While Gregory finished up his last few pieces of business, Ernest talked to him desultorily. Then just before they left the office, the young man said: “My father respects you, sir. I am going to ask a favor of you.” He paused, while Gregory regarded him quizzically. “I wish you would suggest to him, in a very roundabout way, of course, that he make a will. As you are a director of the bank, he will not think it interfering of you to suggest it.”
While he had been speaking he had been staring at the end of his cheroot with composure. Finishing, he looked at Gregory fully and calmly.
“Ah,” said Gregory, surprised and curious. “A will. He has made no will yet, you are certain? What is the matter? Is he no better than he was?”
Ernest paused a few moments. “He will not,” he replied deliberately, “get the slightest bit better until he does make a will. I know. Once he has made a will his mind will be at rest, and he will not be so—so absorbed in what is troubling him.”
“You have no suggestions, of course, as to what you would consider—fair, in the will, have you?” said Gregory, with a sly smile.
“None at all, none at all,” answered Ernest equably. “It must be left to my father’s judgment. I suspect, however, that a will would leave his share to be divided between Martin and myself, with due provision for my mother and sisters. I only want what is right.”
“You are a most extraordinary young man!” exclaimed Gregory, much diverted. But he could hardly believe what he had heard. “After all, nearly everything that has been accomplished has been your doing. Do you think it fair that you should only share equally with your brother?”
“I am only conjecturing,” Ernest pointed out, smiling faintly. “My father might have other plans. Let him do as he wishes, so long as his mind is at rest.”
“Ah,” murmured Gregory, watching him thoughtfully. “This is a lot of pay for a father’s peace of mind. Besides, may I ask, if I am not too presumptuous, what a will would do for his peace of mind?”
“He doesn’t trust me,” said Ernest. “A will would make him feel as an animal trainer feels when he gets his beast safely behind bars.” He smiled again, a smile of utter and rueful candor. But Gregory was not deceived by that smile. He recognized it; he used it often enough himself. He smiled internally.
“But Martin does not particularly care for the business, does he?”
“No.” Ernest hesitated, then told Gregory of his quarrel with his brother during the last autumn.
The carriage arrived for them, and they rolled toward the Sessions house in a heliotrope spring twilight.
“Next week I shall send Raoul to Europe,” said Ernest. “I expect a great deal of difficulty with my father, again. He has not been reconciled to our importation of labor last year, and always holds it against me. Says I hypnotized all of you into agreeing.”
“Yes, I remember,” reflected Gregory Sessions. “He was quite bitter about it, was he not? It is strange to find one who is himself a foreigner objecting so strenuously to the coming of other aliens. A passionate patriot.”
“Pa believes that he is interested in the maintenance of the democratic ideal, which oppressed peoples will not understand,” said Ernest cynically. “But what he really is afraid of is the stranger himself, his odd-nesses and strangenesses.”
“I suppose so. All ideals are founded upon fear, from religion to democracy.”
They were driven up a long smooth slope of road, and reaching the top, preparatory to gliding down the opposite side, they had a vast, long low view of the river, cold cobalt in the twilight, the shores dark and formless. Above the river, in the west, the day had flung her green scarf, and it seemed to blow in immense winds against the gloomy heavens. From somewhere in the gathering darkness a boat blew a deep and melancholy whistle, drawn-out and lonely. To the left Windsor was a thrown cloak of sequins, glittering brighter as each moment passed. The air had turned cold, and the wind that came up was fresh and astringent, full of moisture and the smell of earth.
“The world is very beautiful,” said Gregory musingly. “And at night one cannot see the scars we have put on it.”
Ernest was silent. Everything about them was so quiet as they approached the broad street on which stood the Sessions house that the sound of the carriage wheels was sharp and harsh in the ear.
“I forgot!” exclaimed Gregory, with animation. “Did I not tell you that my cousin, Miss May Sessions, is visiting us? She cannot endure Windsor, you know, and lives with her mother’s sister in New York, though she was born here. A very gay lady. She visits us because of duty, I know, though she professes to be fond of Nicholas. I confess that we do not always agree, for she is opinionated and determined, and something of a bluestocking. My poor Amy, who is only a bird, finds her a trifle oppressive.”
