by Basil King
CHAPTER VIII
An hour later I had what up to then I must call the greatest surprise ofmy life.
I was crying by myself on the shore, in that secluded corner among therocks where Hugh had first told me that he loved me. As a rule, I don'tcry easily. I did it now chiefly from being overwrought. I was desolate.I missed Hugh. The few days or few weeks that must pass before I couldsee him again stretched before me like a century. All whom I could callmy own were so far away. Even had they been near, they would probably,with the individualism of our race, have left me to shift for myself.Louise and Victoria had always given me to understand that, though theydidn't mind lending me an occasional sisterly hand, my life was my ownaffair. It would have been a relief to talk the whole thing outphilosophically with Larry Strangways. As I came from the house I tried,for the first time since knowing him, to throw myself in his path; but,as usual when one needs a friend, he was nowhere to be seen.
I could, therefore, only scramble down to my favorite corner among therocks. Not that it was really a scramble. As a matter of fact, the pathwas easy if you knew where to find it; but it was hidden from theordinary passer on the Cliff Walk, first by a boulder, round which youhad to slip, and then by a tangle of wild rosebines, wild raspberries,and Queen Anne's lace. It was something like a secret door, known onlyto the Rossiter household, their servants, and their friends. Once youhad passed it you had a measure of the public privacy you get in a boxat the theater or the opera. You had space and ease and a wide outlook,with no fear of intrusion.
I cannot say that I was unhappy. I was rather in that state of mindwhich the American people, with its gift for the happy, unexpected word,have long spoken of as "mad." I was certainly mad. I was mad with J.Howard Brokenshire first of all; I was mad with his family for havinggot up and left me without so much as a nod; I was mad with Hugh forhaving made me fall in love with him; I was mad with Larry Strangwaysfor not having been on the spot; and I was most of all mad with myself.I had been boastful and bumptious; I had been disrespectful and absurd.It was foolish to make worse enemies than I had already. Mrs. Rossiterwouldn't keep me now. There would be no escape from Mrs. Applegate andthe Home for Working-Girls.
The still summer beauty of the afternoon added to my wretchedness. Allround and before me there was luxury and joyousness and sport. The verysea was in a playful mood, lapping at my feet like a tamed, affectionateleviathan, and curling round the ledges in the offing with delicatelace-like spouts of spume. Sea-gulls swooped and hovered with hoarsecries and a lovely effect of silvery wings. Here and there was a sail onthe blue, or the smoke of a steamer or a war-ship. Eastons Point, sometwo or three miles away, was a long, burnished line of ripening wheat.To right and to left of me were broken crags, red-yellow, red-brown,red-green, where lovers and happy groups could perch or nestlecarelessly, thrusting trouble for the moment to a distance. I had tobring my trouble with me. If it had not been for trouble I shouldn'thave been there. There wasn't a soul in the world who would fight totake my part but Hugh, and I was, in all my primary instincts, aclinging, parasitic thing that hated to stand alone.
There was nothing for it then but crying, and I did that to the best ofmy ability; not loudly, of course, or vulgarly, but gently andsentimentally, with an immense pity for myself. I cried for what hadhappened that day and for what had happened yesterday. I cried forthings long past, which I had omitted to cry for at the time. When I hadfinished with these I went further back to dig up other ignominies, andI cried for them. I cried for my father and mother and my orphanedcondition; I cried for the way in which my father--who was a good, kindman, _du reste_--had lived on his principal, and left me with scarcely apenny to my name; I cried for my various disappointments in love, andfor the girl friends who had predeceased me. I massed all these motivestogether and cried for them in bulk. I cried for Hugh and the brilliantfuture we should have on the money he would make. I cried for LarryStrangways and the loneliness his absence would entail on me. I criedfor the future as well as for the past and if I could have thought of afuture beyond the future I should have cried for that. It was deliciousand sad and consoling all at once; and when I had no more tears I feltalmost as if Hugh's strong arm had been about me, and I was comforted.
I was just wiping my eyes and wondering whether at the moment of goinghomeward my nose would be too red, when I heard a quiet step. I thoughtI must be mistaken. It was so unlikely that any one would be there atthis hour of the day--the servants generally came down at night--thatfor a minute I didn't turn. It was the uncomfortable sense that some onewas behind me that made me look back at last, when I caught the flutterof lace and the shimmer of pale-rose taffeta. Mrs. Brokenshire had wornlace and pale-rose taffeta at the lunch.
