The Fruit of the Tree Page 3

  III

  AT the manager's door Amherst was met by Mrs. Truscomb, a large flushedwoman in a soiled wrapper and diamond earrings.

  "Mr. Truscomb's very sick. He ought not to see you. The doctor thinks--"she began.

  Dr. Disbrow, at this point, emerged from the sitting-room. He was a paleman, with a beard of mixed grey-and-drab, and a voice of the sameindeterminate quality.

  "Good evening, Mr. Amherst. Truscomb is pretty poorly--on the edge ofpneumonia, I'm afraid. As he seems anxious to see you I think you'dbetter go up for two minutes--not more, please." He paused, and went onwith a smile: "You won't excite him, of course--nothing unpleasant----"

  "He's worried himself sick over that wretched Dillon," Mrs. Truscombinterposed, draping her wrapper majestically about an indignant bosom.

  "That's it--puts too much heart into his work. But we'll have Dillon allright before long," the physician genially declared.

  Mrs. Truscomb, with a reluctant gesture, led Amherst up the handsomelycarpeted stairs to the room where her husband lay, a prey to the caresof office. She ushered the young man in, and withdrew to the next room,where he heard her coughing at intervals, as if to remind him that hewas under observation.

  The manager of the Westmore mills was not the type of man that Amherst'scomments on his superior suggested. As he sat propped against thepillows, with a brick-red flush on his cheek-bones, he seemed at firstglance to belong to the innumerable army of American business men--thesallow, undersized, lacklustre drudges who have never lifted their headsfrom the ledger. Even his eye, now bright with fever, was dull andnon-committal in daily life; and perhaps only the ramifications of hiswrinkles could have revealed what particular ambitions had seamed hissoul.

  "Good evening, Amherst. I'm down with a confounded cold."

  "I'm sorry to hear it," the young man forced himself to say.

  "Can't get my breath--that's the trouble." Truscomb paused and gasped."I've just heard that Mrs. Westmore is here--and I want you to goround--tomorrow morning--" He had to break off once more.

  "Yes, sir," said Amherst, his heart leaping.

  "Needn't see her--ask for her father, Mr. Langhope. Tell him what thedoctor says--I'll be on my legs in a day or two--ask 'em to wait till Ican take 'em over the mills."

  He shot one of his fugitive glances at his assistant, and held up a bonyhand. "Wait a minute. On your way there, stop and notify Mr. Gaines. Hewas to meet them here. You understand?"

  "Yes, sir," said Amherst; and at that moment Mrs. Truscomb appeared onthe threshold.

  "I must ask you to come now, Mr. Amherst," she began haughtily; but aglance from her husband reduced her to a heaving pink nonentity.

  "Hold on, Amherst. I hear you've been in to Hanaford. Did you go to thehospital?"

  "Ezra--" his wife murmured: he looked through her.

  "Yes," said Amherst.

  Truscomb's face seemed to grow smaller and dryer. He transferred hislook from his wife to his assistant.

  "All right. You'll just bear in mind that it's Disbrow's business toreport Dillon's case to Mrs. Westmore? You're to confine yourself to mymessage. Is that clear?"

  "Perfectly clear. Goodnight," Amherst answered, as he turned to followMrs. Truscomb.

  * * * * *

  That same evening, four persons were seated under the bronze chandelierin the red satin drawing-room of the Westmore mansion. One of the four,the young lady in widow's weeds whose face had arrested Miss Brent'sattention that afternoon, rose from a massively upholstered sofa anddrifted over to the fireplace near which her father sat.

  "Didn't I tell you it was awful, father?" she sighed, leaningdespondently against the high carved mantelpiece surmounted by a bronzeclock in the form of an obelisk.

  Mr. Langhope, who sat smoking, with one faultlessly-clad leg crossed onthe other, and his ebony stick reposing against the arm of his chair,raised his clear ironical eyes to her face.

  "As an archaeologist," he said, with a comprehensive wave of his hand, "Ifind it positively interesting. I should really like to come here anddig."

  There were no lamps in the room, and the numerous gas-jets of thechandelier shed their lights impartially on ponderously framed canvasesof the Bay of Naples and the Hudson in Autumn, on Carrara busts andbronze Indians on velvet pedestals.