Ernest scowled to himself. He had wanted Amy alone that evening. The night was not too cool for a walk in the garden. He had much to say to her. Now, the evening was to be spoiled by the presence of a maiden lady with masculine propensities. And a bluestocking, by God! He had half a mind to excuse himself and go home. Then he thought of Amy, and told himself that the presence of the hangman would not be too bad if she were there. The very thought of her was like a warm fire, a quiet room full of roses, a frail staircase twisting upward into restful dimness. She was all the things that do not tire men, that lull them and soothe them. He remembered the innocent steadfastness of her eyes, and it recalled Martin to him, and the things he had thought of these two whose feet were set on a straight way, without deviousness and craft and enemies. There was nothing weak or tenuous about Amy, in spite of her innocence and quietness. She was as strong as a silken thread that can support a man, and he believed that nothing could ever move or shake her from a purpose she believed just and true. He knew, also, that she had bright swift angers but no pettinesses.
He was ready to declare himself, and he believed that she would not refuse him. But first he must secure Gregory. When the note was safe and approved, he would ask Gregory for permission to press his suit with Amy. Perhaps no later than tomorrow night. He clasped his hands together tightly, and his heart beat a little faster. He had never seen any one like Amy, and silently, in the darkness, his mouth formed the shape of her name. When the carriage rode up the driveway, he was sweating with impatience to hear her voice, to see the luminous brown of her sweet eyes. He had never so much as kissed her hand, but he had kissed her lips a thousand times in uneasy dreams. Because of this uneasiness, he had spaced his visits farther apart. There was no use in a man tormenting himself until he had reached the well.
A low rosy fire burned in the grate in the ivory drawing room, and candles quivered in yellow pools of light on the mantelpiece, the table and in sconces. Before the fire, in huge-skirted, dark silk dresses, sat two young ladies, embroidering, their ringlets hanging over their grave, flushed cheeks, their white hands glittering with rings. They rose as Gregory and Ernest entered.
“Ah, my dears!” exclaimed Gregory affectionately. “I have brought a guest, for dinner. Amy, my love, I hope the headache has gone? May, my dear, you do not know this most remarkable young man, but I am certain you have heard of him from Nicholas: Mr. Ernest Barbour. Mr. Barbour, this is my young cousin, Miss May Sessions.”
Ernest was astonished. He had expected a middle-aged spinster with the traditional spinster’s appearance, all angularity and sourness and spite, with perhaps the suspicion of a mustache on the drawn upper lip. But he found himself staring at a very handsome and lively young woman with auburn ringlets and bright, sparkling eyes, full of mischief and a touch of malice. She was smaller but plumper than Amy, and gave an effect of constant animation. Her figure was charming, full-bosomed and slender-waisted. Because of her color, which was brilliant and warm, she seemed to possess much more life than Amy, who had more repose and reticence. Her ringlets bobbed and danced, her eyes bobbed and danced, her whole beautiful little body seemed to bob and dance. She wore a dark gown of russet silk, and about an extremely white a
nd lovely throat she had clasped a necklace of old gold and garnets. When she spoke, her hands moved and fluttered, opened and shut, waved and sank. As she either laughed or smiled almost constantly, the observer had an opportunity to admire a very fine set of small and glistening teeth between her red lips. Her manner, face and figure and voice were so charming that one was apt to overlook the sharp and pointed intelligence of her expression, the wary, meaning glance of her eyes, the alert and slightly suspicious angle of her pretty head. She could not have been more than twenty, but her air of sophistication and ability to take care of herself made her appear several years older than Amy instead of scarcely two.
Disconcerted, Ernest was glad to turn from this lively and intriguing little vision to the poise and smiling calm of Amy Drumhill. She lifted her eyes to his, so gentle and kind and trusting, and as he took her hand May Sessions became nothing more than background, a rather chattery background, but still only background, and there was only Amy with her sweetness and grace and shy glance.
