THE HEIRESS OF "OAKLANDS"
"Pete Lebree had money and land, Paul of Olamon had none,
Only his peavy and driving pole, his birch canoe and his gun.
But to Paul Nicola, lithe and tall, son of a Tarratine,
Had gone the heart of the governor's child, Molly the island's
queen."
--_Old Town Ballads._
The coachman usually drove into town from the "Oaklands" to bring John
Barrett home from his office, for Barrett liked the spirited rush of his
blooded horses.
But when his daughter occasionally anticipated the coachman, he resigned
himself to a ride in her phaeton with only a sleepy pony to draw them.
Once more absorbed in his affairs, after the departure of Pulaski Britt,
Barrett had forgotten the unpleasant morsel of gossip that Britt had
brought to spice his interview.
But a familiar trilling call that came up to him stirred that unpleasant
thing in his mind. When Barrett walked to the window and signalled to
her that he had heard and would come, his expression was not exactly
that of the fond father who welcomes his only child. It was not the
expression that the bright face peering from under the phaeton's parasol
invited. And as he wore his look of uneasiness and discontent when he
took his seat beside her, her face became grave also.
"Is it the business or the politics, father?" she asked, solicitously.
"I'm jealous of both if they take away the smiles and bring the tired
lines. If it's business, let's make believe we've got money enough.
Haven't we--for only us two? If it's politics--well, when I'm a
governor's daughter I'll be only an unhappy slave to the women, and you
a servant of the men."
But he did not respond to her rallying.
"I can't get away from work this summer, Elva," he said, with something
of the curtness of his business tone. "I mean I can't get away to go
with you."
"But I don't want you to go anywhere, father," protested the girl.
She was so earnest that he glanced sidewise at her. His air was that of
one who is trying a subtle test.
"I feel that I must go north for a visit to my timber lands," he went
on; "I have not been over them for years. I've had pretty good proof
that I am being robbed by men I trusted. I propose to go up there and
make a few wholesome examples."
He was accustomed to talk his business affairs with her. She always
received them with a grave understanding that pleased him. Her dark eyes
now met him frankly and interestedly. Looking at her as he did, with his
strange thrill of suspicion that another man wanted her and that she
loved the man, he saw that his daughter was beautiful, with the
brilliancy of type that transcends prettiness. He realized that she had
the wit and spirit which make beauty potent, and her eyes and bearing
showed poise and self-reliance. Such was John Barrett's appraisal, and
John Barrett's business was to appraise humankind. But perhaps he did
not fully realize that she was a woman with a woman's heart.
The pony was ambling along lazily under the elms, and the reflective
lord of lands was silent awhile, glancing at his daughter occasionally
from the corner of his eye. He noted, with fresh interest, that she had
greeting for all she met--as gracious a word for the tattered man from
the mill as for the youth who slowed his automobile to speak to her.
"These gossips have misunderstood her graciousness," he mused, the
thought giving him comfort.
But he was still grimly intent upon his trial of her.
"Because I cannot go with you, and because I shall be away in the woods,
Elva," he said, after a time, "I am going to send you to the shore with
the Dustins."
There was sudden fire in her dark eyes.
"I do not care to go anywhere with the Dustins," she said, with
decision. "I do not care to go anywhere at all this summer. Father!"
There was a volume of protest in the intonation of the word. She had the
bluntness of his business air when she was aroused. "I would be blind
and a fool not to understand why you are so determined to throw me in
with the Dustins. You want me to marry that bland and blessed son and
heir. But I'll not do any such thing."
"You are jumping at conclusions, Elva," he returned, feeling that he
himself had suddenly become the hunted.
"I've got enough of your wit, father, to know what's in a barrel when
there's a knot-hole for me to peep through."
"Now that you have brought up the subject, what reason is there for your
not wanting to marry Weston Dustin? He's--"
"I know all about him," she interrupted. "There is no earthly need for
you and me to get into a snarl of words about him, dadah! He isn't the
man I want for a husband; and when John Barrett's only daughter tells
him that with all her heart and soul, I don't believe John Barrett is
going to argue the question or ask for further reasons or give any
orders."
He bridled in turn.
"But I'm going to tell you, for my part, that I want you to marry Weston
Dustin! It has been my wish for a long time, though I have not wanted to
hurry you."
She urged on the pony, as though anxious to end a _tete-a-tete_ that was
becoming embarrassing.
"It might be well to save our discussion of Mr. Dustin until that
impetuous suitor has shown that he wants to marry me," she remarked,
with a little acid in her tone.
"He has come to me like a gentleman, told me what he wants, and asked my
permission," stated Mr. Barrett.
