Part 4 (1/2)
The General retailed his information. Miss Daphne Floyd was the orphan daughter of an enormously rich and now deceased lumber-king, of the State of Illinois. He had made vast sums by lumbering, and then invested in real estate in Chicago and Buffalo, not to speak of a railway or two, and had finally left his daughter and only child in possession of a fortune generally estimated at more than a million sterling. The money was now entirely in the girl's power. Her trustees had been sent about their business, though Miss Floyd was pleased occasionally to consult them. Mrs. Phillips, her chaperon, had not much influence with her; and it was supposed that Mrs. Verrier advised her more than anyone else.
”Good heavens!” was all that young Barnes could find to say when the story was told. He walked on absently, flouris.h.i.+ng his stick, his face working under the stress of amused meditation. At last he brought out:
”You know, Uncle Archie, if you'd heard some of the things Miss Floyd was saying to me, your hair would have stood on end.”
The General raised his shoulders.
”I dare say. I'm too old-fas.h.i.+oned for America. The sooner I clear out the better. Their newspapers make me sick; I hate the hotels--I hate the cooking; and there isn't a nation in Europe I don't feel myself more at home with.”
Roger laughed his clear, good-tempered laugh. ”Oh! I don't feel that way at all. I get on with them capitally. They're a magnificent people. And, as to Miss Floyd, I didn't mean anything bad, of course. Only the ideas some of the girls here have, and the way they discuss them--well, it beats me!”
”What sort of ideas?”
Roger's handsome brow puckered in the effort to explain. ”They don't think anything's _settled_, you know, as we do at home. Miss Floyd doesn't. They think _they've_ got to settle a lot of things that English girls don't trouble about, because they're just told to do 'em, or not to do 'em, by the people that look after them!”
”'Everything hatched over again, and hatched different,'” said the General, who was an admirer of George Eliot; ”that's what they'd like, eh? Pooh! That's when they're young. They quiet down, like all the rest of the world.”
Barnes shook his head. ”But they _are_ hatching it over again. You meet people here in society you couldn't meet at home. And it's all right.
The law backs them up.”
”You're talking about divorce!” said the General. ”Aye! it's astounding!
The tales one hears in the smoking-room after dinner! In Wyoming, apparently, six months' residence, and there you are. You prove a little cruelty, the husband makes everything perfectly easy, you say a civil good-bye, and the thing's done. Well, they'll pay for it, my dear Roger--they'll pay for it. n.o.body ever yet trifled with the marriage law with impunity.”
The energy of the old man's bearing became him.
Through Roger's mind the thought flashed: ”Poor dear Uncle Archie! If he'd been a New Yorker he'd never have put up with Aunt Lavinia for thirty years!”
They turned into their hotel, and ordered dinner in an hour's time.
Roger found some English letters waiting for him, and carried them off to his room. He opened his mother's first. Lady Barnes wrote a large and straggling hand, which required many sheets and much postage. It might have been observed that her son looked at the sheets for a minute, with a certain distaste, before he began upon them. Yet he was deeply attached to his mother, and it was from her letters week by week that he took his marching orders. If she only wouldn't ride her ideas quite so hard; if she would sometimes leave him alone to act for himself!
Here it was again--the old story:
”Don't suppose I put these things before you on _my_ account. No, indeed; what does it matter what happens to me? It is when I think that you may have to spend your whole life as a clerk in a bank, unless you rouse yourself now--(for you know, my dear Roger, though you have very good wits, you're not as frightfully clever as people have to be nowadays)--that I begin to despair. But that is _entirely_ in your own hands. You have what is far more valuable than cleverness--you have a delightful disposition, and you are one of the handsomest of men. There! of course, I know you wouldn't let me say it to you in your presence; but it's true all the same. Any girl should be proud to marry you. There are plenty of rich girls in America; and if you play your cards properly you will make her and yourself happy. The grammar of that is not quite right, but you understand me. Find a nice girl--of course a _nice_ girl--with a fortune large enough to put you back in your proper sphere; and it doesn't matter about me. You will pay my rent, I dare say, and help me through when I want it; but that's nothing. The point is, that I cannot submit to your career being spoiled through your poor father's mad imprudence. You must retrieve yourself--you _must_.
n.o.body is anything nowadays in the world without money; you know that as well as I do. And besides, there is another reason. You have got to forget the affair of last spring, to put it entirely behind you, to show that horrid woman who threw you over that you will make your life a success in spite of her. Rouse yourself, my dear Roger, and do your best. I hope by now you have forwarded _all_ my introductions? You have your opportunity, and I must say you will be a great fool if you don't use it. _Do_ use it my dear boy, for my sake. I am a very unhappy woman; but you might, if you would, bring back a little brightness to my life.”
After he had read the letter, young Barnes sat for some time in a brown study on the edge of his bed. The letter contained only one more repet.i.tion of counsels that had been dinned into his ears for months--almost ever since the financial crash which had followed his father's death, and the crash of another sort, concerning himself, which had come so quick upon it. His thoughts returned, as they always did at some hour of the day or night, to the ”horrid woman.” Yes, that had hit him hard; the lad's heart still throbbed with bitterness as he thought of it. He had never felt anything so much; he didn't believe he should ever mind anything so much again. ”I'm not one of your sentimental sort,” he thought, half congratulating himself, half in self-contempt.
But he could not get her out of his head; he wondered if he ever should.
And it had gone pretty far too. By Jove! that night in the orchard!--when she had kissed him, and thrown her arms round his neck!
And then to write him that letter, when things were at their worst. She might have done the thing decently. Have treated a fellow kindly at least. Well, of course, it was all done with. Yes, it _was_. Done with!
He got up and began to pace his small room, his hands in his pockets, thinking of the night in the orchard. Then gradually the smart lessened, and his thoughts pa.s.sed away to other things. That little Yankee girl had really made good sport all the way home. He had not been dull for a moment; she had teased and provoked him so. Her eyes, too, were wonderfully pretty, and her small, pointed chin, and her witch-like imperious ways. Was it her money, the sense that she could do as she liked with most people, that made her so domineering and masterful? Very likely. On the journey he had put it down just to a natural and very surprising impudence. That was when he believed that she was a teacher, earning her bread. But the impudence had not prevented him from finding it much more amusing to talk to her than to anybody else.
And, on the whole, he thought she had not disliked him, though she had said the rudest things to him, and he had retaliated. She had asked him, indeed, to join them in an excursion the following day, and to tea at the Country Club. He had meant, if possible, to go back to New York on the morrow. But perhaps a day or two longer----
So she had a million--the little sprite? She was and would be a handful!--with a fortune or without it. And possessed also of the most extraordinary opinions. But he thought he would go on the excursion, and to the Country Club. He began to fold his mother's letter, and put it back into its envelope, while a slight flush mounted in his cheeks, and the young mouth that was still so boyish and candid took a stiffer line.