May talked to her cousin, Gregory, very animatedly, as they went into the dining room; she hung on his arm, twisted her gay little head upwards toward him, and her garnet earrings danced with a red light against the whiteness of her cheek. She had a clear and ringing laugh, very fascinating. Amy and Ernest followed a few steps behind, and to all appearances May had forgotten their existence. But even as she chattered to Gregory she was thinking in pleased astonishment: Whoever would have thought that any one like that could be found in this moldy, poky old town! What shoulders, what an expression—quite Napoleonic! And what a posture and chest and figure! Such masterful eyes, and what a firm handclasp! Something tells me, May, my love, that your visit will be extended and very interesting. There is no one, even in New York, to hold a candle to him! And quite a wealthy young industrialist I believe, too! How I adore these men who do things, even though I am a dyed-in-the-wool little Tory, as Nicholas says!
As they sat at the table, she tried to capture and hold Ernest’s attention by the sheer will of her voice, the movements of her shoulders, the flash of her laughing eyes, the sparkle of her teeth and the bewildering gestures of her little white hands. She was very amusing and had a sharp wit, swift and stinging. When she laughed, everyone had to laugh with her, no matter how puzzled or resentful they might be, for her laughter was compelling and very sweet, if malicious. She deliberately set herself to fascinate Ernest. She had no particular plans as yet with regard to him, but she meant to subjugate him as she had done scores of others. His polite smiles as he regarded her, the permanent furrow between his pale and steady eyes, his air of grave attention, excited and drew her, almost against her will. Moreover, she was vexed; she saw that she did not interest him, that he merely regarded her as another pretty woman in a world full of pretty women. She determined to make him acknowledge that she was unique and all-conquering. What she would do then when he reached that desirable state she had not yet decided, but the idea thrilled her suddenly as nothing else had ever thrilled her.
As the dinner went on, rage gathered behind her smiles and laughter. It was evident to her experienced awareness that Ernest was in love with Amy, and that Amy, if not yet in love, was quite close to it. But she is such a slow puss, thought Miss May Sessions, that she wouldn’t recognize a declaration if she heard one. A silly rustic maid, who is so quiet and graceful because she has nothing worth while to say! She will be fat at thirty, and have two chins and at least eight children, if she is lucky enough to get a man to have her. But she will probably die a spinster, for she is a born old maid, with her vapors and silly timidities, and never a thing to say for herself.
Miss May saw very clearly that Ernest was an intelligent man, so being a shrewd young woman she addressed intelligent questions to him, and listened to the answers with an air of astonished delight and humility. She knew she was pretty enough not to need to disguise her quick mind; in fact, this mind was like the tang of soda in whiskey. Her face was so lovely, her color so brilliant, her smile so fascinating, her voice so musical, that her intelligence, if used judiciously, did not frighten a man but whetted his curiosity. A bluestocking with a white bosom and dimples and bronze ringlets! What an intriguing combination, full of startling possibilities!
So she allowed Ernest to know that she was a graduate of Oakwood Female Academy, that she had studied two years in France, that she had a fine knowledge of literature, music, painting and politics, that she had won a gold medal for poetry, and an award for a treatise on early Greek science. Then when he gave signs of being oppressed by these formidable accomplishments, she adroitly made him believe that she considered them much inferior to his own vast store of knowledge of more important things. All these, she seemed to say with an airy and feminine wave of her hand, are only baubles. Please enlighten me as to what is really important and splendid. The result was that Ernest, though he rather disliked the young woman, was somewhat dazzled and flattered. He explained everything very gravely, looking info those long-lashed and welling eyes opposite him, and finding a vague pleasure in the moistness of the half-open red lips.
“Really,” she said with a sigh and a melancholy drop of her eloquent shoulders, “I am quite despondent. I see that I actually know nothing!” And she regarded him with a pensiveness that yet had a sparkle in it.
Amy merely smiled, murmured when directly addressed, presided unobtrusively in her place as hostess. When she looked at May her smile became a little uncertain, as though May made her feel a trifle uncomfortable and inferior. As for May, she ignored Amy almost completely, as one ignored a superior servant who was allowed to sit at the family table, in the background, serving and solicitous of the comfort of her superiors. When Amy asked her if she would have another cup of tea, she answered with impatient pettishness, and when the cake was offered a second time she pouted adorably and shook her head with very pretty childishness and a flurry of ringlets. Gregory found her delightful and amusing, and Ernest soon found himself intrigued and stimulated. He laughed all of a dozen times during the course of a meal, and May guessed that she had scored a triumph, for his laughter had a reluctant and grudging sound.
Watching her, no one would have suspected her chagrin and jealousy and anger. The meal had hardly been finished before she had decided that she was madly in love, and that she would have no other man but Ernest. And to think that that puling Amy dared push her pale face between her and the man she wanted, dared to insert the murmurous sound of her timid voice into their sprightly conversation! It was too odious, too infuriating. She, May, would soon end it, and put the white-faced little cat into her proper place! How dared she look at such a splendid creature as this Mr. Barbour, who deserved a lively, handsome and intelligent little wife! And one who would bring him a fortune.
So when Amy gave the signal to her to rise and accompany her from the room so that the gentlemen could be alone with their wine and cigars. May pouted, tossed her head, arched her white throat mutinously. “No!” she exclaimed, with the childlike manner she could so easily assume when she desired, “I want to talk to my sweet old cousin, Gregory! You bad old Amy, you, wanting to take me away from him! You go on with that haughty Mr. Barbour there into the drawing room, and Greg and I will come in a few minutes!”
Both Gregory and Ernest were enchanted by this pretty little play of word and gesture and pouting red lips. Besides, Ernest was only too desirous of being alone with Amy for a short time. A soft spring rain was already whispering outside, so the garden was out of the question. He gave Amy his arm, and the instant he felt her soft hand on his sleeve May Sessions vanished into the limbo of things-that-do-not-matter. He led her out of the room with a sensation of hidden but passionate tenderness, and their eyes meeting, they could not take them away, but entered the drawing room in that manner.
Gregory, alone with his young cousin, turned to her with smiling affection.
“Well, puss, what is it?” He was surprised to discover that her impish expression had vanished, and
had been replaced by one of contempt. “Eh, what is the matter?” He laid his hand on hers; she snatched it away, pettishly.
“Oh, Greg, you are so blind to what is right under your nose! Can’t you see? Amy is setting her cap for that young man; it is so very plain!”
“What!” bellowed Gregory, turning crimson, his eyes glaring upon her. “Are you mad? He wouldn’t dare!”
“Dare! Tish, how you do go on, Gregory! He is a young man who will dare anything. For money. Cannot you see that he believes Amy is an heiress? He must believe that, for his kind of man does not marry penniless chits. They always look for money, to further their ambitions. How you talk! One would think that you consider him presumptuous. It is Amy who is presumptuous!”
Gregory stood up, his face still crimson, his hands shaking. He looked as though he would gladly strangle his charming young cousin.
“You are lying! I do not believe it! A man cannot look at a woman without every female for five miles around believing he wants to marry her. It is ridiculous! Amy! And that low-born English servant! That’s all he is, in spite of his high-and-mighty ambitions and greediness and rascally schemes. Why I—I could ruin him! I could put him back in the gutter—!”
He paused, choking impotently. May, smiling and dimpling, was fanning herself with her perfumed kerchief.
“How silly you sound, Cousin Greg. You could do nothing with him. Or to him. I am no silly little fool like Amy. I well understand all that has taken place. It was in my own interest to understand, for ain’t I your heiress? Doesn’t everything belong to me, after your and Nickie’s death, by the terms of Cousin Aaron’s will? I like money, too. I wouldn’t be a Sessions if I didn’t, in spite of our breeding and family, and owning a bed that George Washington slept in when he visited great-grandfather in this very house. We all like money. We’d be fools not to. So I know exactly how much we owe Mr. Barbour, and I know that he owes us nothing. So please do not shout empty threats. I know, too, that you don’t care for any one in all this world but Amy. Well, if you love her so you will do what you can to save her from unhappiness. If Mr. Barbour marries her and discovers that I, not Amy, am the heiress, he will hate her and make her life wretched. You must do something as quickly as possible. It is quite evident that she is touched by him; but I know that it is still her fancy and there is time to save her.”