A Man and His Money

by Frederic Stewart Isham

  CHAPTER IV

  FATE AT THE DOOR

  Although Mr. Heatherbloom waited expectantly that day for his dismissal,it did not come. This surprised him somewhat; then he reflected thatMiss Elizabeth Dalrymple was probably so absorbed in theprince--remembering her rather effusive greeting of that fortunateindividual--she had forgotten such a small matter as having the dogvalet ejected from the premises. She would remember on the morrow, ofcourse.

  But she didn't! The hours passed, and he was suffered to go about theeven, or uneven, tenor of his way. This he did mechanically; he scrubbedand combed Beauty beautifully. With a dire sense of fate knocking at thedoor, he passed her on to Miss Van Rolsen, to be freshly be-ribboned bythat lady's own particular hand. The thin bony finger he thought wouldbe pointed accusingly at him, busied itself solely with the knots andbows of a new ribbon; after which the grim lady dismissed him--from herpresence, not the house--curtly.

  Several days went by; still no one accused him; he was still suffered toremain. Why? He could not understand. At the end of a long--seeminglyinterminable week--he put himself deliberately in the way of findingout. Coming to, or going from the house, he lingered around the areaentrance, purposely to encounter her whom he had heretofore, above allothers, wished to avoid. A feverish desire possessed him to meet theworst, and then go about his way, no matter where it might lead him. Hewas past solicitude in that regard. He did at length manage to meether--not as before in the full daylight but toward dusk, as shereturned, this time on foot, to the house.

  "Miss Dalrymple, may I speak to you?" he said to the indistinctly seen,slender figure that started lightly up the front steps.

  She did not even stop, although she must have heard him; a moment hesaw her like a shadow; then the front door opened. He heard a crispmetallic click; the door closed. Slowly with head a little downbent hewalked out, up the way she had come; then around the corner a shortdistance to the stables over which he had his room.

  It was a nice room, he had at first thought, probably because he likedhorses. They--four or five thoroughbreds--whinnied as he opened thedoor. He had started up the dark narrow stairs to his chamber, butstopped at that sound and groped about from stall to stall passingaround the expected lumps of sugar. After which all seemed well as faras he and they were concerned.

  Only that other problem!--he could not shake it from him. To resignnow?--under fire? How he wished he might! But to remain?--his situationwas intolerable. He went up to his room feeling like a ghost; his mindwas full of dark presences, as if he had lived a thousand times beforeand had been surrounded only by hostile influences that now came backin the still watches of the night to haunt him.

  He dreaded going to the house the next day, but he went. Perhaps, hereflected, she was only allowing him to retain his present positionunder a kind of espionage; to trap him and put him beyond the pale ofrespectable society. He remembered the cruel lips, the passionatedislike--contempt--even hatred--in her eyes. Yes; that might be it--thereason for her temporary silence; the house was full of valuable things;sooner or later--

  "Are you quite satisfied, Madam, with my services?" said Mr.Heatherbloom that afternoon to Miss Van Rolsen.

  "You seem to do well enough," she answered shortly.

  He brightened. "Perhaps some one else would do better."

  "Perhaps," she returned dryly. "But I'm not going to try."

  "But," he said desperately, "I--I don't think they--the dogs, like mequite so much as they did. Naughty, in particular," he added quickly."I--I thought yesterday he would have liked to--growl and nip at me."

  "Did he," she asked, studying him with disconcerting keenness, "actuallydo that?"

  "No. But--"

  "Do I understand you wish to give me notice?" she interrupted sharply.

  "Not at all." In an alarmed tone. "I couldn't--I mean I wouldn't dothat. Only I thought you might have felt dissatisfied--people usually dowith me," he added impressively. "So if you would like to give me--"

  She made a gesture. "That will do. I am very busy this morning. Thebegging list, though smaller than usual--only three hundred andseventy-six letters--has to be attended to."

  Thus the matter of Mr. Heatherbloom's staying or going continued, muchto that person's discomfiture, _in statu quo_. It is true he found,later, a compromising course; a way out of the difficulty--as hethought, little knowing the extraordinary new web he was weaving!--butbefore that time came, several things happened. In the first place hediscovered that Miss Dalrymple was not entirely pleased at thepublication of the story of her engagement to the prince; herposition--her family's and that of Miss Van Rolsen, was such thatnewspaper advertising or notoriety could not but be distasteful.

  "I hope people won't think I keep a social secretary," Mr. Heatherbloomheard her say.

  Yes, heard her. He was in the dogs' "boudoir"; the conservatoryadjoined. He could not help being where he was; he belonged there at thetime. Nor could he help hearing; he didn't try to listen; he certainlydidn't wish to, though she had a very sweet voice--that soothed one to aspecies of lotus dream--forgetfulness of soap-suds, or the odor ofcanine disinfectant permeating the white foam--

  "Why should they think you have a social secretary?" the voice of aman--the prince--inquired.

  He had deep fine tones; truly Russian tones, with a subtle vibration inthem.

  "Because when such things are published about people their secretariesusually put them in," returned the girl.

  He was silent a moment; Mr. Heatherbloom thought he heard the breakingof the stem of a flower.

  "You were very much irritated--angry?" observed the prince at length,quietly.

  "Weren't you?" she asked.

  "I? No. It is a bourgeois confession, perhaps."

  Mr. Heatherbloom sat up straighter; the water dripped from his fingers.

  "I was pleased," went on the sonorous low voice. "I wished--it were so!"

  There was a sudden movement in the conservatory; a rustling of leaves,or of a gown; then--Mr. Heatherbloom relaxed in surprise--a peal ofmerry laughter filled the air.

