When Miss Anthon reached the hotel, she found her mother and the newly
imported maid bustling over trunks.
“Your uncle received a cable this morning that calls him home on
important business,” Mrs. Anthon explained, “and I thought we might as
well move on at the same time. Just as well for Sebastian to be out of
that fellow’s way.”
“Does uncle mean to leave him to starve?” Miss Anthon inquired quickly.
“Starve or work, I guess. That’s the law in this world.”
Miss Anthon went into her own room without further words. Her mother’s
remark suddenly gave point to the vague impulses of the hour’s talk
with Erard. She must come to a decision at once.
As she sat down by her table with a sheet of letter-paper ready, she
paused, for the act which she meditated might cost her much more
than money. Should she offer him support bluntly, or try some other
means--her uncle, perhaps? What gossip might say did not trouble her.
But a draft sent and accepted, that closed any other possibility.
There was no other possibility _now_. She might never love him. Should
she love him, why need the fact that she had helped him, alter their
relations? In the gamble of life she happened to have superfluous
advantages. Might she not share these, in a simple, objective manner,
without compromising herself? She was giving to _life_, not to Simeon
Erard, and they must be able to rise above the mean considerations
involved.
Finally she wrote, deliberately:--
“MY DEAR MR. ERARD:--I feel that I must have a share, even a very
little share, in your work, in your ambitions and theories. Where I
cannot hope to go, you may, perhaps, more easily through my help. So
I have taken the liberty to place at your disposal, at the Messrs.
Munro, a draft to be used in ‘going on.’ Every six months that will
be renewed. You see, my first venture succeeded, giving me a surplus
which I wish to invest again. And I owe to you so much real interest
in life that I feel I must show a little gratitude. You need not
acknowledge this.
“Believe me, ever sincerely yours,
“ADELA ANTHON.”
She had no sooner posted this note than she was impatient to receive
a reply. Would he possibly refuse? She was amazed to find herself
hoping that he would. If he accepted--and she had sent the note in all
sincerity--there _would_ be a bar to any other relation. This scruple
was conventional, irrational, but she felt that she could not rise
above it.
The next two days were full of preparations, and when on the day of
departure, just as they were about to drive to the station, the reply
came, she waited until they were settled in their coupé to read it at
leisure. It was above reproach, self-respecting and yet cordial. He
did not make too much of her gift, nor did he belittle the kindness.
He placed the whole matter in a simple, objective light, as she had
wished. The gift was not to him, but to be used by him. The note closed
with a paragraph on a new book he was sending her.
She had read the note at one breath; then leaning back with a sigh, she
passed it out of the window to her uncle, who had come to see them off.
“We have changed places, uncle,” she whispered, slyly. “When you are in
America you can’t be bothered with all this.”
Sebastian Anthon’s face expressed astonishment and in a moment
merriment. The joke in the situation evidently made the deeper
impression, but as the engine snorted, he whispered back, “Take care,
you are exploding pretty fast!”
She watched him walk up the platform, laughing unrestrainedly, probably
in appreciation of Mrs. Anthon’s remarks when she discovered the event.
Miss Anthon allowed her mother to get comfortably settled. Then,
anxious to have the matter out of her mind, she said quietly, “Mother,
I have offered Mr. Erard four hundred pounds a year to continue his
work with, and he has accepted it.”
If she had said that she had offered herself, Mrs. Anthon might have
been less surprised.
“This comes of John’s queer will,” she moaned at last. “You are going
to support that fellow? It’s disgraceful. You had better marry him,
that wouldn’t be any worse.”
“Perhaps he wouldn’t marry me. At any rate there will be no chance
of that _now_,” she explained soothingly. “Please don’t let us make
ourselves uncomfortable over it. If I happen to have a large income,
why shouldn’t I give it away as I like? You wouldn’t have said anything
if I had given it here and there to washerwomen or hospitals.”
The subject occupied Mrs. Anthon’s mind until it was banished by the
irritation of the Italian customhouse. When she got back to it, the
next day, she comforted herself with the reflection that, God willing,
this unmanageable daughter should be married before Erard reappeared on
her horizon.