Fear and amazement wrestled in my soul together. Struggling to my feet,I turned round as slowly as I could.
"Don't get up," she said in a sweet, quiet voice. "I'll come and sitdown beside you, if I may." She had already seated herself on a low flatrock as she said, "I saw you were crying, so I waited."
I am not usually at a loss for words, but I was then. I stuttered andstammered and babbled, without being able to say anything articulate.Indeed, I had nothing articulate to say. The mind had suspended itsaction.
My impressions were all subconscious, but registered exactly. She wasthe most exquisite production I had ever seen in human guise. Herperfection was that of some lovely little bird in which no color failsto shade harmoniously into some other color, in which no single featheris out of place. The word I used of her was _soignee_--that which issmoothed and curled and polished and caressed till there is not aneyelash which hasn't received its measure of attention. I don't meanthat she was artificial, or that her effects were too thought out. Shewas no more artificial than a highly cultivated flower is artificial, ora many-faceted diamond, or a King Charles spaniel, or anything else thatis carefully bred or cut or shaped. She was the work of some specialistin beauty, who had no aim in view but to give to the world the loveliestthing possible.
When I had mastered my confusion sufficiently I sat down with the words,rather lamely spoken:
"I didn't know any one was here. I hope I haven't kept you standinglong."
"No; but I was watching you. I came down only a few minutes after youdid. You see, I was afraid--when we came away from Mrs. Rossiter's--thatyou might be unhappy."
"I'm not as unhappy as I was," I faltered, without knowing what I said,and was rewarded to see her smile.
It was an innocent smile, without glee, a little sad in fact, but fullof unutterable things like a very young child's. I had never seen suchteeth, so white, so small, so regular.
"I'm glad of that," she said, simply. "I thought if some--some otherwoman was near you, you mightn't feel so--so much alone. That's why Iwatched round and followed you."
I could have fallen at her feet, but I restricted myself to saying:
"Thank you very much. It does make a difference." I got courage to add,however, with a smile of my own, "I see you know."
"Yes, I know. I've thought about you a good deal since that day about afortnight ago--you remember?"
"Oh yes, I remember. I'm not likely to forget, am I? Only, you see, Ihad no idea--if I had, I mightn't have felt so--so awfully forlorn."
Her eyes rested upon me. I can only say of them that they were sweet andlovely, which is saying nothing at all. Sweet and lovely are the wordsthat come to me when I think of her, and they are so lamentablyoverworked. She seemed to study me with a child-like unconsciousness.
"Yes," she said at last, "I suppose you do feel forlorn. I didn't thinkof that or--or I might have managed to come to you before."
"That you should have come now," I said, warmly, "is the kindest thingone human being ever did for another."
Again there was the smile, a little to one side of the mouth, wistful,wan.
"Oh no, it isn't. I've really come on my own account." I waited for someexplanation of this, but she only went on: "Tell me about yourself. Howdi
d you come here? Ethel Rossiter has never really said anything aboutyou. I should like to know."
Her manner had the gentle command that queens and princesses and veryrich women unconsciously acquire. I tried to obey her, but found littleto say. Uttered to her my facts were so meager. I told her of my fatherand mother, of my father's mania for old books, of Louise and Victoriaand their husbands, of my visits abroad; but I felt her attentionwandering. That is, I felt she was interested not in my data, but in me.Halifax and Canada and British army and navy life and rare firsteditions were outside the range of her ken. Paris she knew; and Londonshe knew; but not from any point of view from which I could speak ofthem. I could see she was the well-placed American who knows some of thegreat English houses and all of the great English hotels, but nothing ofthat Britannic backbone of which I might have been called a rib. Shebroke in presently, not apropos of anything I was saying, with thewords:
"How old are you?"
I told her I was twenty-four.
"I'm twenty-nine."
I said I had understood as much from Mrs. Rossiter, but that I couldeasily have supposed her no older than myself. This was true. Had therenot been that something mournful in her face which simulates maturity Icould have thought of her as nothing but a girl. If I stood in awe ofher it was only of what I guessed at as a sorrow.
