Grant’s first visit to the home of his private stenographer was not his last, and the news leaked out, as it is sure to do in such cases. The social set confessed to being on the point of being shocked. Two schools of criticism developed over the five o’clock tea tables; one held that Grant was a gay dog who would settle down and marry in his class when he had had his fling, and the other that Phyllis Bruce was an artful hussy who was quite ready to sell herself for the Grant millions. And there were so many eligible young women on the market, although none of them were described as artful hussies!
Grant’s behavior, however, placed him under no cloud in so far as social opportunities were concerned; on the contrary, he found himself being showered with invitations, most of which he managed to decline on the grounds of pressure of business. When such an excuse would have been too transparent he accepted and made the best of it, and he found no lack of encouragement in the one or two incipient amorous flurries which resulted. From such positions he always succeeded in extricating himself, with a quiet smile at the vagaries of life. He had to admit that some of the young women whom he had met had charms of more than passing moment; he might easily enough find himself chasing the rainbow....
Mrs. LeCord carried the warfare into his own office. The late Mr. LeCord had left her to face the world with a comfortable fortune and three daughters, of whom the youngest was now married and the oldest was a forlorn hope. To place the second was now her purpose, and the best bargain on the market was young Grant. Caroline, she was sure, would make a very acceptable wife, and the young lady herself confessed a belief that she could love even a bold Westerner whose bank balance was expressed in seven figures.
The fact that Grant avoided social functions only added zest to the determination with which Mrs. LeCord carried the war into his own office. She chose to consult him for advice on financial matters and she came accompanied by Caroline, a young woman rather prepossessing in her own right. The two were readily admitted into Grant’s private office, where they had opportunity not only to meet the young man in person, but to satisfy their curiosity concerning the Bruce girl.
“I am Mrs. LeCord, Mr. Grant,” the lady introduced herself. “This is my daughter Caroline. We wish to consult you on certain financial matters, privately, if you please.”
Grant received them cordially. “I shall be glad to advise you, if I can,” he said.
Mrs. LeCord cast a significant glance at Phyllis Bruce.
“Miss Bruce is my private stenographer. You may speak with perfect freedom.”
Mrs. LeCord took up her subject after a moment’s silence. “Mr. LeCord left me not entirely unprovided for,” she explained. “Almost a million dollars in bonds and real estate made a comfortable protection for me and my three daughters against the buffetings of a world which, as you may have found, Mr. Grant, is not over-considerate.”
“The buffetings of the world are an excellent training for the world’s affairs.”
“Maybe so, maybe so,” his visitor conceded. “However, there are other trainings—trainings of finer quality, Mr. Grant—than those which have to do with subsistence. I have been able to give my daughters the best education that money could command, and, if I do say it, I permit myself some gratification over the result. Gretta is comfortably and happily married,—a young man of some distinction in the financial world—a Mr. Powers, Mr. Newton Powers—you may happen to know him; Madge, I think, is always going to be her mother’s girl; Caroline is still heart-free, although one can never tell—”
“Oh, mother!” the girl protested, blushing daintily.
“I said you could never tell, Mr. Grant,—while handsome young men like yourself are at large.” Mrs. LeCord laughed heartily, as much as to say that her remark must be regarded only as a little pleasantry. “But you will think I am a gossipy old body,” she continued briskly. “I really came to discuss certain financial matters. Since Mr. LeCord’s death I have taken charge of all the family business affairs with, if I may confess it, some success. We have lived, and my girls have been educated, and our little reserve against a rainy day has been almost doubled, in addition to giving Gretta a hundred thousand in her own right on the occasion of her marriage. Caroline is to have the same, and when I am done with it there will be a third of the estate for each. In the meantime I am directing my investments as wisely as I can. I want my daughters to be provided for, quite apart from any income marriage may bring them. I should be greatly humiliated to think that any daughter of mine would be dependent upon her husband for support. On the contrary, I mean that they shall bring to their husbands a sum which will be an appreciable contribution toward the family fortune.”
“If I can help you in any way in your financial matters—” Grant suggested.
“Oh, yes, we must get back to that. How I wander! I’m afraid, Mr. Grant, I must be growing old.”
Grant protested gallantly against such conclusion, and Mrs. LeCord, after asking his opinion on certain issues shortly to be floated, arose to leave.
“You must find life in this city somewhat lonely, Mr. Grant,” she murmured as she drew on her gloves. “If ever you find a longing for a quiet hour away from business stress—a little domesticity, if I may say it—our house—”
“You are very kind. Business allows me very few intermissions. Still—”
She extended her hand with her sweetest smile. Caroline shook hands, too, and Grant bowed them out.
