V
HE season at Aiken came to an end with a sudden visitation of hot weather, and the colony went northward, many by easy stages that dropped them for a week or so at Pinehurst or Virginia Hot Springs or Old Point. Gordon, with Peter Waring and Mortimer Poole, dallied for a fortnight at the latter resort, and then went on again in a chilly rain that blurred the car windows and depressed even Peter's buoyant spirits. Mort Poole left them at Philadelphia, and Gordon and Peter reached New York late at night on the first day of April. Outside the terminal they shivered in the cold, damp breeze as they waited for Peter's car to come up.
"This weather is an April fool on us," said Peter plaintively. "When does spring begin up here, anyway, old man?"
"One month after you get back, whenever that happens," replied Gordon. "Thank Heaven he brought the limousine!"
"I've got one, sir," confided Hurd confidentially as, a quarter of an hour later, Gordon handed him his overcoat.
"Eh? One what, you old reprobate?"
"A chestnut, sir; it's in my pocket, sir, and it's done a world of good. I had some difficulty getting one, sir, at this time of year, but here it is." He exhibited it proudly.
"By jove!" said Gordon, "so it is! And they're out of season, too, Hurd."
"Yes, sir, but a cousin of my wife's has a tree of them, sir, in her yard over on Staten Island and her little boy had some he'd kept. Mrs. Ames is waiting up for you, sir, in her room."
"I'll go right up. You were very fortunate, Hurd. You—er—you've noticed an improvement already, you say?"
"Oh, yes, sir! Why, last week I could scarcely bend my back, sir!"
"Quite wonderful! Send a couple of sandwiches and the Scotch to my room, will you?"
Mrs. Ames had not been wasting her time, as the little pile of gray envelopes, sealed, addressed and stamped, lying at her elbow on the writing desk, attested. She laid down her pen as Gordon entered, kissed him, patted his hand then viewed him critically.
"You've lost flesh," she pronounced. "Don't get much thinner, Gordon; it isn't becoming. It was so with your father. He tried never to get below a hundred and sixty. You've come home to quite the worst weather of the spring."
"One always does. You're looking very fit, Mums."
She allowed the appellation to pass unchallenged, a sign of extreme amiability.
"I have had a very good month," she replied in a manner that seemed to imply that such a satisfactory result had been attained only by the wisest and most careful management on her part; an implication open to doubt, since Mrs. Ames' health was always good. "I've always thought," she went on, "that if folks would stay sensibly at home and not go flitting around the globe they'd be a lot better off. We're becoming a nation of gadders, Gordon."
"Anything new?" he asked.
"Nothing of interest to you, I think," she replied reflectively. "I believe Mr. Lovering is anxious to see you."
He nodded. "I had a wire from him yesterday. I'm going down in the morning. It's something about the road. The Interstate Commerce Commission is smelling a rat, I fancy; Lovering wired something about an inquiry into freight rates. But why drag me into it, eh?"
"But, Gordon, it's your own road! Surely"
"It isn't my road at all, Fair Lady; it's Lovering's road, and Wharton's road and all the other old granny directors' road. If by any possible chance I have an idea of my own they throw up their hands in holy horror and squeak, 'Oh, dear, that would never do! Never in the world!' What's the use, eh? By Jove, some day I'll get up my spunk and go down there and take that road by the throat and shake the mischief out of it!"
"I suppose, my dear, that Mr. Lovering and Mr. Wharton and the others really know best. They're experienced, you see."
"Of course they know best! That's what makes me tired. Why the dickens didn't dad pound some railroad sense into me, I wonder? All I ever learned was to speak French and German with a New York accent, take a fall out of Euclid, and not get Julius Cæsar confused with Velasquez."
Mrs. Ames, smoothing her gray silk gown, looked troubled. "I've never heard you talk like this before," she said almost plaintively. "I'm sure your father and I always meant to give you as good an education"
"You did, Mums. Or, at least, you offered it to me. I was fool enough not to make the most of it."
"There was that year in Berlin"
"That I wasted, I know. And I might have stayed here and taken a post-graduate course. But I didn't. If dad hadn't died when he did I suppose I'd have done differently. But when a fellow comes into a fortune as big as a skyscraper at twenty-one, why, there's only one thing to do, and that's get busy and dig into it. And the sad part of it is that I haven't even been a success as a spender!"
"That is surely to your credit, Gordon."
"No, it isn't! There's no credit coming to a fellow for falling down on what he attempts. I tried to be a spender and failed from the first. Somewhere inside me there's a—a leaven of New England thrift that queers the game. Why, hang it, mother, I can't even loaf decently now! I get bored to death about every twenty-four hours. Sometimes I wish to Heaven I'd been born poor!"
