THE HOUSE OF FORSYTH
It was a time-honored custom at Gray Manor that Harkness should serve
tea at half-past four in the Chinese room.
On this day--another November day, ten years after the events of the
last chapter--Harkness slipped through the heavy curtains with his tray
and interrupted Madame Forsyth, mistress of Gray Manor, in deep confab
with her legal advisor, Cornelius Allendyce.
Mr. Allendyce was just saying, crisply, "Will your mind not rest easier
for knowing that the Forsyth fortune will go to a Forsyth?" when
Harkness rattled the cups.
Then, strangest of all things, Madame ordered him sharply away with his
tray.
Such a thing had never happened before in Harkness' experience and he
had been at Gray Manor for fifty-five years. He grumbled complainingly
to Mrs. Budge, the housekeeper, and to Florrie, Madame's own maid, who
was having a sip of tea with Mrs. Budge in the cosy warmth of the
kitchen.
Florrie asserted that she could tell them a story or two of Madame's
whims and cranks--only it would not become her, inasmuch as Madame was
old and a woman to be pitied. "Poor thing, with this curse on the
house, who wouldn't have jumps and fidgets? I don't see I'm sure how any
of us stand it." But Florrie spoke with a hint of satisfaction--as
though proud to serve where there was a "curse." Harkness and Mrs.
Budge, who had lived at Gray Manor when things were happier, sighed.
"It's an heir they be talking about now," Harkness admitted.
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Mrs. Budge and Florrie in one breath.
Up in the Chinese room Madame Forsyth was saying; "Do you think any
child of that--branch of the family--could take the place of--"
"Oh, dear Madame," interrupted the lawyer. "I am not suggesting such a
thing! I know how impossible that would be. But on my own responsibility
I have made investigations and I have ascertained that your husband's
nephew has the one child. The nephew's an artist of sorts and doubtless
has his ups and downs--most artists do. Now I suggest--"
"That I take this--child--"
Mr. Allendyce tactfully ignored the scorn in her voice. "Exactly," he
purred. "Exactly. Gordon is the child's name. A very nice name, I am
sure."
"The child of an obscure artist--"
"Ah, but, Madame, blood is blood. A Forsyth--"
"P'ff!" Madame made a sound like rock hitting rock. Indeed, as she sat
there, her narrow eyes gleaming from her immobile face, her thin lips
tightly compressed, she looked much more like rock than flesh-and-blood.
Her explosion had the effect of exasperating the little lawyer out of
his habitual attitude of conciliation.
"Madame, I can do no more than advise you in this matter. I have traced
down this child as a possible heir to the Forsyth fortune. However, you
have it in your power to will otherwise. But let me say this--not as a
lawyer but as your friend. You are growing old. Will you not find,
perhaps, more happiness in your old age, if you bring a little youth
into this melancholy old house--"
"I must ask you to withhold your kind wishes until some other time,"
interrupted Madame, dryly. "I am at present seeking your advice as a
lawyer. I have not been regardless of the fact that the House of Forsyth
must have an heir; I have been thinking of it for a long time--in fact,
that is all there is left for me to do. And, though it is exceedingly
distasteful to me, I see the justice in seeking out one of--that family.
But, it must be done in my way. My mind is quite made up to that. You
say there is a--child. I wish you to communicate with this child's
father--this relative of my husband, and inform him that I will make
this child my heir provided he can be brought to Gray Manor at once. He
will live for one year here under your guardianship. I will send for
Percival Tubbs who, you may remember, tutored my grandson. Doubtless he
is old-fogyish but from his long association with our family he knows
the Forsyth traditions and what the head of the House of Forsyth should
be. He will know whether this boy can be trained to measure up to it.
If, after a year, he does not, he must go back--to his father. I will be
fair, of course, as far as money goes. If he does--" She stopped
suddenly, her stony demeanor broken. The thin lips quivered at the
thought of that sunny south room in the great house where had been left
untouched the toys, the books, the games, the precious trophies, the
guns and racquets, golf sticks and gloves which marked each development
of her beloved grandson.
"A very fair plan," murmured the lawyer.
"You have not heard all," went on Madame Forsyth in such a strange voice
that Cornelius Allendyce looked up at her in astonishment. "I am going
away."
"You! Where?" exclaimed the man. He could not quite believe his ears.
"That I do not care to divulge." She enjoyed his amazement. "I am
yielding to a restlessness which in a younger woman you would
understand, but which in me you would no doubt term--crazy. I am going
to run away--to some new place, where, for awhile, no one will know
whether I am the rich Madame Christopher Forsyth or the poor Mrs. John
Smith. Oh, I shall be quite safe; at my bank they will be able to find
me if anything happens. Norris has had entire charge of the mills for a
long time. And Budge and Harkness can take care of things here."
"Madame," the lawyer was moved out of his customary reserve, "are you
not possibly running away from what may bring you happiness--and
comfort?"
For the space of a moment the real heart of the woman shone in her eyes.
"I _am_ running away. I might learn to love this boy and he might not be
what the head of the house of Forsyth _should_ be and I would have to
send him back. And my heart has been torn enough. It is tired. I have a
whim to find new places--new things--to rest--and forget all this."
There was an interval of silence. Then Mr. Allendyce, lifting his eyes
from the patent-leather tips of his shoes, said quietly:
"I will carry out your commands to the best of my ability."
