Chapter III May And December
“I wish I were three people!” exclaimed Leila Duane; “I want to walk and motor and play golf all at once.”
It was after luncheon the next day, and the house-party congregated for a moment on the terrace, before breaking up into smaller groups. The air was full of that October warmth, so much more life-giving and blood-stirring than even the early days of spring.
“It’s utterly absurd, Dorothy,” said Mabel Crane, “for you to think of getting married! You look about fourteen to-day!”
Dorothy was in walking rig of greenish tweeds. She wore a white silk blouse with a scarlet tie and a soft green felt hat with scarlet quill. Her skirt was ankle length and her low russet shoes showed a glimpse of scarlet stockings.
“I’m going to be fourteen as long as I can,” she returned, smiling; “soon enough I shall have to become Justin’s age,—what is it, Just? Sixty?”
“No, he’s only forty,” put in Miss Abby, seriously; “and you mustn’t tease him about it, Dorothy.”
“Oh, is he sensitive?” and Dorothy pretended to be embarrassed. “Why, I’m sure you look quite youthful, dear.” And going to Arnold’s side, she laid her hand on his shoulder, and scrutinized his face. The contrast was marked. Though a fairly handsome man, Justin Arnold looked his full age, and his stern, set face looked old indeed, beside Dorothy’s laughing dimples and shining eyes. “And any way, when we’re married, I think I won’t become Justin’s age,—but make him become mine. How’d you like to be twenty-two, Justy?”
“I’ll be in my second childhood, if you say so,” returned Arnold, and Dorothy rewarded him for this pretty speech with a little tweak of his graying hair.
“You seem to know how to manage him, all right,” laughed Mrs. Crane, “so I suppose you are old enough to be married, after all. What are you going to wear at your wedding? A short skirt and Tam O’Shanter?”
“White, I suppose; but I do think it’s awfully hackneyed! I wish I could wear some bright color.”
“Why, Dorothy, how you talk,” exclaimed her mother, who was always shocked at the slightest unconventionality.
“She’s right,” said Emory Gale; “one does get awfully tired of a white-robed bride. Now a lot of gay colors,—Scotch plaid for choice,—would be awfully fetching.”
“How foolish men are,” said Mrs. Crane, with an air of saying something new; “of course your gown’ll be white, Dorothy; ivory satin, I suppose, with an embroidered train, and a priceless lace veil.”
“I suppose so,” said Dorothy, with a resigned air. “I say, Justin, if I’ve got to have that wedding dress, and so soon, can’t I run away and play with Campbell just a little while? He has asked me to.”
“Yes, go,” said Arnold, frowning; “go and stay as long as you like! What do I care?”
“Come on, then,” said Dorothy, tucking her hand through Crosby’s arm.
But now, perhaps because of his cousin’s frown, Crosby did not seem so anxious for the walk. “I was only fooling,” he said.
“But I wasn’t,” persisted Dorothy; “well, if you won’t go, who will accompany me for a little stroll?”
Three men started toward her at once. Arnold himself was the first one; Emory Gale stepped forward, smiling; and with a slightly hesitating step, Ernest Chapin came toward Dorothy and bowed gravely.
“Why, Mr. Chapin,” cried the little coquette, “I’d rather stroll with you than anybody. Come on.”
The two walked away, and Arnold’s brow cleared. He was quite willing Dorothy should walk with his quiet-mannered and rather dull secretary, but he did not want her to go frisking about with gay young men of her own set.
“She’s a case,” said Mrs. Crane to Miss Wadsworth, as they watched the pair depart.
“A very sweet dear little case,” returned Miss Abby, fairly bristling in defence of Dorothy. “She’s so pretty and attractive, she can’t help being a little coquettish; but she really does it to tease old Justin, and it does him good, too. He’s forty years old and she’s only twenty-two. That’s too much difference altogether; but Dorothy knows what she’s about and she’ll make that man younger by many years with her pretty frivolities.”
“I think it a little dangerous,” said Mrs. Crane, who rarely hesitated to say what she thought.
“Dangerous? How do you mean?” said Dorothy’s mother, and the gleam that came into her eye was markedly dangerous of itself.
Mrs. Crane quailed before it. “I didn’t mean anything much,” she said, “but eighteen years is a big difference in age between husband and wife. But I’m sure I hope they’ll be happy.”
“Of course they’ll be happy,” said Mrs. Duncan. “Mr. Arnold is of a kind and lovable disposition. He’s a true gentleman, and he is generous and wise.”