"The obligations of wealth" began Mrs. Ames.
"Don't, please. Mums! I know all about that. What I want is something to do. I think I'll get married."
"Marriage is hardly an occupation," returned his mother, smiling.
"By gad, it is for some poor devils! Teddy Norden was down at Aiken for a week or two with that filly of his, and I give you my word I never saw a man more fully occupied than he was!"
"I am very sorry for Mr. Norden," said his mother, "but when men marry out of their set—I hope there was no—no scandal?"
"Nothing special," replied Gordon, with a shrug. "Enough to keep Teddy on the qui vive, though."
"Well, I'm not sure that marriage wouldn't be very good for you, my boy. You're twenty-seven. Your father married when he was twenty-eight. Have you—is there any one you fancy?"
"No, at the present moment I'm heart-whole. He paused a moment and frowned at the cigarette he was lighting. "Perhaps that's what the trouble is, Mums."
"If you are in earnest I'll look around for you, Gordon, but do try not to—to get mixed up again."
He nodded, blowing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. "All right. Not likely, anyhow. I've sown my wild oats. Still, you needn't begin to look just yet. I guess I like talking about it better than plunging. Happy marriages don't seem, in my experience, to be exactly a drug on the market! Ever known any, Mums?"
"One, at any rate," replied Mrs. Ames gently.
"I know," said Gordon gloomily. "But you were different from the women nowadays. I don't suppose you ever had a real flirtation after you married dad, did you?"
"No, dear. I never saw the man worth flirting with, and I wouldn't have known how to flirt if I had."
"Oh, yes you would," replied Gordon cynically. "Flirting doesn't have to be learned. Well, I'm tuckered." He drew his long length from the chair and stood up in the soft glow of the silk-shaded lights. Mrs. Ames sighed.
"Gordon, you're much too good looking. I don't know where you get it. Your father was a good man and a big man, but even I could never consider him handsome."
"Fortunately, then, I had a mother," responded Gordon. "Ever meet her, Mums? She's one of the best-lookers in New York this minute!"
Mrs. Ames smiled and shook her head. "I don't pretend that I wasn't—rather pretty when I was younger, Gordon "
"My word, you're getting better looking every day, Mother! Why, you'd have had the whole bunch of 'em 'ridden off' if you'd been at Aiken! Good night. I'll look in before I go downtown."
He bent over and kissed her. "How do you keep your hair so young-looking, Mums?"
"It's quite full of gray, my dear, and I'm only"
"Careful!"
"Fifty-two, Gordon. Lots of women don't get gray before sixty."
"Gray!" Gordon chuckled. "Why, you haven't enough gray hairs to put in a locket! Anyway, they'll become you when they do arrive; make you look more distinguished than ever. How are all the pet charities getting on?"
"Nicely, I think. That reminds me, dear. Can you stay a moment? It's about the Milburns."
"Who are the Milburns?" asked Grordon, yawning.
"Why, my dear, I wrote you"
"Oh, yes, of course; tenth cousins or something. Somebody died, didn't they?"
"Emma Milburn. I sent flowers in your name and mine, Gordon. Then I asked Mr. Lovering to look into her affairs. I wrote you I was going to."
"Quite right. Then what?"
"Well, it seems that Emma left one child, a grown-up daughter; her name is—is Margaret, I think he said. I have his note here somewhere. Well, never mind now. I'm quite sure it was Margaret, anyhow. It seems that they were rather poor and the girl is left quite on her own resources. She is about twenty-two or three, I believe. I have never believed that my father made any promises to Thomas Millburn, Gordon, but the girl is a relation in a way, and I think it is my duty to aid her. We thought that, say, ten thousand dollars placed with Mr. Lovering for investment would be about right."
"Four or five hundred a year? Can a girl live on that?"
"She is already employed at something, Gordon, and I have no desire to make her independent of her work. That would be most inadvisable. But five hundred a year would provide very nicely for her. I'm wondering whether to give her the income for life or merely until she marries.'
"Oh, let's go the whole hog, Mums. Perhaps she won't marry unless she has it. Have you ever seen her?"
Mrs. Ames shook her head. "I—I don't think I shall insist on that. It—might be painful, and could do no good. I don't think it is necessary for her to know where the money comes from, do you?"
"I fancy she won't much care," replied Gordon, hiding a yawn. "May I go halves with you?"
"No, dear, it's quite my affair. Still, I'm glad you approve. You do, Gordon?"
"Quite. Good night."