She went on to give me two or three details of her life, with nearly allof which I was familiar through hints from Hugh and Ethel Rossiter.
"We're really Philadelphians, my mother and I. We've lived a good dealin New York, of course, and abroad. I was at school in Paris, too, atthe Convent des Abeilles." She wandered on, somewhat inconsequentially,with facts of this sort, when she added, suddenly: "I was to havemarried some one else."
I knew then that I had the clue to her thought. The marriage she hadmissed was on her mind. It created an obsession or a broken heart, Iwasn't quite sure which. It was what she wanted to talk about, thoughher glance fell before the spark of intelligence in mine.
THE MARRIAGE SHE HAD MISSED WAS ON HER MIND. IT CREATEDAN OBSESSION OR A BROKEN HEART, I WASN'T QUITE SURE WHICH]
Since there was nothing I could say in actual words, I merely murmuredsympathetically. At the same time there came to me, like the slowbreaking of a dawn, an illuminating glimpse of the great J. Howard'slife. I seemed to be admitted into its secret, into a perception of itsweak spot, more fully than his wife had any notion of. She would never,I was sure, see what she was betraying to me from my point of view. Shewould never see how she was giving him away. She wouldn't even see howshe was giving away herself--she was so sweet, and gentle, andchild-like, and unsuspecting.
I don't know for how many seconds her quiet, inconsequential speechtrickled on without my being able to follow it. I came to myself again,as it were, on hearing her say:
"And if you do love him, oh, don't give him up!"
I grasped the fact then that I had lost something about Hugh, and did mybest to catch up with it.
"I don't mean to, if either of my conditions is fulfilled. You heardwhat they were."
"Oh, but if I were you I wouldn't make them. That's where I think you'rewrong. If you love him--"
"I couldn't steal him from his family, even if I loved him."
"Oh, but it wouldn't be stealing. When two people love each otherthere's nothing else to think about."
"And yet that might sometimes be dangerous doctrine."
"If there was never any danger there'd never be any courage. And courageis one of the finest things in life."
"Yes, of course; but even courage can carry one very far."
"Nothing can carry us so far as love. I see that now. It's why I'manxious about poor Hugh. I--I know a man who--who loves a woman whomhe--he couldn't marry, and--" She caught herself up. "I'm fond of Hugh,you see, even though he doesn't like me. I wish he understood, that theyall understood--that--that it isn't my fault. If I could have had myway--" She righted herself here with a slight change of tense. "If Icould have my way, Hugh would marry the woman he's in love with andwho's in love with him."
I tried to enroll her decisively on my side.
"So that you don't agree with Mr. Brokenshire."
Her immediate response was to color with a soft, suffused rose-pink likethat of the inside of shells. Her eyes grew misty with a kind ofhelplessness. She looked at me imploringly, and looked away. One mighthave supposed that she was pleading with me to be let off answering.Nevertheless, when she spoke at last, her words brought me to a newphase of her self-revelation.
"Why aren't you afraid of him?"
"Oh, but I am."
"Yes, but not like--" Again she saved herself. "Yes, but not like--somany people. You may be afraid of him inside, but you fight."
"Any one fights for right."
There was a repetition of the wistful smile, a little to the left cornerof the mouth.
"Oh, do they? I wish I did. Or rather I wish I had."
"It's never too late," I declared, with what was meant to beencouragement.
There was a queer little gleam in her eye, like that which comes intothe pupil of a startled bird.
"So I've heard some one else say. I suppose it's true--but it frightensme."
I was quite strangely uneasy. Hints of her story came back to me, but Ihad never heard it completely enough to be able to piece the fragmentstogether. It was new for me to imagine myself called on to protect anyone--I needed protection so much for myself!--but I was moved with aprotective instinct toward her. It was rather ridiculous, and yet it wasso.
"Only one must be sure one is right before one fights, mustn't one?" wasall I could think of saying.
She responded dreamily, looking seaward.
"Don't you think there may be worse things than wrong?"
This being so contrary to my pet principles, I answered, emphatically,that I didn't think so at all. I brought out my maxim that if you didright nothing but right could come of it; but she surprised me bysaying, simply, "I don't believe that."
