"If I had been killed in a duel I couldn't be better." It was Jones the
novelist describing the state of his health. "But how is my friend and
brother in virtue?"
"Utterly ramollescent," Roland answered, confidingly. "What the French
call _gaga_."
The mid-day meal was in progress, and the two men, seated opposite each
other, were dividing a Demidorf salad. They had been schoolmates at
Concord, and despite the fact that until the day before they had not met
for a decennium, the happy-go-lucky intimacy of earlier days had eluded
Time and still survived. Throughout the glass-enclosed piazza other
people were lunching, and every now and then Jones, catching a wandering
eye, would bend forward a little and smile. Though it was but the first
of the year, the weather resembled that of May. One huge casement was
wide open. There was sunlight everywhere, flowers too, and beyond you
could see the sky, a dome of opal and sapphire blent.
"Well," Jones replied, "I can't say you have altered much. But then who
does? You remember, don't you"--and Jones ran on with some anecdote of
earlier days.
But Roland had ceased to listen. It was very pleasant here, he told
himself. There was a freedom about it that the English country-house,
however charming, lacked. There was no one to suggest things for you to
do, there was no host or hostess to exact attention, and the women were
prettier, better dressed, less conventional, and yet more assured in
manner than any that he had encountered for years. The men, too, were a
good lot; and given one or two more little surprises, such as he had
found in the card-room, he felt willing to linger on indefinitely--a
week at least, a month if the fare held out. His eyes roamed through the
glitter of the room. Presently, at a neighboring table, he noticed the
girl with whom he had seen the old year depart: she was nodding to him;
and Roland, with that courtesy that betokens the foreigner a mile away,
rose from his seat as he bowed in return.
Jones, whom little escaped, glanced over his shoulder. "By the way, are
you on this side for good?" he asked; and Roland answering with the
vague shrug the undetermined give, he hastened to add--"or for bad?"
"That depends. I ran over to settle my father's estate, but they seem to
have settled it for me. After all, this is no place for a pauper, is
it?"
"The wolf's at the door, is he?"
Roland laughed shortly. "At the door? Good Lord! I wish he were! He's in
the room."
"There, dear boy, never mind. Wait till spring comes and marry an
heiress. There are so many hereabouts that we use them for export
purposes. They are a glut in the market. There's a fair specimen. Ever
meet her before?"
"Meet whom?"
"That girl you just bowed to. They call her father Honest Paul. Oh, if
you ask me why, I can't tell. It's a nick-name, like another. It may be
because he says Amen so loud in church. A number of people have made him
trustee, but whether on that account or not they never told. However,
he's a big man, owns a mile or two up there near the Riverside. I should
rate him at not a penny less than ten million."
"What did you say his name was?"
"Dunellen--the Hon. Paul Dunellen. At one time--"
Jones rambled on, and again Roland had ceased to listen. But it was not
the present now that claimed him. At the mention of the plutocrat
something from the past came back and called him there--a thing so
shadowy that, when he turned to interrogate, it eluded him and
disappeared. Then at once, without conscious effort, an episode which
he had long since put from him arose and detained his thought. But what
on earth, he wondered, had the name of Dunellen to do with that? And for
the moment dumbly perplexed, yet outwardly attentive, he puzzled over
the connection and tried to find the link; yet that too was elusive: the
name seemed to lose its suggestiveness, and presently it sank behind the
episode it had evoked.
"Of course," Jones was saying, in reference, evidently, to what had gone
before--"of course as millionaires go he is not first chop. Jerolomon
could match him head or tail for all he has, and never miss it if he
lost. Ten million, though, is a tidy sum--just enough to entertain on. A
penny less and you are pinched. Why, you would be surprised--"
"Has he any other children?"
"Who? Dunellen? None that he has acknowledged."
"Then his daughter will come in for it all."