On other occasions Mrs. LeCord and her daughter were fortunate enough to find Grant alone, and at such times the mother’s conversation became even more pointed than in their first interview. Grant hesitated to offend her, mainly on account of Caroline, for whom he admitted to himself it would not be at all difficult to muster up an attachment. There were, however, three barriers to such a development. One was the obvious purpose of Mrs. LeCord to arrange a match; a purpose which, as a mere matter of the game, he could not allow her to accomplish. One was Zen Transley. There was no doubt about it. Zen Transley stood between him and marriage to any girl. Not that he ever expected to take her into his life, or be admitted into hers, but in some way she hedged him about. He felt that everything was not yet settled; he found himself entertaining a foolish sense that everything was not quite irrevocable.... And then there was—perhaps—Phyllis Bruce.
When at length, for some reason, Mrs. LeCord visited him alone he decided to be frank with her.
“You have thought me clever enough to advise you on financial matters?” he queried, when his visitor had discussed at some length the new loan in which she was investing.
“Why, yes,” she returned, detecting the personal note in his voice. “I sometimes think, Mr. Grant, you hardly do yourself justice. Even the hardest old heads on the Exchange are taking notice of you. I have heard your name mentioned—”
“Then it may be presumed,” he interrupted, “that I am clever enough to know the real purpose of your visits to this office?”
She turned a little in her chair, facing him squarely. “I hardly understand you, Mr. Grant.”
“Then I possess an advantage, because I quite clearly understand you. I have hesitated, out of consideration for your daughter, to show any resentment of your behavior. But I must now tell you that when I marry, if ever I do, I shall choose my wife without the assistance of her mother, and without regard to her dowry or the size of the family bank account.”
“Oh, I protest!” exclaimed Mrs. LeCord, who had grown very red. “I protest against any such conclusion. I have seen fit to intrust my financial affairs to your firm; I have visited you on business—accompanied at times by my daughter, it is true—but only on business; recognizing in you a social equal I have invited you to my house, a courtesy which, so far, you have not found yourself able to accept; but in all this I have shown toward you surely nothing but friendliness and a respect amounting, if I may say it, to esteem. But now that you are frank, Mr. Grant, I too will be frank. You cannot be unaware of the rumors which have been associated with your name?”
“You mean about Miss Bruce?”
“Ah, then you know of them. You are a young man, and we older people are disposed to make allowance for the—for that. But you must realize the great mistake you would be making should you allow this matter to become more than—a rumor.”
“I do not admit your right to question me on such a subject, Mrs. LeCord, but I shall not avoid a discussion of it. Suppose, for the sake of argument, that I were to contemplate marriage with Miss Bruce; if she and her relatives were agreeable, what right would anyone have to object?”
“It would be a great mistake,” Mrs. LeCord insisted, avoiding his question. “She is not in your class—”
“What do you mean by ‘class’?”
“Why, I mean socially, of course. She lives in a different world. She has no standing, in a social way. She works in an office for a living—”
“So do I,” he interrupted, “and your daughters do not. It would therefore appear that I am more in Miss Bruce’s ‘class’ than in theirs.”
“Ah, but you are an employer. You direct things. You work because you want to, not because you have to. That makes a difference.”
“Apparently it does. Well, if I had my way, everybody would work, whether he wanted to or not. I would not allow any healthy man to spend money which he had not earned by the sweat of his own brow. I am convinced that that is the only economic system which is sound at the bottom, but it would destroy ‘class,’ as at present organized, so ‘class’ must fight it.”
“I am afraid you are rather radical, Mr. Grant. You may be sure that a system which has served so long and so well is a good system.”
“That introduces the clash between East and West. The East says because things are so, and have always been so, they must be right. The West says because things are so, and have always been so, they are in all probability wrong. I guess I am a Westerner.”
“You should not allow your theories of economics to stand in the way of your success,” Mrs. LeCord pursued. “Suppose I admit that Caroline would not be altogether deaf to your advances. Suppose I admit that much. Allowing for a mother’s prejudice, will you not agree with me that Caroline has her attractions? She is well bred, well educated, and not without appearance. She belongs to the smartest set in town. Her circle would bring you not only social distinction, but valuable business connections. She would introduce that touch of refinement—”
But Grant, now thoroughly angry, had risen from his chair. “You speak of refinement,” he exclaimed, in the quick, sharp tones which alone revealed the fighting Grant;—“you, who have been guilty of—I could use a very ugly word which I will give you the credit of not understanding. When I decide to buy myself a wife I will send to you for a catalogue of your daughter’s charms.”
Grant dismissed Mrs. LeCord from his office with the confident expectation that he soon would have occasion to know something of the meaning of the proverb about hell’s furies and a woman scorned. She would strike at him, of course, through Phyllis Bruce. Well—
But his attention was at once to be turned to very different matters. A stock market, erratic for some days, went suddenly into a paroxysm. Grant escaped with as little loss as possible for himself and his clients, and after three sleepless nights called his staff together. They crowded into the board-room, curious, apprehensive, almost frightened, and he looked over them with an emotion that was quite new to his experience. Even in the aloofness which their standards had made it necessary for him to adopt there had grown up in his heart, quite unnoticed, a tender, sweet foliage of love for these men and women who were a part of his machine. Now, as he looked in their faces he realized how, like little children, they leaned on him—how, like little children, they feared his power and his displeasure—how, perhaps, like little children, they had learned to love him, too. He realized, as he had never done before, that they WERE children; that here and there in the mass of humanity is one who was born to lead, but the great mass itself must be children always, doing as they are bid.