I was a little indignant.
"But it's not a matter of believing; it's one of proving, ofdemonstration."
"I've done right, and wrong came of it."
"Oh, but it couldn't--not in the long run."
"Well, then I did wrong. That's what I've been afraid of, and what--whatsome one else tells me." If a pet bird could look at you with achallenging expression it was the thing she did. "Now what do you say?"
I really didn't know what to say. I spoke from instinct, and some commonsense.
"If one's done wrong, or made a mistake, I suppose the only way one canrectify it is to begin again to do right. Right must have a rectifyingpower."
"But if you've made a mistake the mistake is there, unless you go backand unmake it. If you don't, isn't it what they call building on a badfoundation?"
"I dare say it is; and yet you can't push a material comparison too farwhen you're thinking of spiritual things. This is spiritual, isn't it? Isuppose one can't really do evil and expect good to come of it; but onecan overcome evil with good."
She looked at me with a sweet mistiness.
"I've no doubt that's true, but it's very deep. It's too deep for me."She rose with an air of dismissing the subject, though she continued tospeak of it allusively. "You know so much about it. I could see you didfrom the first. If I was to tell you the whole story--but, of course, Ican't do that. No, don't get up. I have to run away, because we'reexpecting people to tea; but I should have liked staying to talk withyou. You're awfully clever, aren't you? I suppose it must be livinground in those queer places--Gibraltar, didn't you say? I've seenGibraltar, but only from the steamer, on the way to Naples. I felt thatI was with you from that very first time I saw you. I'd seen you before,of course, with little Gladys, but not to notice you. I never noticedyou till I heard that Hugh was in love with you. That was just beforeMr. Brokenshire took me over--you remember!--that day. He wanted me tosee how easily he could deal with people who opposed him; but I d
idn'tthink he succeeded very well. He made you go and sit at a distance. Thatwas to show you he had the power. Did you notice what I did? Oh, I'mglad. I wanted you to understand that if it was a question of love Iwas--I was with you. You saw that, didn't you? Oh, I'm glad. I must runaway now. We've people to tea; but some time, if I can manage it, I'llcome again."
She had begun slipping up the path, like a great rose-colored moth inthe greenery, when she turned to say:
"I can never do anything for you, I'm too afraid of him; but I'm on yourside."
After she had gone I began putting two and two together. What her visitdid for me especially was to distract my mind. I got a betterperspective on my own small drama in seeing it as incidental to a largerone. That there was a large one here I had no doubt, though I couldneither seize nor outline its proportions. As far as I could judge of myvisitor I found her dazed by the magnitude of the thing that hadhappened to her, whatever that was. She was good and kind; she hadn't athought that wasn't tender; normally she would have been the devoted,clinging type of wife I longed to be myself; and yet some one's passion,or some one's ambition, or both in collusion, had caught her like a birdin a net.
It was perhaps because she was a woman and I was a woman and J. Howardwas a man that my reactions concerned themselves chiefly with him. Ithought of him throughout the afternoon. I began to get new views ofhim. I wondered if he knew of himself what I knew. I supposed he did. Isupposed he must. He couldn't have been married two or three years tothis sweet stricken creature without seeing that her heart wasn't his.Furthermore, he couldn't have beheld, as he and I had beheld thatafternoon, the hand that went up palm outward, without divining a horrorof his person that was more than a shrinking from his poor contortedeye. For love the contorted eye would have meant more love, since itwould have been love with its cognate of pity; but not so that upliftedhand and that instinctive waving of him back. There was more than aninvoluntary repulsion in that, more than an instant of abhorrence. Whatthere was he must have discovered, he must have tasted, from the minutehe first took her in his arms.
I was sorry for him. I could throw enough of the masculine into myimagination to know how he must adore a creature of such perfectedcharm. She was the sort of woman men would adore, especially the menwhose ideal lies first of all in the physical. For them it would meannothing that she lacked mentality, that the pendulum of her nature hadonly a limited swing; that she was as good as she looked would beenough, seeing that she looked like an angel straight out of heaven. Inspite of poor J. Howard's kingly suavity I knew he must have minutes ofsheer animal despair, of fierce and bitter suffering.