There followed, then, a great deal of discussion over details. And,
while carefully jotting figures and memoranda in a neat, morocco bound
note-book, the little man of law felt as though he were writing the
opening chapters of some fairy-tale.
Yet there was little of the fairy-tale in the old, empty house, a
melancholy house in spite of its wealth of treasure, brought from every
country on the globe. And there was nothing of romance in the Forsyth
family which had come over to Connecticut from England in the early days
of its settlement and had left to all the Forsyths to come, not only the
beginnings of the Forsyth factory where thread was made by the millions
of spools, and the Forsyth fortune, amassed by those same spools, but
also a deal of that courage which had helped those pioneers endure the
hardships and meet the obstacles of the early days.
Her business at an end, Madame expressed embarrassment at her
inhospitality in denying Mr. Allendyce his cup of tea. Would he not stay
and dine with her? Mr. Allendyce did not in the least desire to dine
alone with his client but the Wassumsic Inn was an uninviting place and
New York was a three hours' ride away. So he accepted with a polite show
of pleasure and assured Madame that he could amuse himself in the
library while she dressed for dinner.
Left to himself, the lawyer fell to pacing the velvety length of the
library floor. This led him to one of the long windows. He stopped and
looked out through it across the sloping lawns which surrounded the
house. A low ribbon of glow hung over the edge of the hills which lay to
the west of the town. Silhouetted against it was the ragged line of
roofs and stacks which were the Forsyth Mills. Familiar with them
through years of business association, the little man of law visualized
them now as clearly as though they did not lay wrapped in evening
shadow; he saw the ugly, age-old walls, the glaring brick of the new
additions, the dingy yards, the silver thread of the river and across
that the rows upon rows of tiny houses piled against one another, each
like its neighbor even to the broken pickets surrounding squares of
cinder ground. He knew, although his eyes could not see, that these
yards even now were hung with the lines of everlasting washing, that men
lounged on those back doorsteps and smoked and talked while women worked
within preparing the evening meals. These human beings were machines in
the gigantic industry upon which the House of Forsyth was founded. Did
Madame ever think of them as flesh and blood mortals--like herself?
Cornelius Allendyce smiled at the question; oh, no, the Forsyth
tradition, of which Madame talked, built an impenetrable wall between
her and those toilers.
Staring at the gray hard line of shadow that was the tallest of the
chimneys the man thought how like it was to Madame and old Christopher
Forsyth. His long connection with the family and the family interests
gave the lawyer an intimate understanding of them and all that had
happened to them. And it had been much. Mr. Allendyce himself often
spoke of the "curse" of Gray Manor. Christopher Forsyth and Madame had
had one son, Christopher Junior. Allendyce could recall the elaborate
festivities that had marked the boy's coming of age, the almost royal
pomp of his wedding. Three years after that wedding the young man and
his wife had been drowned while cruising with friends off the coast of
Southern California.
This terrible blow might have crushed old Christopher but for the
toddling youngster who was Christopher the Third. The grandfather and
grandmother shut themselves away in Gray Manor with the one purpose in
life--to bring up Christopher the Third to take his place at the head of
the House of Forsyth.
At this point in his reflections Mr. Allendyce's heart gave a quick
throb of pity--he knew what that handsome lad had been to the old
couple. He thought now how merciful it had been that old Christopher had
died before that cruel accident on the football field in which the lad
had been fatally injured. The brunt of the blow had fallen upon Madame.
And after the boy's death, a gloom had settled over her and the old
house which nothing had seemed able to dispel. As a last desperate
resort the lawyer had suggested, with a courage that cost considerable
effort, the finding of this other heir.
Mr. Allendyce had known very little of that "other branch" of the
family. Old Christopher had had a younger half-brother, Charles, who, at
the time Christopher took over the responsibilities of the head of the
family, went off to South America where he married a young Spanish girl.
And from the moment of that "low" marriage, as old Christopher had
called it, to the investigation by Mr. Allendyce's agents, nothing had
been heard at Gray Manor of this Charles Forsyth.
It had cost considerable money to trace him down but, accomplished, Mr.
Allendyce had with satisfaction tabulated the results in his neat little
note-book. Charles had died leaving one son, James. James had one child,
Gordon. They lived at 22 Patchin Place, New York City.
The thought of the fairy story flashed back into the lawyer's mind. He
knew his New York and he knew Patchin Place, where poverty and ambition
elbowed one another, and squalor stabbed at the heart of beauty. This
Gordon Forsyth had his childhood amid this, lived on the rise and fall
of an artist's day-by-day fortune. Now he would be taken from all that,
brought to Gray Manor, put under special tutorage, so that, some day he
could step into that other lad's place. If that didn't equal an Arabian
Night's tale!
"I'll go down to Patchin Place myself. I'd like to see their faces when
I tell them!" he declared aloud, with a tingle within his heart that was
a thrill although the little man did not know it.
Harkness coughed behind him. He turned quickly. Harkness bowed stiffly.
"Madame awaits you in the drawing-room."
The little man-of-the-law's chin went out. "Madame awaits--" Poor old
Madame; she would not have known how to come in and say "Let us go out
to dinner." There had to be all the ceremony and fuss--or it would not
have been Gray Manor and Madame Christopher Forsyth.
"All right. I'll find her," Mr. Allendyce growled. Then he was startled
out of his usual composure by catching the suggestion of a twinkle in
the Harkness eye which, of course, should not be in a Forsyth butler's
eye at all.