Part 3 (2/2)
”So--you're the new Mrs. Courtlandt, the lady of the Manor, are you?
You're the girl who has been traded in to save the family fortune?”
The angry color flamed to Jerry's hair but she stood her ground. She even managed to bestow a patronizing frown upon him.
”Now I know who you are. No one but 'Old Nick' would be so rude. You see your reputation has preceded you.” She sank into the chair opposite him and with elbow on its arm, chin on her hand, regarded him curiously.
She made a brilliant bit of color in the dark-toned room. The light from the fire fell on her rose-color sports suit, brought out the sheen of the velvet tam of the same shade, drooped picturesquely over one ear, flickered fantastically on her white throat, set the diamonds in the pin which fastened the dainty frills of her blouse agleam with rainbows and played mad pranks with the circlet of jewels on the third finger of her left hand.
How ill and fragile he looked, the girl thought, pathetically fragile.
She had a pa.s.sion of sympathy for the old. She would ignore his rudeness. She leaned forward and smiled at him with gay friendliness.
”Now that I have guessed who you are it's your turn. Tell me how you got here. Did a magician wave his wand, and presto, an enchanted carpet, or did you arrive via air-route? I am sorry that there was no one at the Manor to welcome you. I was detained by one of those silly detours. Sir Peter has been away but returns to-night, and Steve--did Steve know that you were coming? Did--did he write you about--about me?” the last word was added in an undignified whisper.
”Steve! Do they ever let Steve tell me anything?”
”Now I've done it, he's off!” Jerry thought with an hysterical desire to laugh, he was so like an old war-horse scenting battle.
”No. The first I knew of you was when Peter Courtlandt wrote that a marriage had been arranged between the daughter of Glamorgan, the oil-king, and Steve. Arranged! Stuff and nonsense! What poor fool arranged it, I'd like to know? Hasn't Peter Courtlandt seen enough of life to know that when a man who has nothing marries a girl with a large fortune he's ruined? If he has any strength of character it turns to gall, if he's a weak party, he gets weaker--it's h.e.l.l--for a proud man.
Why didn't they give me a chance to save the family fortune? I'd have done it if Steve had asked me, but I turned his father down--I wouldn't give a penny to save him. Why--why that boy ought to have married someone who'd count, not a once-removed coal-picker.”
Furious as she was at his insult, Jerry kept her temper. It was so pathetically evident that he was old and disappointed and alarmingly ill. However, there was a hint of Glamorgan's determination in her eyes as she answered coolly:
”You may say what you like about me, but I can't let you disparage my father. He is the biggest thing in my life. After all, why should you roar at me? Steve and I are not the first victims sacrificed on the altar of pride of family and possessions, are we? Sentiment is quite out of fas.h.i.+on. What pa.s.ses for it is but a wan survival of the age of romance and chivalry. Marriage in that strata of society to which I have been lately elevated is like the Paul Jones at a dance, when the whistle blows change partners--in the same set, if one should happen to go out of it, pandemonium, quickly followed by oblivion.”
If he was conscious of the sting of sarcasm in her words he ignored it.
His voice was barbed with thorns of irritation as he affirmed:
”Then it is as I suspected; you're not in love with Steve. So love is out of fas.h.i.+on, is it? To be scornful of love is the prerogative of youth; when we get old we treasure it. Well, I warn you now, young woman, that my nephew shan't live the loveless life I've lived. I was born rich. Had I been poor and married, had my wife been my working partner dependent upon me for money, helping me climb, I shouldn't be the wreck of a man I am now.”
”What a pre-nineteenth amendment sentiment,” the girl dared mischievously. He glowered at her from under his bushy brows.
”You can't switch me off my subject with your flippancy. I repeat, Steve shall have love. I'll get it for him--I'll----” He rose and brandished his stick at the girl. He fell back and leaned his head weakly against the chair. Jerry leaned over him and smoothed back his hair tenderly. He looked up at her with fever-bright eyes and gasped breathlessly:
”I haven't gone--yet. I shan't go till--I've thought of some way to--to yank Steve out of this--this d.a.m.nable Sam Jones ring you talk about.
Give me some tea. Quick! Give it to me--strong. My fool doctor won't let me have anything else. What's Steve doing? Living on your income?” he asked as Judson, after fussing among the tea-things, at a low word from the girl, left the room.
Jerry's cheeks flushed, tiny sparks lighted her eyes as she countered crisply:
”Don't you know your nephew better than to ask that question? He is in a lawyer's office working for the munificent sum of fifteen per.” Fairfax choked over his tea.
”D'you mean to tell me that a son-in-law of Glamorgan the oil-king is an office boy? Between you all you've made a mess of it, haven't you? What does your father say to that?”
”He's--he's furious,” Jerry answered, as she studied the infinitesimal grounds in her teacup. She gave the tea-cart a little push which removed it from between them. She rose, hesitated, then slipped to her knees before the old man. She looked up at him speculatively for a moment before she commenced to trace an intricate pattern on his stout stick with a pink-tipped finger. Her voice was low and a trifle unsteady as she pleaded:
”Uncle Nick, be friends with me, will you?” A non-committal grunt was her only answer. ”Steve won't talk to me. He won't listen to reason.
Having made his big sacrifice for the family fortunes by marrying me he is holding his head so high that he'll step into a horrible sh.e.l.l-hole if he doesn't watch out. Dad is furious that he won't live and spend money as befits a Courtlandt, that is, as he thinks a Courtlandt should live and spend, and with that fine illogic, so characteristic of the male of the species, takes it out on me. Steve is so--so maddening. He won't use the automobiles unless he is taking me somewhere, although they were all, with the exception of my town car and roadster, in the garage when I came here. He just commutes and commutes in those miserable trains. Commuting corrupts good manners; he's a--a bear. He and I are beginning all wrong, Uncle Nick.” She met the stern old eyes above her before she dropped her head to the arm of his chair. ”Steve hates the sight of me and I----”
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