  "How apropos! How well you said that!"

  "Miss Dalrymple!" There was a slightly rising inflection in the man'stones. "You doubt my sincerity?"

  "The sincerity of a Russian prince? No, indeed!" she returned gaily.

  "I am in earnest," he said simply.

  "Don't be!" Mr. Heatherbloom could, in fancy, see the flash of a whitehand amid red flowers; eyes dancing like violets in the wind. He couldperceive, also, as plainly as if he were in that other room, the deepardent eyes of the prince downbent upon the blither ones, the commandingfigure of the man near that other slender, almost illusive presence. Aflower to be grasped only by a bold wooer, like the prince!

  "Don't be," she repeated. "You are so much more charming when you arenot. I think I heard that line in a play once. One of the Robertsonkind; it was given by a stock company in San Francisco. That's where Icame from, you know. Have you ever been there?"

  "No," said the prince slowly.

  Dark eyes trying to beat down the merriment in the blue ones! Mr.Heatherbloom could, in imagination, "fill in" all the stage details. Ifit only were "stage" dialogue; "stage" talk; not "playing with love", inearnest!

  "Playing with love!" He had read a book of that name once; somewhere.In Italy?--yes. It sounded like an Italian title. Something verydisagreeable happened to the heroine. A woman, or a girl, can notlightly "play with love" with a Sicilian. But, of course, the princewasn't a Sicilian.

  "No," he was saying now with admirable poise, in answer to her question,"I haven't visited your wonderful Golden Gate, but I hope to go theresome day--with you!" he added. His words were simple; the accent alonemade them sound formidable; it seemed to convey an impregnable purpose,one not to be shaken or disturbed.

  Mr. Heatherbloom felt vaguely disturbed; his heart pounded oddly. Hehalf started to get up, then sank back. He waited for another peal oflaughter; it didn't come. Why?

  "Of cour
se I should have no objection to your being one of a trainparty," said Miss Dalrymple at length.

  "That isn't just what I mean," returned the prince in his courtliesttones. But it wasn't hard to picture him now with a glitter in hisgaze,--immovable, sure of himself.

  There was a rather long pause; broken once more by Miss Dalrymple:"Shall we not return to the music room?"

  That interval? What had it meant? Mute acquiescence on her part, adown-turning of the imperious lashes before the steadfastness of theother's look?--tacit assent? The casting off of barriers, the opening ofthe gates of the divine inner citadel? Mr. Heatherbloom was on his feetnow. He took a step toward the door, but paused. Of course! Somethingclammy had fallen from his hand; lay damp and dripping on the rag. Hestared at it--a bar of soap.

  What had he been about to do--he!--to step in there--into theconservatory, with his bar of soap?--grotesque anomaly! His face wore astrange expression; he was laughing inwardly. Oh, how he was laughing athimself! Fortunately he had a saving sense of humor.

  What had next been said in the conservatory? What was now being saidthere? He heard words but they had no meaning for him. "I will send youthe second volume of _The Fire and Sword_ trilogy," went on the prince."One of my ancestors figures in it. The hero--who is not exactly a hero,perhaps, in the heroine's mind, for a time--does what he must do; he haswhat he must have. He claims what nature made for him; he knows no otherlaw than that of his imperishable inner self. I, too, must rise to thoseheights my eyes are set on. It must be; it is written. We are fatalists,we Russians near the Tartar line! And you and I"--fervently--"werepredestined for each other."

  Mr. Heatherbloom had but dimly heard the prince's words and failed tograsp them; he didn't want to; his head was humming. Her light answersounded as if she might be very happy. Yes; naturally. She was made tobe happy, to dance about like sunshine. He liked to think of thepicture. The prince, too, was necessary to complete it; necessary,reaffirmed Mr. Heatherbloom to himself, pulling with damp fingers atthe inconsequential lock of hair over his brow. Of course, if the princecould be eliminated from that mental picture of her felicity?--but hewas a part of the composition; big, barbaric, romantic looking! In fact,it wouldn't have been an adequate composition at all without him; no,indeed!

  And something rose in Mr. Heatherbloom's throat; one of his eyes--or wasit both of them?--seemed a little misty. That confounded soap! It wasstrong; a bit of it in the corner of the eyes made one blink.

  The two in the conservatory said something more; but the young man inthe "boudoir" didn't catch it at all well. By some intense mentalprocess, or the sound of the scrubber on the edge of the tub, he foundhe could shut a definite cognizance of words almost entirely from hissense of hearing. The prince's voice seemed slightly louder; that, in ageneral way, was patent; no doubt the occasion warranted more fervor onhis part. Mr. Heatherbloom tried to imagine what she would look likein--so to say, a very complaisant mood; not with flaming glance full ofaversion and scorn!

  Violet eyes replete only with love lights! Mr. Heatherbloom bent lowerover the tub; his four-footed charge Beauty, contentedly immersed to theneck in nice comfortably warm water, licked him. He did not feel thetouch; the fragrance of orchids seemed to come to him above that othermore healthful, less agreeable odor of special cleansing preparation.

  Her accents were heard once more. Those final words sounded like a softcommand. Naturally! She could command the prince--now! Mr. Heatherbloomheard a door close--a replica of the harsh click he had listened to whenshe had shut the front door so unceremoniously on him a short timebefore. Then he heard nothing more. He gazed around him as he sat withhis hands tightly closed. Had it been only a dream? Naughty whined;Sardanapolis edged toward him and mechanically he began to brush himdown until he shone as sleek and shining as his Assyrian namesake.