XX Red Dawn
I
For a day or two Eileen was abstracted and moody, a flaccid resignation taking the place of the high spiritual enthusiasm that ushered in her surrender. But it was not in the girl’s nature to remain long depressed. She could not, as Lavinia did, nurture a grouch to its final fruition. Her return to normal was accompanied by a sequence of quarrels with her elder sister, and she shunned her father with studied aversion. Hal resumed his old habit of asking her to meet him on the campus or around the corner on Sherman Avenue. “To escape Sylvia’s sticky patronage,” she explained to Mrs. Ascott.
Towards the end of the week she went with Theodora to the shady west porch of Vine Cottage, to assist with the drawing of innumerable threads and the hemming of a fresh supply of napkins for the two linen closets. Her lap was overflowing with damask when the postman’s whistle shrilled through the sultry morning air. Theo bounded to her feet, her eyes wide with excitement. The coming of the postman was always an adventure, vicarious but none the less interesting. Some day he might bring.... No, she was not expecting letters for herself. But Lary had sent away a poem and an essay. And then, there ought to be a long letter for daddy. As yet there had been nothing but a stingy post card, with the hackneyed old Niagara Falls on one side and on the other that offensive old cliché: “Will write soon.” And mamma had sent such attractive cards to all the others, not omitting Nanny and Mrs. Dutton.
After a few minutes she came slowly back, all the joy gone out of her face. There was a long envelope addressed to Mr. Larimore Trench. She inverted the hateful thing in Judith’s lap. Letters of acceptance did not come in long envelopes. There was another one, square and perfumed, bearing the name, Mrs. Raoul Ascott. Who was this Raoul Ascott, that he should intrude here?
“The dead have had their shining day;
Why should they try
To listen to the words we say
And breathe their blight upon our May
While the winds sigh?”
She had read the stanza in the back of one of Sylvia’s books ... written while Sylvia was temporarily engrossed with a young professor whose spouse had died. But, after all, it wasn’t quite fair to feel that way about people who couldn’t help being remembered. And Mr. Ascott had vacated the place that belonged rightfully to Lary. The third letter was from mamma. It bore, in Lavinia’s cramped writing, the name of Mrs. Oliver Penrose. The little girl raged impotently as she called her sister.
II
Sylvia pushed Eileen none too gently aside, to make room for herself in the hammock beside Mrs. Ascott. Then she fell upon her letter, reading aloud such passages as involved no violation of the family’s privacy. The journey had been hot and dusty—not a familiar face on the train from beginning to end. Theodore had met her in Rochester with the new car, and she had enjoyed the first part of the ride, along the Genesee. She was glad Ellen was not along. It gave Ted a chance to tell her ever so many things, that she would otherwise not have heard.
Ellen could think of nothing but the Stone scandal. Everybody felt sorry for Calvin. For her part, she thought he got only what he deserved. She had not seen him, as yet. His life was a terrible example of the consequences of sin. She hoped he had not forgotten how she tried for years to lead him into the church. She might remind him of this, when she saw him ... for Ellen had invited him—oh, much against her own wishes—to have dinner with them Sunday.
As Sylvia read, the long envelope addressed to Mr. Larimore Trench slipped from Judith’s lap and fell to the floor. Eileen stooped to restore it.
“Whee-oo! Lary’ll be down in the back cellar, eating coal to warm his heart,” she cried. “It certainly does take the tuck out of him to have the editors give him the back-fire.”
“I can imagine what you mean,” Mrs. Ascott smiled, “but you are wrong in your surmise. This is not a rejected manuscript. It is a business letter from one of my attorneys—not Mr. Ramsay.”
That evening, just as Hal and Eileen were driving away in the little roadster, with Sylvia watching them from a third-floor window, Lary sprang nimbly over the wall and hurried to the summer house, the long envelope in his hand. His feet scarce touched the grass ... he walked like Theodora in her most charming mood.
“It’s the contract for the plans. I couldn’t wait to let you know. It might have been the other thing. I wouldn’t let myself see how eager I was for ... success. Mr. Sanderson says they are charmed with the whole arrangement. They want me to come to New York at once for a conference. His daughter doesn’t care about the cow barn—since she isn’t operating a dairy. They would like to have me substitute a studio, somewhere out in the woods. It appears that the bride-to-be is a sculptor.”
“Yes, she and Hilda Travers were in Paris together—but of course you don’t know about Hilda.”
A queer, chilly feeling crept over Judith Ascott. She had forgotten Hilda. She had forgotten everything. It all belonged to another world, a story she had read in a book on an idle summer’s day.
“You didn’t—let the Marksleys have the cow barn?” she faltered.
“No.”
“I’m glad you didn’t. A lower nature than yours would have taken a mean revenge—by letting the dwelling of cattle shame the manor house.”
“It wasn’t that, Judith. They offered me a stiff price for that one set of plans, and I needed the money. But ... seeing anything of mine in that environment of cairngorms would make me feel the way it does to see Eileen running around with that—” He checked himself, and the slow red—Lavinia’s red that betokened impotent rage—crept above the line of his collar.
“When are they going to begin building? The Sandersons, I mean.”
“Immediately. They want me to go over the ground and outline the landscape features. I shall probably be back and forth the rest of the summer. They have asked me to serve in the capacity of supervising architect. We don’t do things that way in Springdale. But I have helped my father—long before I was out of college—so I have all the necessary experience. The only difference is that Mr. Sanderson will pay me a fee and flaunt my name on sign-boards all over the estate. I may as well get used to that part of it. I have always insisted that my father use his name, as contractor, in connection with the actual work. It’s a distinction I never relished. But if I’m going to invade the New York field—”
“I’m so happy. Have you told Sylvia?”
“No, I told the baby.”
“That was dear, Lary.”
Larimore Trench turned to look at her. The blue-grey eyes were suffused and the sweet lips trembled. The man wondered why he had no impulse to kiss so engaging a mouth. It was all spiritual, that strange contact that he was experiencing for the first time in his life. Then, too, kissing had always been associated with his mother, the outward symbol of a bond he knew did not exist.
“I am going down to the office to talk it over with papa. They have asked for an immediate answer by wire. It is not necessary to tell you what the answer will be. Won’t you come with me? I’ll turn the electric fan on you while we talk shop.”
“But, Lary, won’t I be horribly in the way?”
“How could the other half of me be in the way? Don’t you see, dear, you must be with me when my father has the proudest moment of his life. This will be the antidote for all that Marksley poison in his soul.”