"Following a strictly business rule characteristic of Mr. Dustin--'Will
you marry your timber lands to my saw-mill, Mr. John Barrett, one
daughter thrown in?'"
"At least he didn't come sneaking around by the back door!" cried her
father, jarred out of his earlier determination to probe the matter
craftily.
"Intimating thereby that I have an affair of the heart with the iceman
or the grocery boy?" she inquired, tartly.
She was looking full at him now with all the Barrett resoluteness
shining in her eyes. And he, with only the vague and malicious
promptings of Pulaski Britt for his credentials, had not the courage to
make the charge that was on his tongue, for his heart rejected it now
that he was looking into her face.
"In the old times stern parents married off daughters as they would
dispose of farm stock," she said, whipping her pony with a little
unnecessary vigor. "But I had never learned that the custom had obtained
in the Barrett family. Therefore, father, we will talk about something
more profitable than Mr. Dustin."
Outside the city, in the valley where the road curved to enter the gates
of "Oaklands," they met Dwight Wade returning, chastened by
self-communion.
Barrett did not look at the young man. He kept his eyes on his
daughter's face as she returned Wade's bow. He saw what he feared. The
fires of indignation quickly left the dark eyes. There was the softness
of a caress in her gaze. Love displayed his crimson flag on her cheeks.
She spoke in answer to Wade's salutation, and even cast one shy look
after him when he had passed. When she took her eyes from him she found
her father's hard gaze fronting her.
"Do you know that fellow?" he demanded, brusquely.
"Yes," she said, her composure not yet regained; "when he was a student
at Burton and I was at the academy I met him often at receptions."
"What is that academy, a sort of matrimonial bureau?" His tone was
rough.
"It is not a nunnery," she retorted, with spirit. "The ordinary rules of
society govern there as they do here in Stillwater."
"Elva," he said, emotion in his tones, "since your mother died you have
been mistress of the house and of your own actions, mostly. Has that
fellow there been calling on you?"
"He has called on me, certainly. Many of my school friends have called.
Since he has been principal of the high-school I have invited him to
'Oaklands.'"
"You needn't invite him again. I do not want him to call on you."
"For what reason, father?" She was looking straight ahead now, and her
voice was even with the evenness of contemplated rebellion.
"As your father, I am not obliged to give reasons for all my commands."
"You are obliged to give me a reason when you deny a young gentleman of
good standing in this city our house. An unreasonable order like that
reflects on my character or my judgment. I am the mistress of our home,
as well as your daughter."
"It's making gossip," he floundered, dimly feeling the unwisdom of
quoting Pulaski Britt.
"Who is gossiping, and what is the gossip?" she insisted.
"I don't care to go into the matter," he declared, desperately. "If the
young man is nothing to you except an acquaintance, and I have reasons
of my own for not wanting him to call at my house, I expect you to do as
I say, seeing that his exclusion will not mean any sacrifice for you."
He was dealing craftily. She knew it, and resented it.
"I do not propose to sacrifice any of my friends for a whim, father. If
your reasons have anything to do with my personal side of this matter, I
must have them. If they are purely your own and do not concern me, I
must consider them your whim, unless you convince me to the contrary,
and I shall not be governed in my choice of friends. That may sound
rebellious, but a father should not provoke a daughter to rebellion. You
ought to know me too well for that."
They were at the house, and he threw himself out of the phaeton and
tramped in without reply. During their supper he preserved a resentful
silence, and at the end went up-stairs to his den to think over the
whole matter. It had suddenly assumed a seriousness that puzzled and
frightened him. He had been routed in the first encounter. He resolved
to make sure of his ground and his facts--and win.
Usually he did not notice who came or who went at his house. The still
waters of his confidence in his daughter had never been troubled until
the Honorable Pulaski D. Britt had breathed upon them.
This evening, when he heard a caller announced, he tiptoed to the head
of the stairs and listened.
It was Dwight Wade, and at sight of him his pride took alarm, his anger
flared. After the afternoon's exasperating talk, this seemed like open
and insulting contempt for his authority. It was as though the man were
plotting with a disobedient daughter to flout him as a father. His
purpose of calm thought was swept away by an unreasoning wrath.
Muttering venomous oaths, he stamped down the stairs, whose carpet made
his approach stealthy, though he did not intend it, and he came upon the
two as Wade, his great love spurred by the day's opposition, despondent
in the present, fearing for the future, reached out his longing arms and
took her to his heart.
They faced him as he stood and glowered upon them, a pathetic pair,
clinging to each other.
"You sneaking thief!" roared Barrett.
The girl did not draw away. Wade felt her trembling hands seeking his,
and he pressed them and kept her in the circle of his arm.
"I don't care to advertise this," Barrett went on, choking with his
rage, "but there's just one way to treat you, you thief, and that's to
have you kicked out of the house. Elva, up-stairs with you!"
She gently put away her lover's arm, but she remained beside him, strong
in her woman's courage.
"I have always been proud of my father as a gentleman," she said. "It
hurts my faith to have you say such things under your own roof."
"That pup has come under my roof to steal," raged the millionaire, "and
he's got to take the consequences. Don't you read me my duty, girl!"
Even Barrett in his wrath had to acknowledge that simple manliness has
potency against pride of wealth. Wade took two steps towards him, the
instinctive movement of the male that protects his mate.
"Mr. Barrett," he said, gravely, "give me credit for honest intentions.
If it is a fault to love your daughter with all my heart and soul, I
have committed that fault. For me it's a privilege--an honor that you
can't prevent."
"What! I can't regulate my own daughter's marriage, you young hound?"
"You misunderstand me, Mr. Barrett. You cannot prevent me from loving
her, even though I may never see nor speak to her again."
And Elva, blushing, tremulous, yet determined, looked straight in her
father's eyes, saying, "And I love him."
Barrett realized that his anger was making a sorry figure compared with
this young man's resolute calmness. With an effort he held himself in
check.
"We won't argue the love side of this thing," he said, grimly. "I
haven't any notion of doing that with a nineteen-year-old girl and a
pauper. But I want to inform you, young man, that the marriage of John
Barrett's only child and heir is a matter for my judgment to control.
I'm taking it for granted that you are not sneak enough to run away with
her, even if you have stolen her affections."
The millionaire understood his man. He had calculated the effect of the
sneer. He knew how New England pride may be spurred to conquer passion.
"These are wicked insults, sir," said the young man, his face rigid and
pale, "but I don't deserve them."
"I tell you here before my daughter that I have plans for her future
that you shall not interfere with. This is no country school-ma'am, down
on your plane of life--this is Elva Barrett, of 'Oaklands,' a girl who
has temporarily lost her good sense, but who is nevertheless my daughter
and my heiress. She will remember that in a little while. Take yourself
out of the way, young man!"
The girl's eyes blazed. Her face was transfigured with grief and love.
She was about to speak, but Wade hastened to her and took her hand.
"Good-night, Elva."
She understood him. His eyes and the quiver in his voice spoke to her
heart. She clung to his hands when he would have withdrawn them. The
look she gave her father checked that gentleman's contemptuous
mutterings.
"I am ashamed of my father, Mr. Wade," she said, passionately. "I offer
you the apologies of our home."
"Say, look here!" snarled Barrett, this scornful rebelliousness putting
his wits to flight, "if that's the way you feel about me, put on your
hat and go with him. I'll be d--d if I don't mean it! Go and starve."
He realized the folly of his outburst as he returned their gaze. But he
persisted in his puerile attack.
"Oh, you don't want her that way, do you?" he sneered. "You want her to
bring the dollars that go along with her!"
Then Wade forgot himself.
He wrested one hand from the gentle clasp that entreated him, and would
have struck the mouth that uttered the wretched insult. The girl
prevented an act that would have been an enormity. She caught his wrist,
and when his arm relaxed he did not dare, at first, to look at her. Then
he gave her one quick stare of horror and looked at his hand, dazed and
ashamed.
Barrett, strangely enough, was jarred back to equanimity by the threat
of that blow. He folded his arms, drew himself up, and stood there, the
outraged master of the mansion restored to command, silent, cold, rigid,
his whole attitude of indignant reproach more effective than all the
curses in Satan's lexicon.
Talk could not help that distressing situation. The young man's white
lips tried to frame the words "I apologize," but even in his anguish the
grim humor of this reciprocation of apology rose before his dizzy
consciousness.
"Good-night!" he gasped.
Then he left her and went into the hall, John Barrett close on his
heels. The millionaire watched him take his hat, followed him out upon
the broad porch, and halted him at the edge of the steps.
"Mr. Wade," he said, "you'd rather resign your position than be kicked
out, I presume?"
"You mean that it is your wish that I should go away from Stillwater?"
"That is exactly what I mean. You resign, or I will have your
resignation demanded by the school board."
"I think my school relations are entirely my own business," retorted the
young man, fighting back his mounting wrath.
"I'll make it mine, and have you kicked out of this town like a cur."
Wade remembered at that instant the face of the man whom he had seen
leave John Barrett's office that morning. He recollected his words--"I'd
relish bein' the man that mistook him for a bear!" He knew now how that
man felt. And feeling the lust of killing rise in his own soul for the
first time, he clinched his fists, set his teeth, and strode away into
the night.