"Have you set the day?" he grinned, as I entered.
"Don't be an ass, Knowlton," I answered, taking the visitor's chair.
"How's 'mother'?" he went on, ignoring my admonition. "Did she raise the
roof?"
I laughed, for Knowlton had an annoyingly successful way of disarming
one's dignity by hitting upon the exact truth. We went into a minute
examination of the company's affairs, after this preliminary. Or rather
Knowlton explained while I listened. The stock was held by a small group
of men, of whom my father was the principal and the majority
stockholder. Selling the company was, therefore, a simple matter of the
transfer of the stock to a new owner. We had neither bonds nor
mortgages, and we had paid off our indebtedness to the bank in March.
Our business was showing a healthy growth, and the ultimate value of our
chemical patents would be considerable, if additional capital were put
up for development work. As Knowlton said: "At any price within reason,
this outfit is a damned good buy."
Until further letters and papers arrived, we had, of course, no
knowledge of who the new owners were to be.
"Well," remarked Knowlton, at the end of his summary, "our little job in
Deep Harbor is nearly over. Remember how you hated to come out here? It
isn't such a bad place, is it? Old Helene, Prospero's gymnastic friend,
wasn't so far wrong when she said 'Home is where you find it,' eh, Ted?"
I nodded in agreement. I couldn't talk about things I felt the way he
could. Once more he grinned. "Now, Ted. What did you cable your father
yesterday?"
Briefly I told him of my talk with Mr. Claybourne and the latter's
suggestion that, as Knowlton had no interest in the business, he might
leave us. Knowlton's face clouded when I had ended my story.
"So Claybourne told you I might play the skunk and leave you flat, eh?"
I tried to soften this epitome of Mr. Claybourne's remarks. After a
second or two, Knowlton's grin returned.
"It would be plain murder to leave you in Deep Harbor with a factory on
your hands. No, sir, you can always count on six months' notice from me,
if you need it. And under the circumstances I won't touch a cent of your
father's bonus. He's sending it under false pretences."
I had much argument to convince Knowlton that we were not doubting his
good faith. It was simple justice, I explained. The company owed
everything to his ability and good service, from the time he discovered
that Norwood had sold us a rather prettily plated gold brick to the
success which out of all difficulties had since been achieved. We ended
with a compromise: he would himself send my father a complete statement
of the matter from his point of view, and if, after that, my father
thought the bonus earned, then it would be accepted.
"I'm not going to push good money out into the yard, Ted," he concluded.
"All I want to know first is whether or not it's mine. You meant well,
but you may have given your father the idea I'm trying to hold you
people up."
* * * * *
That evening Mr. Claybourne himself opened the door for me when I rang.
"Come right in, Ted," he greeted me cheerfully. "Don't worry if mother
doesn't act very pleased to see you. We'll bring her around in time."
Once inside, I found Mrs. Claybourne sitting red-eyed upon the sofa,
flanked by Miss Hershey on one side and Helen on the other. The air was
slightly electrical; I walked gingerly for fear of touching something
off. From Helen's eyes mischief gleamed as she sent a welcoming smile in
my direction.
At dinner the vext subject was not mentioned. Mrs. Claybourne steadily
refused food; otherwise we all tried to act as if nothing unusual was
toward. Helen sat next me, and her foot played a silent and sympathetic
tattoo upon mine all through the meal. Mr. Claybourne read the evening
paper, or pretended to. Miss Hershey gave an occasional sigh to indicate
that her sympathies were entirely with Mrs. Claybourne. Helen and I ate
with splendid appetites.
After dinner we seated ourselves in a solemn circle in the drawing
room--a disposition of the household that revealed a careful plan on Mr.
Claybourne's part.
"Now, mother," he began to his wife when we were all seated, "these two
young people want to get married."
At this simple statement of fact Mrs. Claybourne collapsed. Through many
sobs Miss Hershey at last inserted a bottle of smelling salts. Mr.
Claybourne waited patiently for the first paroxysm to pass. I held
Helen's hand.
"It will have to be some time in July," Mr. Claybourne resumed, "as
Ted's father has ordered him to sail for England on August first."
"I--I--didn't expect you to turn against me too," sobbed and choked Mrs.
Claybourne, "and stand by while our only da--daughter was ca--carried
off to--to England."
Mr. Claybourne returned gently and patiently to the attack. "Now,
mother, we went all through this before when they were engaged. It is
natural for two engaged people to get married."
"N--not when one of them is a ch--child," she wailed. "I'll never
consent--never--not until Helen is twenty-one."
There was a lot more of this, but it was repetition of the same
statements and objections. By some mysterious process of feminine tact,
Helen inserted the date of July 30th into the discussion, and to my
intense and overwhelming amazement, Mrs. Claybourne suddenly sat up and
announced that there wasn't a moment to lose. True, this was at the end
of about two hours' futile struggle; nevertheless it was the
unexpectedness of the surrender that left me speechless. Mrs. Claybourne
at once launched into the subject next nearest her heart--clothes; her
own imaginary ailments were number one.
Helen entered the debate in earnest at this point, and once more I was
surprised, this time at Helen's powers of argument.
In the middle of this new controversy, which was after all but guerilla
fighting now the main action had been won, Mr. Claybourne arose and
announced his departure for the club. As I seemed to have no share in
what was going on, I likewise deemed it prudent to go.
"Poor Ted," whispered Helen to me at the door, "I feel awfully sorry for
you. You've been a lamb."
With this enigmatic compliment and a kiss, I was thrust into the night
at Mr. Claybourne's side.
"Thank you," I said lamely, as we parted at the corner of State Street.
"Good-night, Ted. It's been quite a day's work."
Mine wasn't over. I sat up half the night writing a letter to my father.
That was hard, too.