  "All this," murmured Mr. Langhope, "is getting to be as rare as thegiant sequoias. In another fifty years we shall have collectors fightingfor that Bay of Naples."

  Bessy Westmore turned from him impatiently. When she felt deeply on anysubject her father's flippancy annoyed her.

  "_You_ can see, Maria," she said, seating herself beside the other ladyof the party, "why I couldn't possibly live here."

  Mrs. Eustace Ansell, immediately after dinner, had bent her slender backabove the velvet-covered writing-table, where an inkstand of Viennaormolu offered its empty cup to her pen. Being habitually charged with avoluminous correspondence, she had foreseen this contingency and met itby despatching her maid for her own writing-case, which was nowoutspread before her in all its complex neatness; but at Bessy's appealshe wiped her pen, and turned a sympathetic gaze on her companion.

  Mrs. Ansell's face drew all its charm from its adaptability. It was adifferent face to each speaker: now kindling with irony, now gentlymaternal, now charged with abstract meditation--and few paused toreflect that, in each case, it was merely the mirror held up to some oneelse's view of life.

  "It needs doing over," she admitted, following the widow's melancholyglance about the room. "But you are a spoilt child to complain. Think ofhaving a house of your own to come to, instead of having to put up atthe Hanaford hotel!"

  Mrs. Westmore's attention was arrested by the first part of the reply.

  "Doing over? Why in the world should I do it over? No one could expectme to come here _now_--could they, Mr. Tredegar?" she exclaimed,transferring her appeal to the fourth member of the party.

  Mr. Tredegar, the family lawyer, who had deemed it his duty to accompanythe widow on her visit of inspection, was strolling up and down the roomwith short pompous steps, a cigar between his lips, and his arms behindhim. He cocked his sparrow-like head, scanned the offending apartment,and terminated his survey by resting his eyes on Mrs. Westmore'scharming petulant face.

  "It all depends," he replied axiomatically, "how large an income yourequire."

  Mr. Tredegar uttered this remark with the air of one who pronounces onan important point in law: his lightest observation seemed a decisionhanded down from the bench to which he had never ascended. He restoredthe cigar to his lips, and sought approval in Mrs. Ansell's expressiveeye.

  "Ah, that's it, Bessy. You've that to remember," the older ladymurmured, as if struck by the profundity of the remark.

  Mrs. Westmore made an impatient gesture. "We've always had moneyenough--Dick was perfectly satisfied." Her voice trembled a little onher husband's name. "And you don't know what the place is like bydaylight--and the people who come to call!"

  "Of course you needn't see any one now, dear," Mrs. Ansell reminded her,"except the Halford Gaineses."

  "I am sure they're bad enough. Juliana Gaines will say: 'My dear, isthat the way widows' veils are worn in New York this autumn?' andHalford will insist on our going to one of those awful family dinners,all Madeira and terrapin."

  "It's too early for terrapin," Mrs. Ansell smiled consolingly; but Bessyhad reverted to her argument. "Besides, what difference would my cominghere make? I shall never understand anything about business," shedeclared.

  Mr. Tredegar pondered, and once more removed his cigar. "The necessityhas never arisen. But now that you find yourself in almost sole controlof a large property----"

  Mr. Langhope laughed gently. "Apply yourself, Bessy. Bring your masterlyintellect to bear on the industrial problem."

  Mrs. Ansell restored the innumerable implements to her writing-case, andlaid her arm with a caressing gesture on Mrs. Westmore's shoulder."Don't tease her. She's
tired, and she misses the baby."

  "I shall get a telegram tomorrow morning," exclaimed the young mother,brightening.

  "Of course you will. 'Cicely has just eaten two boiled eggs and a bowlof porridge, and is bearing up wonderfully.'"

  She drew Mrs. Westmore persuasively to her feet, but the widow refusedto relinquish her hold on her grievance.

  "You all think I'm extravagant and careless about money," she broke out,addressing the room in general from the shelter of Mrs. Ansell'sembrace; "but I know one thing: If I had my way I should begin toeconomize by selling this horrible house, instead of leaving it shut upfrom one year's end to another."

