Part 5 (1/2)

It had been, therefore, somewhat of a shock to learn in the course of time that Darrow's influence was being shared, if not counteracted, by that of a young lady in whose honour d.i.c.k was now giving his first professional tea.

Mrs. Peyton had heard a great deal about Miss Clemence Verney, first from the usual purveyors of such information, and more recently from her son, who, probably divining that rumour had been before him, adopted his usual method of disarming his mother by taking her into his confidence. But, ample as her information was, it remained perplexing and contradictory, and even her own few meetings with the girl had not helped her to a definite opinion. Miss Verney, in conduct and ideas, was patently of the ”new school”: a young woman of feverish activities and broad-cast judgments, whose very versatility made her hard to define. Mrs. Peyton was shrewd enough to allow for the accidents of environment; what she wished to get at was the residuum of character beneath Miss Verney's s.h.i.+fting surface.

”It looks charmingly,” Mrs. Peyton repeated, giving a loosening touch to the chrysanthemums in a tall vase on her son's desk.

d.i.c.k laughed, and glanced at his watch.

”They won't be here for another quarter of an hour. I think I'll tell Gill to clean out the work-room before they come.”

”Are we to see the drawings for the compet.i.tion?” his mother asked.

He shook his head smilingly. ”Can't--I've asked one or two of the Beaux Arts fellows, you know; and besides, old Darrow's actually coming.”

”Impossible!” Mrs. Peyton exclaimed.

”He swore he would last night.” d.i.c.k laughed again, with a tinge of self-satisfaction. ”I've an idea he wants to see Miss Verney.”

”Ah,” his mother murmured. There was a pause before she added: ”Has Darrow really gone in for this compet.i.tion?”

”Rather! I should say so! He's simply working himself to the bone.”

Mrs. Peyton sat revolving her m.u.f.f on a meditative hand; at length she said: ”I'm not sure I think it quite nice of him.”

Her son halted before her with an incredulous stare. ”_Mother_!” he exclaimed.

The rebuke sent a blush to her forehead. ”Well--considering your friends.h.i.+p--and everything.”

”Everything? What do you mean by everything? The fact that he had more ability than I have and is therefore more likely to succeed? The fact that he needs the money and the success a deuced sight more than any of us? Is that the reason you think he oughtn't to have entered? Mother! I never heard you say an ungenerous thing before.”

The blush deepened to crimson, and she rose with a nervous laugh. ”It _was_ ungenerous,” she conceded. ”I suppose I'm jealous for you. I hate these compet.i.tions!”

Her son smiled rea.s.suringly. ”You needn't. I'm not afraid: I think I shall pull it off this time. In fact, Paul's the only man I'm afraid of--I'm always afraid of Paul--but the mere fact that he's in the thing is a tremendous stimulus.”

His mother continued to study him with an anxious tenderness. ”Have you worked out the whole scheme? Do you _see_ it yet?”

”Oh, broadly, yes. There's a gap here and there--a hazy bit, rather--it's the hardest problem I've ever had to tackle; but then it's my biggest opportunity, and I've simply _got_ to pull it off!”

Mrs. Peyton sat silent, considering his flushed face and illumined eye, which were rather those of the victor nearing the goal than of the runner just beginning the race. She remembered something that Darrow had once said of him: ”d.i.c.k always sees the end too soon.”

”You haven't too much time left,” she murmured.

”Just a week. But I shan't go anywhere after this. I shall renounce the world.” He glanced smilingly at the festal tea-table and the embowered desk. ”When I next appear, it will either be with my heel on Paul's neck--poor old Paul--or else--or else--being dragged lifeless from the arena!”

His mother nervously took up the laugh with which he ended. ”Oh, not lifeless,” she said.

His face clouded. ”Well, maimed for life, then,” he muttered.

Mrs. Peyton made no answer. She knew how much hung on the possibility of his whining the compet.i.tion which for weeks past had engrossed him. It was a design for the new museum of sculpture, for which the city had recently voted half a million. d.i.c.k's taste ran naturally to the grandiose, and the erection of public buildings had always been the object of his ambition.

Here was an unmatched opportunity, and he knew that, in a compet.i.tion of the kind, the newest man had as much chance of success as the firm of most established reputation, since every compet.i.tor entered on his own merits, the designs being submitted to a jury of architects who voted on them without knowing the names of the contestants. d.i.c.k, characteristically, was not afraid of the older firms; indeed, as he had told his mother, Paul Darrow was the only rival he feared. Mrs. Peyton knew that, to a certain point, self-confidence was a good sign; but somehow her son's did not strike her as being of the right substance--it seemed to have no dimension but extent. Her fears were complicated by a suspicion that, under his professional eagerness for success, lay the knowledge that Miss Verney's favour hung on the victory. It was that, perhaps, which gave a feverish touch to his ambition; and Mrs. Peyton, surveying the future from the height of her material apprehensions, divined that the situation depended mainly on the girl's view of it. She would have given a great deal to know Clemence Verney's conception of success.

II