“He’s a crank, that’s what he is,” said Miss Wadsworth, with an air of settling the question; “a man can’t be a bachelor of forty, without having cranky ways, and as I know him pretty well, I know he isn’t very easy to get along with. But Dorothy can tame him, if anybody can, and she’s going about it just the right way. A patient Griselda couldn’t do anything with Justin, but a little witch like Dorothy can rule him with a flash of her bright eye.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Duncan, complacently, “that’s what I think.”
“But does she love him?” persisted Mrs. Crane, who never knew when to stop asking questions.
“My daughter wouldn’t marry a man she didn’t love,” and Mrs. Duncan put on a superior air that silenced though it didn’t convince Mabel Crane.
“Of course,” said Miss Abby, “Dorothy loves Justin, and it’s a fine match for her from every point of view. A kind husband with lots of money, and a beautiful big home like this, is better for any girl than a foolish romance with some young whipper-snapper, with nothing but poverty to look forward to.”
This speech seemed to require no answer, and Mrs. Duncan smoothed the silken folds of her gown complacently, while Mrs. Crane let her pretty face assume a cynical expression.
“If Justin didn’t marry,” Mrs. Crane asked, “what would eventually become of the property?”
“Campbell Crosby is really the next heir,” said Miss Abby, “though he belongs to a different branch of the family.”
“But yourself?” went on Mrs. Crane, with some curiosity; “wasn’t your mother an Arnold?”
“Yes; but of course I wouldn’t be the heir. Justin has made a will, leaving me a big legacy, but except for that, and a few other legacies, his whole estate, including White Birches, would go to Campbell.”
“Campbell Crosby seems out of place in a home like this,” commented Mrs. Duncan; “it just suits Justin Arnold to be at the head of a big country house, but that feather-brained young fellow seems better adapted to city life.”
“Yes, he always lives in a hotel in Philadelphia,” said Miss Abby. “Nothing would induce him, he has often said, to live the life of a country gentleman. Many a time I’ve heard him tell Justin he didn’t see how any man could stand it to be mewed up inside these stone walls; though he likes well enough to run down here for an occasional week-end. But when he was a boy, he used to be here for months at a time. He liked it then, well enough. Though eight years younger than Justin, they were good comrades, and wherever Justin would go, Campbell would follow. My! I’ve seen them climbing sloping turret roofs, and walking around the tower battlements till it fairly made my hair stand on end. They were harum-scarum boys. And Campbell is that still, though Justin quieted down as he grew older.”
“Yes, Justin seems very staid,” said Mabel Crane, “though I dare say his marriage to a bright young thing like Dorothy will have a rejuvenating effect on him.”
“I dare say,” said Miss Abby, drily, “and of course it cuts Campbell out of the inheritance. I’ve no doubt Justin will leave him a handsome legacy in his will, but of course Dorothy will be his heir.”
“My ears burn,” said Crosby, walking toward the group of chatting ladies; “Miss Duane has gone off skylarking with Gale, and, being left alone, I tried to listen to what you fair ladies might be saying, and was rewarded by hearing my own name.”
“Yes,” said Miss Abby, smiling at the pleasant face of the young man, “we were saying that Justin’s marriage will cut off your hopes of inheriting his estate.”
Crosby gave her a slightly reproachful glance.
“Dear Miss Abby,” he said, “I don’t think I’ve ever given you reason to talk like that. I’ve never looked upon myself as heir to White Birches, and I wouldn’t want it anyway, though I don’t mean that for ‘sour grapes.’ I hope old Just will live heaps of years yet to enjoy it, and Dorothy, too.” His voice broke a little as he mentioned the girl’s name, and, as his hearers were well aware of his feeling toward her, they quite understood.
Just then Arnold came by and paused to listen.
“No, old Just,” and Crosby turned to his cousin, “I don’t want your fortune and I don’t want this feudal castle of yours, but unless you’re pretty careful, I’ll kidnap your girl and carry her off.”
“You can’t do it, Cam,” and Arnold put his hand on the other man’s shoulder; “not only is Dad’s old burglar alarm in good working order, but I’ve added some modern contraptions, that make it impossible for anyone to get in or out of White Birches unbeknownst.”
“Love laughs at locksmiths,” said Campbell, saucily; and Mrs. Duncan observed, “And then, too, Mr. Crosby, you’d have to get Dorothy’s consent first; I hardly think she’d be willing to be kidnapped.”
“Oh, kidnappers never ask permission of their victims,” retorted Crosby; “I should spirit her away without anyone knowing it.”
Arnold looked at the speaker a little quizzically. “Then why didn’t you go to walk with her this afternoon?” he said.