Mrs. Rossiter spoke to me that evening with a suggestion of reprimand,which was letting me off easily. I was so sure of my dismissal, thatwhen I returned to the house from the shore I expected some sort of_lettre de conge_; but I found nothing. I had had supper with Gladys andput her to bed when the maid brought me a message to say that Mrs.Rossiter would like me to come down and see her dress, as she was goingout to dinner.
I was admiring the dress, which was a new one, when she said, ratherfretfully:
"I wish you wouldn't talk like that to father. It upsets him so."
I was adjusting a slight fullness at the back, which made it the easierfor me to answer.
"I wouldn't if he didn't talk like that to me. What can I do? I have tosay something."
She was peering into the cheval glass over her shoulder, giving herattention to two things at once.
"I mean your saying you expected both of those preposterous things tohappen. Of course, you don't--nor either of them--and it only rubs himup the wrong way."
I was too meek now to argue the point. Besides, I was preoccupied withthe widening interests in which I found myself involved. To probe thesecurity of my position once more, I said:
"I wonder you stand it--that you don't send me away."
She was still twisting in front of the cheval glass.
"Don't you think that shoulder-strap is loose? It really looks as if thewhole thing would slip off me. If he can stand it I can," she added, asa matter of secondary concern.
"Oh, then he can stand it." I felt the shoulder-strap. "No, I think it'sall right, if you don't wriggle too much."
"I'm sure it's going to come down--and there I shall be. He has to standit, don't you see, or let you think that you wound him?"
I was frankly curious.
"Do I wound him?"
"He'd never let you know it if you did. The fact that he ignores you andlets you stay on with me is the only thing by which I can judge. If youdidn't hurt him at all he'd tell me to send you about your business."She turned from the glass. "Well, if you say that strap is all right Isuppose it must be, but I don't feel any too sure." She was picking upher gloves and her fan which the maid had laid out, when she said,suddenly: "If you're so keen on getting married, for goodness' sake whydon't you take that young Strangways?"
My sensation can only be compared to that of a person who has got aterrific blow on the head from a trip-hammer. I seemed to wonder why Ihadn't been crushed or struck dead. As it was, I felt that I could nevermove again from the spot on which I stood. I was vaguely conscious ofsomething outraged within me and yet was too stunned to resent it. Icould only gasp, feebly, after what seemed an interminable time: "In thefirst place, I'm not so awfully keen on getting married--"
She was examining her gloves.
"There, that stupid Seraphine has put me out two lefts. No, she hasn't;it's all right. Stuff, my dear! Every girl is keen on getting married."
"And then," I stammered on, "Mr. Strangways has never given me thechance."
"Oh, well, he will. Do hand me my wrap, like a love." I was putting thewrap over her shoulders as she repeated: "Oh, well, he will. I can tellby the way he looks at you. It would be ever so much more suitable. Jimsays he'll be a first-class man in time--if you don't rush in like anidiot and marry Hugh."
"I may marry Hugh," I tried to say, loftily, "but I hope I sha'n't do itlike an idiot."
She swept toward the stairway, but she had left me with subjects forthought not only for that evening, but for the next day and the next.Now that the first shock was over I managed to work up the proper senseof indignity. I told myself I was hurt and offended. She shouldn't havementioned such a thing. I wouldn't have stood it from one of my ownsisters. I had never thought of Larry Strangways in any such way, and todo so disturbed our relations. To begin with, I wasn't in love with him;and to end with, he was too poor. Not that I was looking for a richhusband; but neither was I a lunatic. It would be years before he couldthink of marrying, if there were no other consideration; and in the meantime there was Hugh.
There was Hugh with his letters from Boston, full of high ambitioushopes. Cousin Andrew Brew had written from Bar Harbor that he was comingto town in a day or two and would give him the interview he demanded.Already Hugh had his eye on a little house on Beacon Hill--so like acorner of Mayfair, he wrote, if Mayfair stood on an eminence--in whichwe could be as snug as two love-birds. I was composing in my mind theletter I should write to my aunt in Halifax, asking to be allowed tocome back for the wedding.
