Part 12 (1/2)
Both young men admitted that this field had been left unexplored by either of them.
It was during a lull, when the talk had fallen to the desultory, that the hall door opened, and Laura came in. Her cheeks glowed like the sunny side of a Persian peach; her eyes sparkled; between her moist red lips there was a flash of firm, white teeth; the seal-brown hair glinted a Venetian red--for at that moment she stood in the path of the suns.h.i.+ne which poured in at the window--and blown tendrils in picturesque disorder escaped from under her hat.
The three men rose hastily; the father with pride, Fitzgerald with gladness, and Breitmann with doubt and wonder and fear.
CHAPTER VIII
SOME BIRDS IN A CHIMNEY
It might be truthfully said that the tableau lasted as long as she willed it to last. Perhaps she read in the three masculine faces turned toward her a triangular admiration, since it emanated from three given points, and took from it a modest pinch for her vanity. Vain she never was; still, she was not without a share of vanity, that vanity of the artless, needing no sacrifices, which is gratified and appeased by a smile. It pleased her to know that she was lovely; and it doubled her pleasure to realize that her loveliness pleased others. She demanded no hearts; she craved no jewels, no flattery. She warmed when eyes told her she was beautiful; but she chilled whenever the lips took up the speech, and voiced it. She was one of those happy beings in either s.e.x who can amuse themselves, who can hold pleasant communion with the inner self, who can find romance in old houses, and yet love books, who prefer sunrises and sunsets at first hand, still loving a good painting.
Perhaps this trend of character was the result of her inherited love of the open. With almost unlimited funds under her own hand, she lived simply. She was never happy in smart society, though it was always making demands upon her. When abroad, she was generally prowling through queer little shops instead of mingling with the dress parades on the grand-hotel terraces. There was no great battle-field in Europe she had not trod upon. She knew them so well that she could people each field with the familiar bright regiments, bayonets and sabers, pikes and broadswords, axes and crossbowmen, matchlock and catapult, rifles and cannon.
And what she did not know of naval warfare her father did. They were very companionable. There was never any jealousy on the part of the admiral. Indeed, he was always grateful when some young man evinced a deep regard for his daughter. He would have her always, married or unmarried. He was rich enough, and the son-in-law should live with him. He was so a.s.sured of her good judgment, he knew that whenever this son-in-law came along, there would be another man in the family.
He had long ceased to bother his head about the flylike buzzing of fortune hunters. He had been father and mother and brother to the child, and with wisdom.
She smiled at her father, gave her hand to Fitzgerald, who found it warm and moist from the ride, and glanced inquiringly at Breitmann.
”My dear,” said her father, ”this is Mr. Breitmann, my new secretary.”
That gentleman bowed stiffly, and the scars faded somewhat when he observed that her hand was extended in welcome. This unconventionality rather confused him, and as he took the hand he almost kissed it. She understood the innocence of the gesture, and saved him from embarra.s.sment by withdrawing the hand casually.
”I hope you will like it here,” was the pleasant wish.
”Thank you, I shall.”
”You are German?” quickly.
”I was born in Bavaria, Miss Killigrew.”
”The name should have told me.” She excused herself.
”Oho!” thought Fitzgerald, with malicious exultancy. ”If she doesn't interfere with your work!”
But with introspection, this exultancy grew suddenly dim. How about himself? Yes. Here was a question that would bear some close inspection. Was it really the wish to capture a supposable burglar?
He made short work of this a.n.a.lysis. He never lied to others--not even in his work, which every one knows is endowed with special licenses in regard to truth--nor did he ever play the futile, if soothing, game of lying to himself. This girl was different from the ordinary run of girls; she might become dangerous. He determined then and there not to prolong his visit more than three or four days; just to satisfy her that there was no ghost in the chimney. Then he would return to New York. He had no more right than Breitmann to fall in love with the daughter of a millionaire. Loving her was not impossible, but leaving at an early day would go toward lessening the probability. He was not afraid of Breitmann; he was foreigner enough to accept at once his place, and to appreciate that he and this girl stood at the two ends of the world.
And Breitmann's mind, which had, up to this time, been deep and unruffled as a pool, became strangely disturbed.
The time moved on to luncheon. Breitmann took the part of listener, and spoke only when addressed.
”I must tell you, Mr. Breitmann,” said Laura, ”that a ghost has returned to us.”
”A ghost?” interestedly.
”Yes. My daughter,” said the admiral tolerantly, ”believes that she hears strange noises at night, tapping, and such like.”
”Oh!” politely. Breitmann broke his bread idly. It was too bad. She had not produced upon him the impression that she was the sort of woman whose imagination embraced the belief in spirits. ”Where does this ghost do its tapping?”
”In the big chimney in the library,” she answered.