Crosby looked him straight in the eye, and said, quietly, “Because you didn’t want me to.”
“Good old man!” and Arnold’s tone and expression betrayed the real feeling he felt for this manly behavior.
“But I mightn’t always be so punctilious,” laughed Crosby, who was determined not to treat the matter seriously; “another time I may take her to walk, whether with your permission or without it.”
“I’ll trust you, old man.” And this was corroborated by a hearty slap on the shoulder. “By the way, Cam, I wish you’d come for a stroll with me; I want to talk over some business matters.”
Rightly guessing that it was in regard to the making of a new will, Crosby sauntered off with his cousin.
“You see,” Arnold said, “if I didn’t marry, old chap, my fortune would fall to your share eventually.”
“Fiddlesticks!” returned his cousin. “Any one would think you were a doddering old gentleman, and I your young and upstart heir. Please remember I’m only eight years younger than you are, so I hold we’re contemporaries, and have little chance of inheriting from each other. And, any way, Just, I wish you’d cut out that kind of talk. You know perfectly well I don’t want your riches nor this fortified old barracks of yours, either. But I do wish you hadn’t selected for your future bride the only girl I ever loved.”
“The latest, you mean,” said Arnold, slightly smiling. “I remember definitely about a score of those ‘only girls you ever loved,’ and I think there are a few I’ve forgotten.”
“Oh, come now, I never really loved any one but Dorothy.”
“I’m truly sorry, old chap, but it can’t be helped now. And I’d feel sorrier still, but that I know you’ll find another only girl to love, now that Dorothy is out of the running. And now, Cam, I want you and Gale to draw me up a new will. I’m going to leave a fairish little sum to you, whether you want it or not; and a bunch to Cousin Abby, and a good bit to Driggs and Peters.”
“And the housekeeper?”
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Carson. But these legacies are the same as they stand in my present will.”
“Oh, cut it, Justin! You’re only making this will because you think it devolves on the head of the house of Arnold to do that sort of thing. Don’t bother about it for the present. You’ll be married in a few weeks, and then Dorothy will be your legal heir, and you can fix up your will and that precious legacy to me afterwards.”
“You’re a good sort, Campbell. I have got a lot of things to attend to before the wedding, so perhaps it would be as well to leave that matter until afterward. Any way, I suppose I’d better take up the subject with Gale. It might be less embarrassing, as I’m not going to leave him anything. Or, if you prefer, I’ll get another lawyer for the purpose.”
“Do as you like, old chap; but I say, Just, I wish you’d let me off from being your best man. Truly, I’m hard hit by that little black-eyed witch, and, confound it! a fellow hates to stand tamely by and fairly assist another fellow to marry the girl he cares for!”
“Why, Cam, I didn’t know you were so serious as all that. Of course, I’ll let you off, if you insist. Chapin could be my best man, I suppose—or Gale—or even Fred Crane. There are plenty of fellows, but I expected to have you.”
“Well, I’d rather you’d get some one else, if you will. I say, Justin, do you remember the day we climbed that turret? Shinned up the outside! We were a venturesome pair of kids, weren’t we?”
“Yes; I expect there were mighty few places about this old house that we didn’t climb up or over or through.”
“And you used to boost me up into all sorts of dark holes where you were too big to get in yourself, and I felt honored to be used for such a purpose! We never climbed over the wall, did we?”
“No, we never could manage that. That’s a pretty good wall, Cam.”
“Yes, as walls go. But I think it’s a blot on the landscape. It’s of no earthly use; why don’t you tear it down?”
“Tear it, down! I’d as soon think of razing the house to the ground! It’s a stunning old pile, isn’t it?”
The two men stood on a knoll which gave one of the best views of the old mansion. The additions that had been made from time to time were not inharmonious, and though it was a rambling structure it was as a whole pleasing to the eye.
“I shall make quite a lot of changes for Dorothy,” Justin said; “I think I’ll put up a whole new wing, and let her have a suite of rooms with every possible modern beauty of decoration and appointment.”
“Do! You’re a lucky dog, Just, to have the privilege of doing things for that girl. Oh, well, it’s all in a lifetime!”
The two men walked on in silence for a few minutes, and then as by a common impulse, they turned and went back to the house to join the others. But as everybody was dressing for dinner, the terrace was deserted.
“There’s a dance on to-night, old man,” said Arnold; “just a small one, but Dorothy wanted some amusement, so I invited a few of the neighbors.”
“All right,” answered Crosby, and he went on to the smoking-room.