  Her father looked up: proposals of retrenchment always struck him asbusiness-like when they did not affect his own expenditure. "What do youthink of that, eh, Tredegar?"

  The eminent lawyer drew in his thin lips. "From the point of view ofpolicy, I think unfavourably of it," he pronounced.

  Bessy's face clouded, and Mrs. Ansell argued gently: "Really, it's toolate to look so far into the future. Remember, my dear, that we are dueat the mills tomorrow at ten."

  The reminder that she must rise early had the effect of hastening Mrs.Westmore's withdrawal, and the two ladies, after an exchange ofgoodnights, left the men to their cigars.

  Mr. Langhope was the first to speak.

  "Bessy's as hopelessly vague about business as I am, Tredegar. Why thedeuce Westmore left her everything outright--but he was only a heedlessboy himself."

  "Yes. The way he allowed things to go, it's a wonder there was anythingto leave. This Truscomb must be an able fellow."

  "Devoted to Dick's interests, I've always understood."

  "He makes the mills pay well, at any rate, and that's not so easynowadays. But on general principles it's as well he should see that wemean to look into everything thoroughly. Of course Halford Gaines willnever be more than a good figure-head, but Truscomb must be made tounderstand that Mrs. Westmore intends to interest herself personally inthe business."

  "Oh, by all means--of course--" Mr. Langhope assented, his light smilestiffening into a yawn at the mere suggestion.

  He rose with an effort, supporting himself on his stick. "I think I'llturn in myself. There's not a readable book in that God-forsakenlibrary, and I believe Maria Ansell has gone off with my volume ofLoti."

  * * * * *

  The next morning, when Amherst presented himself at the Westmore door,he had decided to follow his chief's instructions to the letter, and askfor Mr. Langhope only. The decision had cost him a struggle, for hisheart was big with its purpose; but though he knew that he must soonplace himself in open opposition to Truscomb, he recognized the prudenceof deferring the declaration of war as long as possible.

  On his round of the mills, that morning, he had paused in the room whereMrs. Dillon knelt beside her mop and pail, and had found her, to hissurprise, comparatively reassured and cheerful. Dr. Disbrow, she toldhim, had been in the previous evening, and had told her to take heartabout Jim, and left her enough money to get along for a week--and awonderful new cough-mixture that he'd put up for her special. Amherstfound it difficult to listen calmly, with the nurse's words still in hisears, and the sight before him of Mrs. Dillon's lean shoulder-bladestravelling painfully up and down with the sweep of the mop.

  "I don't suppose that cost Truscomb ten dollars," he said to himself, asthe lift lowered him to the factory door; but another voice argued thathe had no right to accuse Disbrow of acting as his brother-in-law'sagent, when the gift to Mrs. Dillon might have been prompted by his ownkindness of heart.

  "And what prompted the lie about her husband? Well, perhaps he's anincurable optimist," he summed up, springing into the Hanaford car.

  By the time he reached Mrs. Westmore's door his wrath had subsided, andhe felt that he had himself well in hand. He had taken unusual painswith his appearance that morning--or rather his mother, learning of theerrand on which Truscomb had sent him, had laid out hiscarefully-brushed Sunday clothes, and adjusted his tie with skilfulfingers. "You'd really be handsome, Johnny, if you were only a littlevainer," she said, pushing him away to survey the result; and when hestared at her, repeating: "I never heard that vanity made a manbetter-looking," she responded gaily: "Oh, up to a certain point,because it teaches him how to use what he's got. So remember," shecharged him, as he smiled and took up his hat, "that you're going to seea pretty young woman, and that you're not a hundred years old yourself."

  "I'll try to," he answered, humouring her, "but as I've been forbiddento ask for her, I am afraid your efforts will be wasted."

  The servant to whom he gave his message showed him into the library,with a request that he should wait; and there, to his surprise, hefound, not the white-moustached gentleman whom he had guessed the nightbefore to be Mr. Langhope, but a young lady in deep black, who turned onhim a look of not unfriendly enquiry.