* * * * *
The six nomadic months that followed were a queer jumble of hotels and
people and “points of interest.” Miss Anthon said to herself during the
three months of vagrancy in Italy: ‘Patience, now! Some day a different
_I_ will return to understand and possess.’
In the same manner of passive sufferance she endured for another three
months the little vaudeville of the various spas, which was played over
and over each day with a sameness that rasped the nerves. She grew
accustomed to the trim gardens with the glaring contrast between hot
gravel and metallic green lawn, the stereotyped idle men and overfed
women, the endless tinkle of hotel bands, and the hours spent with her
maid contriving how to make the most of her tall, individual self.
The sultry weeks as they wore on gradually sapped her energy, even her
desire to rebel. The reading suggested by Erard, which she had attacked
at first with the fervour of a novice, seemed in the air and useless.
Letters from Erard filled with details of his studies in Spain barely
aroused her. She envied him the career, and was proud to have him deal
with her as he would with a man, lecturing her on his hobbies, asking
her help in verifying facts at Rome, or in judging delicate questions.
“It is very hot,” he wrote once casually, “but I manage to work early
mornings and nights and lose little. Six weeks more will take me back
to Paris.” Then a month passed without letters, and, when he wrote
next he mentioned briefly, “I have been ill, but I have my work nearly
finished, and some sketches that aren’t bad. Will you be in Paris to
see them next winter?”
She carried on another correspondence, about her “business” as she was
fond of calling her new investments. Wilbur “kept her posted” almost
daily of the doings of the Water-Hoister and Improvement Co. Whole
broadsides of newspapers came, filled with bombastic accounts of “the
future of the arid lands.” It seemed that Wilbur’s invention could be
turned to a number of purposes. “Through its instrumentality,” solemnly
concluded one Kansas City paragraphist, “we are about to open up an era
in this country hitherto undreamed of, an era when the desolate plains
of the mighty Rockies shall flow with milk and honey, and the seat of
the national capital shall be moved westward to the centre of a new
civilization.” The newspapers gave minute accounts of Wilbur’s life
from his earliest childhood, with accompanying photographs of him at
every stage of development. He was pictured--in the _Omaha Hawk_--as a
young man, musing profoundly on a desolate field, a black line in the
far distance indicating water, and in one corner a small cut of the
Hoister. Wilbur sent everything that appeared (marked with a broad blue
pencil) to his “silent partner” as he called Miss Anthon. A “ten cent
magazine” with a vast circulation published a profusely illustrated
article on “The New American Inventor,” with autobiographical notes at
the head, containing information on Wilbur’s personal habits, his hour
of rising, the number of cups of coffee he indulged in, his temperance
principles, etc., etc.
All this fuss and gossip seemed to amuse Wilbur, so far as he paid
attention to it, yet he realized its serious side. Stock in the company
continued to rise. Subsidiary companies for placer-mining in cañons and
for fruit-raising on the reclaimed lands were being formed. Wilbur had
already embarked on new schemes. In spite of his belief in the divine
service of the Hoister, he was never imposed on by noise. At the very
time when all was “booming merrily,” he took part in a syndicate formed
to buy forest lands in Alaska, and soberly recommended his partner to
“join in the deal.” He was about to make a short expedition to examine
the ground (and also to look into some mines near Juneau), and if she
cabled him at once, he would sell part of her stock in the Hoister
and place the proceeds in his new schemes. He had the prices of the
various stocks which she owned, cabled her at the close of each week,
and it added zest to the Sunday morning coffee to receive a little blue
despatch, to know each week that she was richer than the week before.
Money gives power and freedom, she told herself again and again. It had
freed Wilbur. Instead of spending his days as a small lawyer or clerk,
he was striding on, growing each month in shrewdness, in experience,
in grasp. Money had freed Erard, assured him the priceless leisure for
tranquil, unharassed work. Would it free her? enrich her? cut through
circumstances so that the restless, savage beast in her could grow and
possess and be satisfied? Not yet, she reflected bitterly, and again
the word must be _patience_.