I filled in the hours wondering how Larry Strangways looked at me whenthere was only Mrs. Rossiter as spectator. I knew how he looked at mewhen I was looking back--it was with that gleaming smile which defiedyou to see behind it, as the sun defies you to see behind its rays. ButI wanted to know how he looked at me when my head was turned anotherway; to know how the sun appears when you view it through a telescopethat nullifies its defensive. For that I had only my imagination, sincehe had obtained two or three days' leave to go to New York to see hisnew employer. He had warned me to betray no hint as to the newemployer's name, since there was a feud between the Brokenshire clan andStacy Grainger which I connected vaguely with the story I had heard ofMrs. Brokenshire.
Then on the fourth day Hugh came back. He appeared as he had on sayinggood-by, while I was breakfasting with Gladys in the open air and Brokewas
with his mother. Hugh was more pallid than when he went away; he waspositively woe-begone. Everything that was love in me leaped into flameat sight of his honest, sorry face.
I think I can tell his story best by giving it in my own words, in theway of direct narration. He didn't tell it to me all at once, but bit bybit, as new details occurred to him. The picture was slow in printingitself on my mind, but when I got it it was with satisfactoryexactitude.
He had been three days at the hotel in Boston before learning thatCousin Andrew Brew was actually in town and would see him at the bank ateleven on a certain morning. Hugh was on the moment. The promptitudewith which his relative sprang up in his seat, somewhat as if impelledby a piece of mechanism, was truly cordial. Not less was the handshakeand the formula of greeting. The sons of J. Howard Brokenshire werealways welcome guests among their Boston kin, on whom they shed apleasant luster of metropolitan glory. While the Brews and Borrodailesprided themselves on what they called their Boston provinciality anddidn't believe to be provinciality at all, they enjoyed the New Yorkconnection.
"Hello, Hugh! Glad to see you. Come in. Sit down. Looking older thanwhen I saw you last. Growing a mustache. Not married yet? Sit down andtell us all about it. What can I do for you? Sit down."
Hugh took the comfortable little upright arm-chair that stood at thecorner of his cousin's desk, while the latter resumed the seat of honor.Knowing that the banker's time was valuable, and feeling that he wouldreveal his aptitude for business by going to the point at once, theyounger man began his tale. He had just reached the fact that he hadfallen in love with a little girl on whose merits he wouldn't enlarge,since all lovers had the same sort of things to say, though he was surerof his data than others of his kind, when there was a tinkle at the desktelephone.
"Excuse me."
During the conversation in which Cousin Andrew then engaged Hugh wasable to observe the long-established, unassuming comfort of thisfriendly office, which suggested the cozy air that hangs about thesmoking-rooms of good old English inns. There was a warm worn carpet onthe floor; deep leather arm-chairs showed the effect of contact with twogenerations of moneyed backs; on the walls the lithographed heads ofBrews and Borrodailes bore witness to the firm's respectability. In theatmosphere a faint odor of tobacco emphasized the human associations.
Cousin Andrew emphasized them, too. "Now!" He put down the receiver andturned to Hugh with an air of relief at being able to give him hisattention. He was a tall, thin man with a head like a nut. It would havebeen an expressionless nut had it not been for a facile tight-lippedsmile that creased his face as stretching creases rubber. Coming andgoing rapidly, it gave him the appearance of mirth, creating at each endof a long, mobile mouth two concentric semicircles cutting deep into thecheeks that would have been of value to a low comedian. A slate-coloredmorning suit, a white pique edge to the opening of the waistcoat, aslate-colored tie with a pearl in it, emphasized the union of dignityand lightness which were the keynotes to Cousin Andrew's character.Blended as they were, they formed a delightfully debonair combination,bringing down to your own level a man who was somebody in the world offinance. It was part of his endearing quality that he liked you to seehim as a jolly good fellow no whit better than yourself. He was fond ofgossip and of the lighter topics of the moment. He was also fond ofdancing, and frequented most of the gatherings, private and public, forthe cultivation of that art which was the vogue of the year before theGreat War. With his tall, limber figure he passed for less than his ageof forty-three till you got him at close quarters.
On the genial "Now!" in which there was an inflection of command Hughwent on with his tale, telling of his breach with his father and hisdetermination to go into business for himself.
