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CHAPTER XXV
IN THE PARK

Either Frances had grown more beautiful in the last three months, or Don had forgotten how really beautiful she was when she left; for, when she stepped down the gangplank toward him, he was quite sure that never in his life had he seen any one so beautiful as she was then. Her cheeks were tanned, and there was a foreign touch in her costume that made her look more like a lady of Seville than of New York. As she bent toward him for a modest kiss, he felt for a second as if he were in the center of some wild plot of fiction. This was not she to whom he was engaged,–she whom he purposed to marry within the week,–but rather some fanciful figure of romance.

He stepped into her car,–he did not know even if he was asked,–and for a half-hour listened to her spirited narration of incidents of the voyage. It was mostly of people, of this man and that, this woman and that, with the details of the weather and deck sports. Under ordinary circumstances he might have enjoyed the talk; but, with all he had to tell her, it sounded trivial.

They reached the house. Even then, there was much talk of trunks and other things of no importance to him whatever. Stuyvesant hung around in frank and open admiration of his daughter; and Mrs. Stuyvesant beamed and listened and stayed. Don had a feeling that, in spite of his position in the family, they looked upon him at this moment as an intruder.

It was another half-hour before he found himself alone with her. She came to his side at once–almost as if she too had been awaiting this opportunity.

“Dear old Don,” she said. “It’s good to see you again. But you look tired.”

“And you look beautiful!” he exclaimed.

Now that he was alone with her, he felt again as he had at the steamer–that this woman was not she to whom he was engaged, but some wonderful creature of his imagination. The plans he had made for her became commonplace. One could not talk over with her the matter-of-fact details of marrying and of housekeeping and of salaries. And those things that yesterday had filled him with inspiration, that had appeared to him the most wonderful things in life, that had been associated with the stars, seemed tawdry. She had been to London to see the Queen, and the flavor of that adventure was still about her.

“Don, dear, what’s the matter?”

He was so long silent that she was worried. He passed his hand over his forehead.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “There were a lot of things I wanted to say to you, and now I can’t think of them.”

“Nice things?”

“Perhaps it’s the house,” he replied vaguely. “I wish we could get out of here for a little while. After lunch I want you to come to walk with me. Will you?”

“Where, Don?”

He smiled.

“In the park.”

“What an odd fancy!” she answered.

“Here I get you all mixed up with your father and mother and the Queen,” he ran on. “I want to talk to you alone.”

He sounded more natural to her when he talked like that.

“All right, Don, though there are a hundred things I ought to do this afternoon. And I must decide about going to the mountains with Dolly. What were those other plans you cabled me about?”

“Those are what I want to talk over with you,” he answered.

“What are they? I’m dying to know.”

“I’ll tell you in the park. Now I’ll go, so that you’ll have time to do some of the hundred things you want to do.”

He turned.

“Don’t you want to–to–”

She held out her arms to him. He kissed her lips. Then she seemed to come back to him as she had been before she sailed. He could have said all he wished to say then. But her mother was calling her.

“I’ll be here at two. And, this once–you must cancel every other engagement.”

“Yes, Don.”

She came to the door with him, and stood there until he turned the corner. He did not know where to go, but unconsciously his steps took him downtown. He stopped at a florist’s and ordered a dozen roses to be sent back to the house. He stopped to order a box of her favorite bonbons. Then he kept on downtown toward the office of Carter, Rand & Seagraves. But this was the first day of his vacation, and so he had no object in going there. He must find a place to lunch. He came to a dairy lunch, and then he knew exactly what it was he needed. He needed Sally Winthrop to talk over his complication with him.

As he made his way to the counter for his sandwich and coffee, he frowned. He had told her that he would surely need her. Now she was gone. He suddenly recalled that she had not even left her address.

Only two days before he had been discussing with her the final details of the house awaiting Frances, and she had made him feel that everything was perfect.

“She will love it,” she had assured him.

It was as if he heard her voice again repeating that sentence. Once again he reacted to her enthusiasm and saw through her eyes. She had made him feel that money–the kind of money Stuyvesant stood for–was nonsense. A salary of twelve hundred a year was enough for the necessities, and yet small enough to give his wife an opportunity to help.

“When the big success comes,” she had said to him, “then Frances can feel that it is partly her success too. A woman doesn’t become a wife by just marrying a man, does she? It’s only when she has a chance to help that she can feel herself really a wife.”

As she said it he felt that to be true, although to him it was a brand-new point of view.

And Sally Winthrop had given him, in her own life, a new point of view on woman. He understood that she had never married because she had never happened to fall in love. She had always been too busy. But if ever she did fall in love, what a partner she would make! Partner–that was the word.

“It’s in you to get everything in the world you want,” she had said last night, when she was leaving him.

So it was. He gulped down the rest of his coffee and glanced at his watch. It was shortly after one. He must stay down here another half-hour–stay around these streets where he had walked with her and where she had made him see straight–until he had just time to meet Frances.

He went out and walked past the office of Carter, Rand & Seagraves, and then walked to the Elevated station where she took the train at night for home. The sight of the steps up which they had climbed together made him almost homesick. He wished to Heaven that she had postponed her vacation another day. If only he could see her a few minutes right now, he would be absolutely sure of himself.

It was after two when he reached the house, but Frances was not ready. She was never quite ready.

“I’ll wait outside,” he told the maid.

The maid raised her brows a trifle, but answered civilly:–

“Very well, sir.”

As he walked back and forth the Stuyvesant machine also drew up before the door and waited. He viewed it with suspicion. He could not say what he had to say in that. She must be afoot, as Sally Winthrop always was.

He was making his turn at the end of the street when she came down the steps and before he could reach her stepped into the machine.

“I have several little things to do after we’ve had our walk,” she explained to Don, as he came up.

She made room for him by her side. Because he did not wish to argue before the chauffeur, he took his allotted place; but he himself gave the order to the driver:–

“Central Park.”

Then he turned to her.

“When we get there we must get out and walk.”

“Very well, Don,” she submitted; “but I think we’d be much more comfortable right here.”

She regarded him anxiously.

“Is anything worrying you, Don?”

“Only you,” he answered.

“I?” she exclaimed. “If it’s because of Jimmy Schuyler, you needn’t worry any more. He was very nice at first, but later–well, he was too nice. You see, he forgot I was engaged.”

“The little cad!” exclaimed Don.

“You mustn’t blame him too much. He just forgot. And now he is very attentive to Dolly.”

“She allows it?”

“I think she rather likes him. She has invited him up to camp. And, Don, dear, she wants you to come too. It would be very nice if we could all go. Can’t you manage it?”

“It doesn’t appeal to me just now,” he answered.

The machine had swung into the park. He ordered the chauffeur to stop.

“Come,” he said to Frances.

He found the path from the drive where the children played, and he found the bench where he had sat with Sally Winthrop. Then all she had told him came back to him, as it had in the dairy lunch.

“It’s about the other plans I want to tell you out here,” he began eagerly.

“Yes, Don.”

“I’ve done a lot of work while you were away,” he said proudly.

“It seems a pity it was necessary,” she answered.

“It’s been the best thing that ever happened to me,” he corrected her. “It has made me see straight about a lot of things. And it’s helped me to make good in the office.”

She looked puzzled.

“You mean you’ve been made a partner or something?”

“Hardly that–yet,” he smiled. “But it’s pretty sure I’ll be put to selling when I come back.”

“You’re going away?”

“I’m on my vacation,” he explained. “This is the first day of my vacation.”

“Oh, then you can come with us?”

“I’d rather you came with me.”

“With you, Don? But where?”

“Anywhere you wish, as long as we go together and alone. Only we must get back in two weeks.”

“Don, dear!”

“I mean it,” he went on earnestly. “I want to marry you to-morrow or next day. Your trunks are all packed, and you needn’t unpack them. We’ll spend all the time we can spare in the mountains, and then come back–to the house. It’s all ready for you, Frances. It’s waiting for you.”

She stared about in fear lest some one might be overhearing his rambling talk.

“Don,” she gasped.

“Nora has cleaned every room,” he ran on, “and I’ve saved a hundred dollars for the trip. And Farnsworth is going to give me a raise before December. He hasn’t promised it, but I know he’ll do it, because I’m going to make good. You and I together will make good.”

She did not answer. She could not. She was left quite paralyzed. He was leaning forward expectantly.

“You’ll come with me?”

It was a full minute before she could answer. Then she said:–

“It’s so impossible, Don.”

“Impossible?”

“One doesn’t–doesn’t get married that way!”

“What does it matter how one gets married?” he answered.

“What would people say?”

“I don’t care what they’d say.”

“You mustn’t get like that, Don, dear,” she chided him. “Why, that’s being an anarchist or something, isn’t it?”

“It’s just being yourself, little girl,” he explained more gently. “The trouble with us is, we’ve thought too much about other people and–other things. It’s certain that after we’re married people aren’t going to worry much about us, so why should we let them worry us before that? No, it’s all our own affair. As for the salary part of it, we’ve been wrong about that, too. We don’t need so much as we thought we did. Why, do you know you can get a good lunch downtown for fifteen cents? It’s a fact. You can get an egg sandwich, a chocolate éclair, and a cup of coffee for that. I know the place. And I’ve figured that, with the house all furnished us, we can live easy on twenty-five a week until I get more. You don’t need your ten thousand a year. It’s a fact, Frances.”

She did not answer, because she did not quite know what he was talking about. Yet, her blood was running faster. There was a new light in his eyes–a new quality in his voice that thrilled her. She had never heard a man talk like this before.

“You’ll have to trust me to prove all those things,” he was running on. “You’ll have to trust me, because I’ve learned a lot this summer. I’ve learned a lot about you that you don’t know yourself yet. So what I want you to do is just to take my hand and follow. Can you do that?”

At that moment it seemed that she could. On the voyage home she had sat much on the deck alone and looked at the stars, and there had been many moments when she felt exactly as she felt now. Thinking of him and looking at the stars, nothing else had seemed to matter but just the two of them.

There had been a child on board who had taken a great fancy to her–a child about the age of one that was now running about the grass under the watchful eyes of a nurse. His name was Peter, and she and Peter used to play tag together. One afternoon when he was very tired he had crept into her arms, and she had carried him to her steamer-chair and wrapped him in her steamer-rug and held him while he slept. Then she had felt exactly as when she looked at the stars. All the things that ordinarily counted with her did not at that moment count at all. She had kissed the little head lying on her bosom and had thought of Don–her heart pounding as it pounded now.

“Oh, Don,” she exclaimed, “it’s only people in stories who do that way!”

“It’s the way we can do–if you will.”

“There’s Dad,” she reminded him.

“He let you become engaged, didn’t he?”

“Yes; but–you don’t know him as well as I.”

“I’ll put it up to him to-day, if you’ll let me. Honest, I don’t think it’s as much his affair as ours, but I’ll give him a chance. Shall I?”

She reached for his hand and pressed it.

“I’ll give him a chance, but I can’t wait. We haven’t time to bother with a wedding–do you mind that?”

“No, Don.”

“Then, if he doesn’t object–it’s to-morrow or next day?”

“You–you take away my breath,” she answered.

“And if he does object?”

“Don’t let’s think of that–now,” she said. “Let’s walk a little–in the park. It’s wonderful out here, Don.”

Yes, it was wonderful out there–how wonderful he knew better than she. She had not had his advantages. She had not had Sally Winthrop to point out the wonders and make a man feel them. Of course, it was not the place itself–not the little paths, the trees, or even the big, bright sky that Frances meant or he meant. It was the sense of individuality one got here: the feeling of something within bigger than anything without. It was this that permitted Sally Winthrop to walk here with her head as high as if she were a princess. It was this that made him, by her side, feel almost like a prince. And now Frances was beginning to sense it. Don felt his heart quicken.

“This is all you need,” he whispered. “Just to walk out here a little.”

CHAPTER XXVI
ONE STUYVESANT

That evening, before Frances left Don alone in the study, she bent over him and kissed him. Then she heard her father’s footsteps and ran. Don was remarkably cool. So was Stuyvesant; but there was nothing remarkable about that. When his daughter told him that Don was waiting to see him, his eyes narrowed the least bit and he glanced at his watch. He had a bridge engagement at the club in half an hour. Then he placed both hands on his daughter’s shoulders and studied her eyes.

“What’s the matter, girlie?” he asked.

“Nothing, Dad,” she answered. “Only–I’m very happy.”

“Good,” he nodded. “And that is what I want you to be every minute of your life.”

Entering his study, Stuyvesant sat down in a big chair to the right of the open fire and waved his hand to another opposite him.

“Frances said you wished to talk over something with me,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” answered Don. He did not sit down. He could think better on his feet. “It’s about our marriage.”

Stuyvesant did not answer. He never answered until the other man was through. Then he knew where he stood.

“I don’t know whether or not you know the sort of will father left,” began Don.

Stuyvesant did know, but he gave no indication of the fact. He had been waiting a year for something of this sort.

“Anyhow,” Don went on, “he took a notion to tie up most of the estate. Except for the house–well, he left me pretty nearly strapped. Before that, he’d been letting me draw on him for anything I wanted. When I asked you for Frances I expected things would go on as they were.

“When the change came, I had a talk with Frances, and we agreed that the thing to do was for me to go out and earn about the same sum Dad had been handing to me. Ten thousand a year seemed at the time what we needed. She said that was what her allowance had been.”

Again Don paused, in the hope that Stuyvesant might wish to contribute something to the conversation. But Stuyvesant waited for him to continue.

“So I went out to earn it. Barton found a position for me with Carter, Rand & Seagraves, and I started in. It’s a fact I expected to get that ten thousand inside of a year.”

Don lighted a cigarette. The further he went, the less interest he was taking in this explanation. Stuyvesant’s apparent indifference irritated him.

“That was a year ago,” Don resumed. “To-day I’m drawing the same salary I started with–twelve hundred. I expect a raise soon–perhaps to twenty-five hundred. But the point is this: I figure that it’s going to take me some five years to get that ten thousand. I don’t want to wait that long before marrying Frances. Another point is this: I don’t think any longer that it’s necessary. I figure that we can live on what I’m earning now. So I’ve put it up to her.”

Don had hurried his argument a little, but, as far as he was concerned, he was through. The whole situation was distasteful to him. The longer he stayed here, the less it seemed to be any of Stuyvesant’s business.

“You mean you’ve asked my daughter to marry you on that salary?” inquired Stuyvesant.

“I asked her this afternoon,” nodded Don. “I suggested that we get married to-morrow or next day. You see, I’m on my vacation, and I have only two weeks.”

Stuyvesant flicked the ashes from his cigar. “What was her reply?”

“She wanted me to put the proposition before you. That’s why I’m here.”

“I see. And just what do you expect of me?”

“I suppose she wants your consent,” answered Don. “Anyhow, it seemed only decent to let you know.”

Stuyvesant was beginning to chew the end of his cigar–a bit of nervousness he had not been guilty of for twenty years. “At least, it would have been rather indecent not to have informed me,” he answered. “But, of course, you don’t expect my consent to such an act of idiocy.”

It was Don’s turn to remain silent.

“I’ve no objection to you personally,” Stuyvesant began. “When you came to me and asked for my daughter’s hand, and I found that she wanted to marry you, I gave my consent. I knew your blood, Pendleton, and I’d seen enough of you to believe you clean and straight. At that time also I had every reason to believe that you were to have a sufficient income to support the girl properly. If she had wanted to marry you within the next month, I wouldn’t have said a word at that time. When I learned that conditions had been changed by the terms of your father’s will, I waited to see what you would do. And I’ll tell you frankly, I like the way you’ve handled the situation up to now.”

“I don’t get that last,” Don answered quietly.

“Then let me help you,” Stuyvesant resumed grimly. “In the first place, get that love-in-a-cottage idea out of your head. It’s a pretty enough conceit for those who are forced to make the best of their personal misfortunes, but that is as far as it goes. Don’t for a moment think it’s a desirable lot.”

“In a way, that’s just what I am thinking,” answered Don.

“Then it’s because you don’t know any better. It’s nonsense. A woman wants money and wants the things she can buy with money. She’s entitled to those things. If she can’t have them, then it’s her misfortune. If the man she looks to to supply them can’t give them to her, then it’s his misfortune. But it’s nothing for him to boast about. If he places her in such a situation deliberately, it’s something for him to be ashamed of.”

“I can see that, sir,” answered Don, “when it’s carried too far. But you understand that I’m provided with a good home and a salary large enough for the ordinary decent things of life.”

“That isn’t the point,” broke in Stuyvesant. “We’ll admit the girl won’t have to go hungry, but she’ll go without a lot of other things that she’s been brought up to have, and, as long as I can supply them, things she’s entitled to have. On that salary you won’t supply her with many cars, you won’t supply her with the kind of clothes she is accustomed to, you won’t supply her with all the money she wants to spend. What if she does throw it away? That’s her privilege now. I’ve worked twenty-five years to get enough so that she can do just that. There’s not a whim in the world she can’t satisfy. And the man who marries her must give her every single thing I’m able to give her–and then something more.”

“In money?” asked Don.

“The something more–not in money.”

He rose and stood before Don.

“I’ve been frank with you, Pendleton, and I’ll say I think the girl cares for you. But I know Frances better than you, and I know that, even if she made up her mind to do without all these things, it would mean a sacrifice. As far as I know, she’s never had to make a sacrifice since she was born. It isn’t necessary. Get that point, Pendleton. It isn’t necessary, and I’ll not allow any man to make it necessary if I can help it.”

He paused as if expecting an outburst from Don. The latter remained silent.

“I’ve trusted you with the girl,” Stuyvesant concluded. “Up to now I’ve no fault to find with you. You’ve lost your head for a minute, but you’ll get a grip on yourself. Go ahead and make your fortune, and come to me again. In the mean while, I’m willing to trust you further.”

“If that means not asking Frances to marry me to-morrow, you can’t, sir.”

“You–you wouldn’t ask her to go against my wishes in the matter?”

“I would, sir.”

“And you expect her to do so?”

“I hope she will.”

“Well, she won’t,” Stuyvesant answered. He was chewing his cigar again.

“You spoke of the something more, sir,” said Don. “I think I know what that means, and it’s a whole lot more than anything your ten thousand can give. When I found myself stony broke, I was dazed for a while, and thought a good deal as you think. Then this summer I found the something more. I wouldn’t swap back.”

“Then stay where you are,” snapped Stuyvesant. “Don’t try to drag in Frances.”

Don prepared to leave.

“It’s a pity you aren’t stony broke too,” he observed.

“Thanks,” answered Stuyvesant. “But I’m not, and I don’t intend to have my daughter put in that position.”

“You haven’t forgotten that I have a house and twelve hundred?”

“I haven’t forgotten that is all you have.”

“You haven’t forgotten the something more?”

Stuyvesant looked at his watch.

“I must be excused now, Pendleton,” he concluded. “I think, on the whole, it will be better if you don’t call here after this.”

“As you wish,” answered Pendleton. “But I hope you’ll come and see us?”

“Damn you, Pendleton!” he exploded.

Then he turned quickly and left the room. So, after all, it was he in the end who lost his temper.