"That's what I said. When she does, she will probably hand it over to
some man who wont know how to spend it. She's got a cousin--what's that
beggar's name? However, he's a physician, makes a specialty of nervous
diseases, I believe; good enough fellow in his way, but an everlasting
bore--the sort of man you would avoid in a club, and trust your sister
to. What the deuce _is_ his name?"
"Well, what of him?"
"Ah, yes. I fancy he wants to get married, and when he does, to
entertain. He is very devoted."
"But nowadays, barring royalty, no one ever marries a cousin."
"Dear boy, you forget; it isn't every cousin that has ten million. When
she has, the attempt is invariable." And Jones accentuated his remark
with a nod. "Now," he continued, "what do you say to a look at the
library? They have a superb edition of Kirschwasser in there, and a
full set of the works of Chartreuse."
The novelist had arisen; he was leaving the room, and Roland was about
to follow him, when he noticed that Miss Dunellen was preparing to leave
it too. Before she reached the hall he was at her side.
There is this about the New York girl--her beauty is often bewildering,
yet unless a husband catch her in the nick of time the bewilderment of
that beauty fades. At sixteen Justine Dunellen had been enchanting, at
twenty-three she was plain. Her face still retained its oval, but from
it something had evaporated and gone. Her mouth, too, had altered. In
place of the volatile brilliance of earlier years, it was drawn a
little; it seemed resolute, and it also seemed subdued. But one feature
had not changed: her eyes, which were of the color of snuff, enchanted
still. They were large and clear, and when you looked in them you saw
such possibilities of tenderness and sincerity that the escape of the
transient was unregretted; you forgot the girl that had been, and loved
the woman that was.
And lovable she was indeed. The world is filled with charming people
whom, parenthetically, many of us never meet; yet, however scant our
list may be, there are moments when from Memory's gardens a vision
issues we would fain detain. Who is there to whom that vision has not
come? Nay, who is there that has not intercepted it, and, to the heart's
perdition perhaps, suffered it to retreat? If there be any to whom such
apparitions are unvouchsafed, let him evoke that woman whom he would
like his sister to resemble and his wife to be. Then, if his intuitions
are acute, there will appear before him one who has turned sympathy into
a garment and taken refinement for a wreath; a woman just yet debonair,
thoughtful of others, true to herself; a woman whose speech can weary no
more than can a star, whose mind is clean as wholesome fruit, whose
laugh is infrequent, and whose voice consoles; a woman who makes the
boor chivalrous, and the chivalrous bend the knee. Such an one did
Justine Dunellen seem. In person she was tall, slender, willowy of
movement, with just that shrinking graciousness that the old masters
gave to certain figures which they wished to represent as floating off
the canvas into space.
And now, as Roland joined her, she smiled and greeted him. With her was
a lady to whom she turned:
"Mrs. Metuchen, this is Mr. Mistrial."
And Roland found himself bowing to a little old woman elaborately
dressed. She was, he presently discovered, a feather-head person, who
gave herself the airs of a _princesse en couches_. But though not the
rose, at least she dwelt near by. Her husband was Mr. Dunellen's
partner; and to Justine, particularly since the death of her mother, she
had become what the Germans, who have many a neat expression, term a
_Wahlverwandtschaft_--a relation not of blood, but of choice. She was
feather-headed, but she was a lady; she was absurd, but she was lovable;
and by Justine she was evidently beloved.
Roland got her a seat, found a footstool for her, and pleased her very
much by the interest which he displayed in her family tree.
"I knew all your people," she announced at last. And when she did so,
her manner was so gracious that Roland felt the hour had not been thrown
away.
During the rest of the day he managed to be frequently in her vicinity.
The better part of the morrow he succeeded in sharing with Justine. And
in the evening, when the latter bade him good-night, it occurred to him
that if what Jones had said in regard to the cousin was true, then was
the cousin losing ground.
The next morning Mrs. Metuchen and her charge returned to town. Roland
followed in a later train. As he crossed the ferry he told himself he
had much to do; and on reaching New York he picked up his valise with
the air of one who has no time to lose.