  It was not Bessy's habit to anticipate the clock; but her distaste forher surroundings, and the impatience to have done with the tediousduties awaiting her, had sent her downstairs before the rest of theparty. Her life had been so free from tiresome obligations that she hadbut a small stock of patience to meet them with; and already, after anight at Hanaford, she was pining to get back to the comforts of her owncountry-house, the soft rut of her daily habits, the funny chatter ofher little girl, the long stride of her Irish hunter across theHempstead plains--to everything, in short, that made it conceivablyworth while to get up in the morning.

  The servant who ushered in Amherst, thinking the room empty, had notmentioned his name; and for a moment he and his hostess examined eachother in silence, Bessy puzzled at the unannounced appearance of agood-looking young man who might have been some one she had met andforgotten, while Amherst felt his self-possession slipping away into thedepths of a pair of eyes so dark-lashed and deeply blue that his onlythought was one of wonder at his previous indifference to women's eyes.

  "Mrs. Westmore?" he asked, restored to self-command by the perceptionthat his longed-for opportunity was at hand; and Bessy, his voiceconfirming the inference she had drawn from his appearance, replied witha smile: "I am Mrs. Westmore. But if you have come to see me, I ought totell you that in a moment I shall be obliged to go out to our mills. Ihave a business appointment with our manager, but if----"

  She broke off, gracefully waiting for him to insert his explanation.

  "I have come from the manager; I am John Amherst--your assistantmanager," he added, as the mention of his name apparently conveyed noenlightenment.

  Mrs. Westmore's face changed, and she let slip a murmur of surprisethat would certainly have flattered Amherst's mother if she could haveheard it; but it had an opposite effect on the young man, who inwardlyaccused himself of having tried to disguise his trade by not putting onhis everyday clothes.

  "How stupid of me! I took you for--I had no idea; I didn't expect Mr.Truscomb here," his employer faltered in embarrassment; then their eyesmet and both smiled.

  "Mr. Truscomb sent me to tell you that he is ill, and will not be ableto show you the mills today. I didn't mean to ask for you--I was told togive the message to Mr. Langhope," Amherst scrupulously explained,trying to repress the sudden note of joy in his voice.

  He was subject to the unobservant man's acute flashes of vision, andMrs. Westmore's beauty was like a blinding light abruptly turned on eyessubdued to obscurity. As he spoke, his glance passed from her face toher hair, and remained caught in its meshes. He had never seen suchhair--it did not seem to grow in the usual orderly way, but bubbled upall over her head in independent clusters of brightness, breaking, aboutthe brow, the temples, the nape, into little irrelevant waves and eddiesof light, with dusky hollows of softness where the hand might plunge. Ittakes but the throb of a nerve to carry such a complex impression fromthe eye to the mind, but the object of the throb had perhaps felt theelectric flash of its passage, for her colour rose while Amherst spoke.

  "Ah, here is my father now," she sa
id with a vague accent of relief, asMr. Langhope's stick was heard tapping its way across the hall.

  When he entered, accompanied by Mrs. Ansell, his sharp glance ofsurprise at her visitor told her that he was as much misled as herself,and gave her a sense of being agreeably justified in her blunder. "If_father_ thinks you're a gentleman----" her shining eyes seemed to say,as she explained: "This is Mr. Amherst, father: Mr. Truscomb has senthim."

  "Mr. Amherst?" Langhope, with extended hand, echoed affably but vaguely;and it became clear that neither Mrs. Westmore nor her father had everbefore heard the name of their assistant manager.

  The discovery stung Amherst to a somewhat unreasoning resentment; andwhile he was trying to subordinate this sentiment to the larger feelingswith which he had entered the house, Mrs. Ansell, turning her eyes onhim, said gently: "Your name is unusual. I had a friend named Lucy Warnewho married a very clever man--a mechanical genius----"

  Amherst's face cleared. "My father _was_ a genius; and my mother is LucyWarne," he said, won by the soft look and the persuasive voice.

  "What a delightful coincidence! We were girls together at Albany. Youmust remember Judge Warne?" she said, turning to Mr. Langhope, who,twirling his white moustache, murmured, a shade less cordially: "Ofcourse--of course--delightful--most interesting."