“My friends,” he managed to say, “we suddenly find ourselves in tremendous times. Some of you know my attitude toward this business in which we are engaged. I did not seek it; I did not approve of it; I tried to avoid it; yet, when the responsibility was forced upon me I accepted that responsibility. I gave up the life I enjoyed, the environment in which I found delight, the friends I loved. Well—our nation is now in a somewhat similar position. It has to go into a business which it did not seek, of which it does not approve, but which fate has thrust upon it. It has to break off the current of its life and turn it into undreamed-of channels, and we, as individuals who make up the nation, must do the same. I have already enlisted, and expect that within a few hours I shall be in uniform. Some of you are single men of military age; you will, I am sure, take similar steps. For the rest—the business will be wound up as soon as possible, so that you may be released for some form of national service. You will all receive three months’ salary in lieu of notice. Mr. Murdoch will look after the details. When that has been done my wealth, or such part of it as remains, will be placed at the disposal of the Government. If we win it will be well invested in a good cause; if we lose, it would have been lost anyway.”
“We are not going to lose!” It was one of the younger clerks who interrupted; he stood up and for a moment looked straight at his chief. In that instant’s play of vision there was surely something more than can be told in words, for the next moment he rushed forward and seized one of Grant’s hands in both his own. There was a moment’s handclasp, and the boy had become a man.
“I’m going, Grant,” he said. “I’m going—NOW!”
He turned and made his way out of the room, leaving his chief breathless in a rapture of joy and pride. Others crowded up. They too were going—NOW. Even old Murdoch tried to protest that he was as good a man as ever. It seemed to Grant that the drab everyday costumings of his staff had fallen away, and now they were heroes, they were gods!
No one knew just how the meeting broke up, but Grant had a confused remembrance of many handclasps and some tears. He was not sure that he had not, perhaps, added one or two to the flow, but they were all tears of friendship and of an emotion born of high resolve.... The most wonderful thing was that the youngster had called him Grant!
As he stood in his own office again, trying to get the events of these last few days into some sort of perspective, Phyllis Bruce entered. He motioned dumbly to a chair, but she came and stood by his desk. Her face was very white and her lips trembled with the words she tried to utter.
“I can’t go,” she managed to say at length.
“Can’t go? I don’t understand?”
“Hubert has joined,” she said.
“Hubert, the boy! Why, he is only in school—”
“He is sixteen, and large for his age. He came home confessing, and saying it was his first lie, and the first important thing he ever did without consulting mother. He said he knew he wouldn’t be able to stand it if he told her first.”
“Foolish, but heroic,” Grant commented. “Be proud of him. It takes more than wisdom to be heroic.”
“And Grace is going to England. She was taking nursing, you know, and so gets a preference. We can’t ALL leave mother.”
He found it difficult to speak. “You wanted to go to the Front?” he managed.
“Of course; where else?”
Her hand was on the desk; his own slipped over until it closed on it.
“You are a little heroine,” he murmured.
“No, I’m not. I’m a little fool to tell you this, but how can I stay—why should I stay—when you are gone?”
She was looking down, but after her confession she raised her eyes to his, and he wondered that he had never known how beautiful she was. He could have taken her in his arms, but something, with the power of invisible chains, held him back. In that supreme moment a vision swam before him; a vision of a mountain stream backed by tawny foothills, and a girl as beautiful as even this Phyllis who had wrapped him in her arms... and said, “We must go and forget.” And he had not forgotten....
When he did not respond she drew herself slowly away. “You will hate me,” she said.
“That is impossible,” he corrected, quickly. “I am very sorry if I have let you think more than I intended. I care for you very, very much indeed. I care for you so much that I will not let you think I care for you more. Can you understand that?”
“Yes. You like me, but you love someone else.”
He was disconcerted by her intuition and the terse frankness with which she stated the case.
“I will take you into my confidence, Phyllis, if I may,” he said at length. “I DO like you; I DID love someone else. And that old attachment is still so strong that it would be hardly fair—it would be hardly fair—”
“Why didn’t you marry her?” she demanded.
“Because some one else did.”
“Oh!”
Her hands found his this time. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Sorry I brought this up—sorry I raised these memories. But now you—who have known—will know—”
“I know—I know,” he murmured, raising her fingers to his lips....
“Time, they say, is a healer of all wounds. Perhaps—”
“No. It is better that you should forget. Only, I shall see you off; I shall wave my handkerchief to YOU; I shall smile on YOU in the crowd. Then—you will forget.”...
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg