Part 55 (1/2)

His aunt rose and smoothed her glove. ”I shall have to p.a.w.n my watch and necklace,” she said tranquilly. ”Bella is fearfully rich,” she drawled, nodding at him, ”and she is of age. Her father will settle a million on her when she marries.”

A pang went through Fairfax's heart. Another heiress!

”They say she is awfully pretty and awfully sought after.”

Antony murmured, ”Yes, yes, of course,” and took a few paces up and down the room.

”Do you know,” said his aunt, who had slowly walked over to the door and stood with her hand on the k.n.o.b, ”I used to think you were a little in love with Bella. She was such a funny, old-fas.h.i.+oned child, so grown up.”

Fairfax exclaimed fiercely, ”Aunt Caroline, I don't like to re-live the past!”

”I don't wonder,” she murmured quietly; ”and you are going to make such a brilliant marriage.”

He saw her go with relief. She was terrible to him--like a vampire in her silks and jewels. Would she ruin her innocent, kindly husband? What would she do if she could not raise the money? He believed her capable of anything.

For three days he worked feverishly, and then he wrote to Mrs. Faversham that he was a little seedy and working, and that as Dearborn was away he would rather she would not come to the studio. Mrs. Faversham accepted his decision and wrote that she was organizing a charity concert for some fearfully poor people whom the Comtesse Potowski was patronizing; the comte and comtesse would both sing at the _musicale_, and he must surely come. ”We must raise five thousand francs,” she wrote, ”and perhaps you may have some little figurine that we could raffle off in chances.”

Tony laughed as he read the letter. He sent her a statuette to be raffled off for his aunt's Chinese paintings. She was ignorant of any sense of honour.

When Dearborn came back from London he found Antony working like mad.

Dearborn threw his suit-case down in the corner, his hat on top of it, and extended his hands.

”Empty-handed, Tony!”

But Fairfax, as he scanned his friend's face, saw no expression of defeat there.

”Which means you left your play in London, Bob.”

”Tony,” said Dearborn, linking his arm in Fairfax's and marching him up and down the studio, ”we are going to be very rich.”

”Only that,” said Tony shortly.

”This is the beginning of fame and fortune, old man!”

Dearborn sat down on the worn sofa, drew his wallet out of his pocket, took from it a sheaf of English notes, which he held up to Fairfax.

”Count it, old chap.”

Fairfax shook his head. ”No; tell me how much for two years' flesh and blood and soul--how you worked here, Bob, starved here, how you felt and suffered!”

”I forget it all,” said the playwright quietly; ”but it can never be paid for with such chaff as this,”--he touched the notes. ”But the applause, the people's voices, the tears and laughter, that will pay.”

”By heaven!” exclaimed Fairfax, grasping Dearborn's hand, ”I bless you for saying that!”

Dearborn regarded him quietly. ”Do you think I care for money?” he said simply. ”I thought you knew me better than that.”