  Amherst did not notice the difference. His perceptions were alreadyenveloped in the caress that emanated from Mrs. Ansell's voice andsmile; and he only asked himself vaguely if it were possible that thisgraceful woman, with her sunny autumnal air, could really be hismother's contemporary. But the question brought an instant reaction ofbitterness.

  "Poverty is the only thing that makes people old nowadays," hereflected, painfully conscious of his own share in the hardships hismother had endured; and when Mrs. Ansell went on: "I must go and seeher--you must let me take her by surprise," he said stiffly: "We liveout at the mills, a long way from here."

  "Oh, we're going there this morning," she rejoined, unrebuffed by whatshe probably took for a mere social awkwardness, while Mrs. Westmoreinterposed: "But, Maria, Mr. Truscomb is ill, and has sent Mr. Amherstto say that we are not to come."

  "Yes: so Gaines has just telephoned. It's most unfortunate," Mr.Langhope grumbled. He too was already beginning to chafe at theuncongenial exile of Hanaford, and he shared his daughter's desire todespatch the tiresome business before them.

  Mr. Tredegar had meanwhile appeared, and when Amherst had been named tohim, and had received his Olympian nod, Bessy anxiously imparted herdifficulty.

  "But how ill is Mr. Truscomb? Do you think he can take us over the millstomorrow?" she appealed to Amherst.

  "I'm afraid not; I am sure he can't. He has a touch of bronchitis."

  This announcement was met by a general outcry, in which sympathy for themanager was not the predominating note. Mrs. Ansell saved the situationby breathing feelingly: "Poor man!" and after a decent echo of thephrase, and a doubtful glance at her father, Mrs. Westmore said: "Ifit's bronchitis he may be ill for days, and what in the world are we todo?"

  "Pack up and come back later," suggested Mr. Langhope briskly; but whileBessy sighed "Oh, that dreadful journey!" Mr. Tredegar interposed withauthority: "One moment, Langhope, please. Mr. Amherst, is Mrs. Westmoreexpected at the mills?"

  "Yes, I believe they know she is coming."

  "Then I think, my dear, that to go back to New York without showingyourself would, under the circumstances, be--er--an error in judgment."

  "Good Lord, Tredegar, you don't expect to keep us kicking our heels herefor days?" her father ejaculated.

  "I can certainly not afford to employ mine in that manner for even afraction of a day," rejoined the lawyer, always acutely resentful of thesuggestion that he had a disengaged moment; "but meanwhile----"

  "Father," Bessy interposed, with an eagerly flushing cheek, "don't yousee that the only thing for us to do is to go over the mills now--atonce--with Mr. Amherst?"

  Mr. Langhope stared: he was always adventurously ready to unmake plans,but it flustered him to be called on to remake them. "Eh--what? Now--atonce? But Gaines was to have gone with us, and how on earth are we toget at him? He telephoned me that, as the visit was given up, he shouldride out to his farm."

  "Oh, never mind--or, at least, all the better!" his daughter urged. "Wecan see the mills just as well without him; and we shall get on so muchmore quickly."

  "Well--well--what do you say, Tredegar?" murmured Mr. Langhope, alluredby her last argument; and Bessy, clasping her hands, summed upenthusiastically: "And I shall understand so much better without a lotof people trying to explain to me at once!"

  Her sudden enthusiasm surprised no one, for even Mrs. Ansell, expert asshe was in the interpreting of tones, set it down to the natural desireto have done as quickly as might be with Hanaford.

  "Mrs. Westmore has left her little girl at home," she said to Amherst,with a smile intended to counteract the possible ill-effect of theimpression.

  But Amherst suspected no slight in his employer's eagerness to visitWestmore. His overmastering thought was one of joy as the fulness of hisopportunity broke on him. To show her the mills himself--to bring herface to face with her people, unhampered by Truscomb's jealousvigilance, and Truscomb's false explanations; to see the angel of pitystir the depths of those unfathomable eyes, when they rested, perhapsfor the first time, on suffering that it was in their power to smileaway as easily as they had smiled away his own distrust--all this thewonderful moment had brought him, and thoughts and arguments thronged sohot on his lips that he kept silence, fearing lest he should say toomuch.