
more in which to retrieve my fortunes and achieve my life ambition. And
now, with success almost within my grasp, the goal within sight, this
cruel blow, this bolt from the blue----"
"Haven't you got any other property or stocks or insurance that you could
turn over?" asked Quin, who felt that the occasion demanded numerical
figures rather than figures of speech.
"Only a small farm out near Anchordale, which belonged to my precious
wife's father. It is quite as worthless as he was, poor dear! I have
offered it repeatedly in payment, but they refused to consider it."
"Is there a house on it?" persisted Quin.
"Yes--an uninhabitable old stone structure that has stood there for
nearly a century. For years I have tried in vain to rent or sell it. I
have left no stone unturned, Quinby. I know I am regarded as a visionary,
a dreamer, but I assure you----"
"What about the ground?"
"Very hilly and woody. Absolutely good for nothing but a stock farm.
Utterly incapable of cultivation. It's no use considering it, my dear
boy. I have viewed the matter from every conceivable angle. There is no
reprisal. I am doomed. This beloved house will be sold, my family
scattered. I an old man, a penniless outcast----"
"No, no, Papa Claude!" protested Eleanor. "You _sha'n't_ be turned out.
We must borrow the money. It's only a little over a year until I'm of
age, and then I can pay it all back. Surely we can find somebody to help
us out!"
"Ah, my darling, your trust is born of inexperience. People do not lend
money without security. There is absolutely no one to whom I can appeal."
Eleanor, sitting on the arm of his chair, suddenly started up.
"I have it!" she cried. "I know who will help us! Captain Phipps! He
knows better than any one else what it means to you to have this next
year free to finish the play. He will be _glad_ to do it; I know he
will."
Mr. Martel looked slightly embarrassed. "As a matter of fact, he has been
approached on the subject," he said. "He was most sympathetic and kind,
but unfortunately his money is all invested at present."
"Fiddlesticks!" cried Eleanor in a tone so suggestive of her paternal
grandmother that Quin smiled. "What difference does it make if it _is_
invested? Let him un-invest it. I am sure I could get him to lend it to
_me_, only I would hate awfully to ask him."
Mr. Martel's roving eyes came back to hers hopefully.
"I wonder if you could?" he said, grasping at the proffered straw.
"Perhaps if he understood that _your_ career was at stake, that my
disappointment would mean _your_ disappointment, he would make some
special effort to assist us. Will you go to him, child? Will you plead
our cause for us?"
Eleanor hesitated but a moment; then she set her lips firmly. "Yes," she
said, with a little catch in her voice; "I will. I'll go to him in the
morning."
Quin, who had been staring out of the window, deep in thought, turned
abruptly to Mr. Martel.
"When do you have to have the money?" he asked.
"By next Wednesday, the first--no, the second of April. The date is
burned in my memory."
"You see, there's no time to lose," said Eleanor. "I'd rather die than do
it, but I'll ask Harold Phipps to-morrow morning."
"No, you won't," said Quin peremptorily; "I am going to get the money
myself."
"But he wouldn't lend it to _you_. You don't understand!"
"Yes, I do. Will you leave the matter with me until Sunday night, Mr.
Martel, and let me see what I can do?"
Quin made the suggestion as calmly as if he had unlimited resources at
his disposal. Had the sum been six million dollars instead of six
thousand, he would have made the offer just the same. The paramount
necessity of the moment was to keep Eleanor Bartlett from borrowing money
from a man like Harold Phipps. Mr. Martel's claims were of secondary
consideration.
"We might let him try, grandfather," suggested Eleanor. "If he doesn't
succeed, there would still be time for me to speak to the Captain."
"But, my boy, where would _you_ turn? What influence could you bring to
bear?"
"Well, you'd have to trust me about that," Quin said. "There are more
ways than one of raising money, and if you'll leave it to me----"
"I will! I will!" cried Mr. Martel in a burst of confidence. "I shift my
burden to your strong young shoulders. For three days I have borne the
agony alone. There were special reasons for Cassius not being told. He is
one of the noblest of God's creatures, but he lacks sentiment. I confess
I have too much. These old walls are but brick and mortar to him, but to
me they are the custodians of the past. Here I had hoped to sit in the
twilight of my life and softly turn the leaves of happy memories. But
there! Enough! 'The darkest hour oft precedes the dawn!' I will not
despair. In your hands and my darling Eleanor's I leave my fate.
Something tells me that, between you, you will save me! In the mean
season not a word, not a syllable to any one. And now let us have some
music and banish these unhappy topics."
It was amazing how a gentleman so crushed by fate at five could be in
such splendid form by seven. Mr. Martel had insisted upon having a salad
and ices for dinner in honor of Eleanor's presence, and he mixed the
French dressing with elaborate care, and enlivened the company with a
succession of his sprightliest anecdotes.
It was Quinby Graham who was the grave one. He ate his dinner in
preoccupied silence, arousing himself to sporadic bursts of merriment
only when he caught Eleanor's troubled eyes watching him. Just how he was
going to proceed with his colossal undertaking he had not the faintest
idea. One wild scheme after another presented itself, only to be
discarded as utterly impractical.
Under cover of leaving the dining-room, Eleanor managed to whisper to
him:
"Make Cass let you take me home. I've simply got to talk to you."
But neither Cass nor Quin was to have the privilege. Mr. Martel announced
that he was going to escort her himself. The only crumb of comfort that
Quin was able to snatch from the wretched evening was when he was helping
her on with her coat in the hall.
"When can I see you?" he whispered anxiously.
"I don't know," she whispered back; "every hour's taken."
"What about Sunday afternoon?"
"I've promised to motor out to Anchordale with Aunt Flo and Uncle Ranny
to hunt for wild flowers. Think of it! When all this trouble's brewing."
"Anchordale," repeated Quin absently, holding her coat suspended by the
collar and one sleeve. "Anchordale! By golly! I've got an idea! Say, I'm
going along Sunday. You manage it somehow."
"But I can't manage it! You aren't invited; and, besides----"
"I can't help that--I'm going. What time do you start?"
"Three o'clock. But you can't go, I tell you! They won't understand."
"All ready, Nellie?" called a voice on the stairway; and Papa Claude,
with a smile of perfect serenity on his face, bore lightly and
consciously down upon them.