Regardless of all excitement of the day before, and of the change that
had come into my life, I slept late Sunday morning. The reason was that,
because of night duty at the factory, it was the first sleep for
twenty-four hours. All the thinking and plans I had intended to do and
make while in bed faded into a dreamless unconsciousness. I awoke
without having decided on the best approach to Helen's family. Business
was not yet in such shape that I could offer a strong financial argument
to so keen a business man as Mr. Claybourne, nor had I any idea what my
own family would think of me. Letters were not an ideal means of
communication. Could I express in black and white how adorable Helen
was--she who was all intangible charm and delight? These and many other
disturbing thoughts came to me as I shaved. It was curious that every
fresh step in life opened up such vistas of unforeseen problems! Nothing
was as one had imagined it would be.
On my way out Myrtle Boulevard I passed a florist's--the florist shops
kept open until church time in Deep Harbor--and bought Helen a bunch of
Parma violets; they were her favourites, and to me violets symbolized
her. She was sitting up, her foot on a rest and "Mother" hovering about,
when I arrived. Helen reported the doctor's opinion as favourable--a bad
wrench, but requiring merely rest and quiet. "Mother" was more
pessimistic; with a knee one never knew what would happen; a friend of
hers had a daughter no older than Helen who had been made lame for life
by less; still, it was what she had always expected, only no one ever
listened to her advice, least of all Helen; had she not warned her again
and again that horseback riding at all hours of the day and night was
dangerous, to say nothing of being highly improper? Helen buried her
nose in the violets and said nothing; I, too, had learned a measure of
discretion where "mother" was concerned, and sat on the edge of my chair
throughout the tirade. Mr. Claybourne rescued us.
"Now, mother," he said in his brisk way, "these kids want to talk it all
over by themselves. You come into the library with me and read the
scandal in the Sunday supplement. The best regulated horses will fall
down sometimes; thank Heaven your daughter didn't break any bones, and
be happy." He dragged her protesting away. Helen and I looked at one
another, uncertain where to begin.
"It was like you, Ted, to bring me the violets, but you mustn't waste
money on me any more. We'll need it all," she smiled--womanlike,
recovering first. "_Have_ we any money, Ted?"
I was hardly prepared for so direct a poser; yet even Arthur's knights
sometimes had difficulties financing their quests. It was distinctly her
right to know the truth.
"My present salary isn't enough," I admitted, "but by next summer, if
the business is well on its feet, we can go to England. I have an
interest in the factory given me by my father. It's up to Knowlton to
make that good."
"England!" she dreamed. "I'll love it, Ted! It'll be hard to leave my
father, though. Dear old dad adores me."
"I'm not surprised," I said, taking her slender white hand to my lips.
"You mustn't tease, Ted. I'm serious today. Why didn't you bring me
Leonidas?" It was, of course, useless to object to Helen's categories of
"serious things."
"I thought best to try 'mother' with one thing at a time. Leonidas is
chewing a slipper under my study table. In the bathroom he will find a
bowl of bread and milk at his convenience."
Helen laughed: "I hope you'll take as good care of me, Ted." The maid
announced dinner; Mr. Claybourne, with my assistance, carried Helen to
the dining room, and we made great to-do of propping her up with
cushions. Helen sent me back to the living room for her violets; they
had to be at a certain spot on the table in front of her. I observed Mr.
Claybourne pause for a second in the midst of his soup to watch Helen
and her flowers; she kissed them when I put the bunch in front of her,
which caused Mr. Claybourne to resume eating with some show of violence.
"Mother" did not notice this by-play; she was scolding the maid because
the soup was too hot and hadn't enough salt, and there was a draft
somewhere that was bringing in all the kitchen smells, though for the
life of me I couldn't detect any. The maid having been properly
flustered and needlessly irritated, "Mother" turned with a sigh toward
Helen.
"Ludwig hasn't sent you any flowers for a long time; I used to love
those American beauties--where did he get them, Rosenstein's, wasn't
it?"
I looked slyly at Helen, who blushed charmingly and became much
interested in her plate. Mr. Claybourne gave a loud laugh.
"Mother, I think you scored a bull's eye that time!" he roared, in great
enjoyment of his own joke.
"What have I said now?" "Mother" asked in her plaintive way, looking
from one to another of us. "I should think I might be allowed to make a
remark once in a while. I don't expect any one to talk to me or pay any
attention to me, but I do claim the privilege of an occasional word in
my own house."
Helen's low "Mother dear" was cut short by hearty Mr. Claybourne.
"Now, Lucy, don't go up in the air. No one was laughing at you; on the
contrary, Ted's face was solemn as a judge's"--and he winked elaborately
at me. By way of retort Mrs. Claybourne burst into tears and left the
table. Mr. Claybourne, with a distinctly muttered "Damn" followed her at
a decent interval.
"I'm sorry, Ted," said Helen, in defiance of the maid, putting her hand
on mine. "Never let me become so spoiled, will you, dear?"
"As if you could!" I said, leaning toward her.
"The worst of it is," Helen continued, "poor mother really believes that
she is a much neglected and abused woman, whereas dad does everything on
earth to please and humour her. If only he would try firmness once! And
she would be so much happier, too, instead of imagining herself the
victim of 'nerves,' as she calls it."
"I'm not sure dispositions are curable."
Mr. Claybourne returned: "Go on with dinner, children; mother will be
down in a few minutes. I'm afraid she has a sick headache; the shock of
last night," he explained.
"Dear dad," Helen smiled.
"What are you dear dadding me for?" her father inquired, as he sharpened
the carving knife.
"I shan't tell you, if you can't guess."
"Not another hat--or more pocket money?" he said seriously.
"No, father, of course not!"
He shook his head and concentrated on carving a pair of ducks. In due
time "Mother" returned, red-eyed and resigned. She sat at table and
refused all food, although both Mr. Claybourne and I danced about the
room urging this and that upon her.
"I know what you need to cheer you up, old girl," shouted Mr. Claybourne
with hilarity that began to sound a little forced, "a bottle of
champagne"!
Mother protested that her head felt bad enough now; it was absurd
extravagance and set a bad example in the kitchen, to say nothing of
champagne on Sunday being a sacrilege: her husband pooh-poohed it all,
and went down cellar after a bottle.
"Here, Ted! you open it," handing me a flagon of the widow Clicquot's
special brew upon his re-entry. "I'll get the glasses."
"We have a waitress, Martin," was "Mother's" final protest.
With much coaxing, Mrs. Claybourne was induced to sip a little.
Afterwards I noticed that she sipped it quite often when the rest of us
were talking, until she gradually returned to an almost cheerful frame
of mind. Mr. Claybourne's anecdotes and humorous stories increased in
numbers; he sandwiched many toasts in between them: to "mother"; to
Helen; to "happy days"; to the "young people"; to "rum--down with it,"
and like persiflage of an obvious nature. At each toast "mother" raised
a feeble objection, less and less prolonged as time went on. We had
another bottle, for Mr. Claybourne said "A quart among four is only a
teaser--an aggravation." Once Helen risked taking my hand: "Be careful,
Ted, won't you?" she whispered. I nodded. Mr. Claybourne saw us. "Ted is
old enough to take care of himself, Helen," he admonished, winking at
me. When the second bottle was emptied, Mr. Claybourne brought forth a
humidor filled with large, black Havanas.
"Now, mother, we'll carry Helen into the living room, and Ted and I are
going to sit here and talk business over our cigars." I started, and
Helen's free foot lightly touched mine under the table. Mr. Claybourne
was delighted with the effect of his dramatic announcement. His eyes
twinkled as he watched us.
"I guess you thought the old man was asleep," he chuckled, as we picked
Helen up. "I wasn't born yesterday."
"Can I stay, dad?" Helen asked.
"No, we'll attend to you later, young lady," and with this cryptic
threat Helen was carried off. Of course things were not working out as I
had planned, but I was beginning to get used to Fate's perversity.
"Light up, Ted," commanded Mr. Claybourne upon our return to the dining
room. I obeyed; my hand was not so steady as I should have wished.
"Old man Tyler let slip something last night that has set me thinking,
Ted," he continued, locking his hands behind his head and studying my
face attentively. "So that was how the milk was spilt," I thought. "Of
course, I must say a blind man could have told which way the wind blew,"
he added, with a reckless mixture of proverbs. There was a pause, during
which I was trying to compose a suitable speech.
"Well, Ted, so you two kids imagine you're in love with each other?"
"We are," I said with a decision that surprised me. Again this wasn't
the speech I had been composing.
"Suppose for the sake of argument we concede this point for the moment:
was it playing square not to tell me?" and Mr. Claybourne blew a cloud
of smoke rings toward the ceiling.
"We only found it out last night," I answered eagerly desirous to put
myself in the right. "I came here today to tell you."
He looked sharply at me, chewing his cigar. I did not flinch this time.
"Some one was pretty slow," he said, breaking into a laugh. "I found it
out two weeks ago." I moistened my lips and tried a smile on my own
account.
"To come down to brass tacks, Ted, can you support a wife?"
"No, sir--at least, not yet."
"Then what right have you to go putting ideas in my little girl's head?"
"Because, sir, I love her, and there is good reason to believe that I
shall be able to support her by next summer."
"I know more about your business, through my connection with the bank,
than you do yourself," he commented. "Maybe what you say will be all
right, and maybe it won't. Business is a funny game, Ted; with all your
eggs in one basket you can't count your chickens before they're
hatched." Proverbs always are annoying, if quoted against me.
"Well," I retorted, "my prospects are as good as the average young man's
at my age, if not better." I was surprised at my own self-assurance.
"All right--we'll concede that, too," he said with a wave of his cigar.
"Now, Ted, you know Helen's very young--only just out of school. Her
tastes may change--probably will. She thinks she loves you, but she's
only in love with love. Neither you nor she knows what love is."
"We have to take our chances with it, just as all young people do. By
the time we learn what love is we can preach it to our grandchildren."
It seemed, when I spoke, as if I were listening to a third person. I
really wanted to be conciliatory, but the words came to suit themselves.
"You are sentencing yourselves to each other for life; it's a long
penalty to pay if you make a mistake. As for love, that doesn't help
much--not the kind of thing you imagine it to be, doesn't. Marriage
means a lot of plain, everyday facts--a few pleasant, more unpleasant. I
married for love," he concluded reflectively.
"Yes--and it brought you Helen." This time I knew I had scored. He laid
his cigar down and looked out the window. Then he turned to me: "Ted,
I'll put my cards on the table; if Helen wants you she shall have you.
I've never gone against her will in anything important, and I don't
intend to. I wish she was older, but there's no use wishing that now." I
half rose to my feet in sheer joy. "Sit down, Ted; I'm not through. I
make two conditions: first, I don't want you to say anything about this
to any one but Helen's mother until Christmas. Let's see how you get on
when you get to know each other better. Next, if Helen takes you, she
must take you as you are. Because I have been fairly successful in
business won't count at all. I'll not give her a cent before I go. Helen
has to make her own choice and put up with it, whether it is riches or
poverty."
"As far as I am concerned, I agree to both conditions." "You would," he
assented drily. "Let's hear what Helen has to say about it."
We went into the next room, to find Helen hugging her violets to her
bosom. "Mother" had gone upstairs for her afternoon rest. I boldly
walked over to Helen and kissed her.
"Ted, I wish you'd stop all that until Christmas," Mr. Claybourne said
grimly. We sat down, but Helen left her hand in mine.
"Well, little girl, Ted tells me you love him."
"Yes, dad dear." The look on Helen's face as she said this brought the
tears to my eyes, and even Mr. Claybourne, with all his assumption of
practicality, was none too comfortable.
He got up and paced the floor and gazed out at Myrtle Boulevard; then he
came back to us.
"You've thought it all over--and made up your mind?" He stooped over
her, turned her face up to his, and gently pushed the hair back on her
forehead. Helen's grey eyes looked fearlessly into his.
"Yes, dad, I'm sure."
"What if I say 'no'?"
"You won't, dad--not when you know Ted. But if you do--why, dad, you
believe I love you, don't you?--even if you said 'no' I should love Ted
just the same."
Mr. Claybourne turned away and twisted one end of his moustache. There
were no tears in Helen's eyes, only a quiet conviction in her voice
which indicated a strength of character much like her father's. I knew
that he too recognized it.
"I won't give you a penny, Helen; you've got to take him as he is, fight
your own fight, and make your own way. I did it, and your grandfather
did it; you'll have to do it, too."
"Then I shall do it," she answered, "as you did. I'm your daughter, and
I'm not afraid--whatever the future brings, as long as I have Teddy--and
he has me." She said it simply, unemotionally, like some one stating a
fact.
"There's not much more to discuss, is there, Ted?" and he took my hand
in a grip that hurt. "But mind you," he exclaimed, "you'll regard
yourselves as both on probation. No announcement can be made before
Christmas--and not then unless I say the word."
"If you don't say the word then, we'll simply run away," Helen came back
at him with her dangerous calm. Then she smiled again: "Dear old dad."
He looked at me: "I warn you, Ted! You see what you are letting yourself
in for. As far as I can judge, you haven't been consulted any more than
I have."
"Father!" Helen interrupted.
"I hope you are prepared never to have your own way again, Edward, from
this time forth."
"You can't frighten Ted that way," laughed Helen; "we both want the same
things."