"I ought to be independent, anyhow, at my age," he declared. "I've myown views, and it's only right to confess to you that I'm a bit of aSocialist. That won't make any difference, however, to our workingtogether, Cousin Andrew, for, to make a long story short, I've looked into tell you that I've come to the place where I should like to acceptyour kind offer."
The statement was received with cheerful detachment, while Cousin Andrewthrew himself forward with his arms on his desk, rubbing his long, thinhands together.
"My kind offer? What was that?"
Hugh was slightly dashed.
"About my coming to you if ever I wanted to go into business."
"Oh! You're going into business?"
Hugh named the places and dates at which, during the past few years,Cousin Andrew had offered his help to his young kinsman if ever it wasneeded.
Cousin Andrew tossed himself back in his chair with one of his brisk,restless movements.
"Did I say that? Well, if I did I'll stick to it." There was anothertinkle at the telephone. "Excuse me."
Hugh had time for reflection and some irritation. He had not expected tobe thrust into the place of a petitioner, or to have to makeexplanations galling to his pride. He had counted not only on hiscousinship, but on his position in the world as J. Howard Brokenshire'sson. It seemed to him that Cousin Andrew was disposed to undervaluethat.
"I don't want to hold you to anything you don't care for, CousinAndrew," he began, when his relative had again put the receiver aside,"but I understood--"
"Oh, that's all right. I've no doubt I said it. I do recall something ofthe sort, vaguely, at a time when I thought your father might want-- Inany case we can fix you up. Sure to be something you can do. When'd youlike to begin?"
Hugh expressed his willingness to be put into office at once.
"Just so. Turn you over to old Williamson. He licks the young ones intoshape. Suppose your father'll think it hard of us to go against him. Buton the other hand he may be pleased--he'll know you're in safe hands."
It was a delicate thing for Hugh to attempt, but as he was going intobusiness not from an irresistible impulse toward a financial career, butin order to make enough money to marry on, he felt obliged to ask, insuch terms as he could command, how much money he should make.
"Just so!" Cousin Andrew took up the receiver again. "Want to speak toMr. Williamson. . . . Oh, Williamson, how much is Duffers getting now?. . . And how much before that? . . . Good! Thanks!"
The result of these investigations was communicated to Hugh. He shouldreceive Duffers's pay, and when he had earned it should come in forDuffers's promotion. The immediate effect was to make him look startledand blank. "What?" was his only question; but it contained severalshades of incredulity.
Cousin Andrew took this dismay in good part.
"Why, what did you expect?"
Hugh could only stammer:
"I thought it would be more."
"How much more?"
Hugh sought an answer that wouldn't betray the ludicrous figure of hishopes.
"Well, enough to live on as a married man at least."
The banker's good nature was proved by the creases of his rubber smile.
"What did you think you'd be worth to us--with no backing from yourfather?"
The question was of the kind commonly called a poser. Hugh had not, so Iunderstood from him, hitherto thought of his entering his kinsfolks'banking-house as primarily a matter of earning capacity. It wasn't to belike working for "any old firm." He had prefigured it as becoming acomponent part of a machine that turned out money of which he would gethis share, that share being in proportion to the dignity of the houseitself and bearing a relation to his blood connection with thedominating partners. When Cousin Andrew had repeated his question Hughwas obliged to reply:
"I wasn't thinking of that so much as of what you'd be worth to me."
"We could be worth a good deal to you in time."
There was a ray of hope.
"How long a time?"
"Oh, twenty or thirty years, perhaps, if you work and save. Of course,if you had capital to bring in--but you haven't, have you? Didn't CousinSophy, your mother, leave everything to your father? I thought so. Mindyou, I'm putting out of the question all thought
of your father's cominground and putting money in for you. I'm talking of the thing on theground on which you've put it."
Hugh had no heart to resent the quirks and grimaces in Cousin Andrew'ssmile. He had all he could do in taking his leave in a way to save hisface and cast the episode behind him. The banker lent himself to thiseffort with good-humored grace, accompanying his relative to the door ofthe room, where he shook him by the shoulder as he turned the knob.
"Thought you'd go right in as a director? Not the first youngster who'shad that idea, and you'll not be the last. Good-by. Let me hear from youif you change your mind." He called after him, as the door was about toclose: "Best try to fix it up with your father, Hugh. As for thegirl--well, there'll be others, and more in your line."