CHAPTER IV
There are two dreams which every developed and normal woman cherishes. One, of wee hands at her breast. The other, that she may some day have either the building, or the complete rebuilding, of a home; and it is always more enjoyable to correct and profit by the mistakes of other folk than it is to make our own mistakes.
Aircastle Point fulfilled this latter dream for Dorothy Armstrong.
The point itself was private property, owned by the dozen men who had their homes here; around its islands and properties swept the sea-tides, with Long Island Sound opening out beyond. Lying within the corporate limits of a town once famed as being forty-five minutes from Broadway, Aircastle Point was both remote from the citied roar yet near enough to New York.
When Dorothy viewed this future home of hers, the delight that upsprang in her became a rapture, an ecstasy of eager planning, that fully verified Armstrong's choice of a location. She found an old Dutch farmhouse with wall panels, corner fireplaces and other treasures of a once comfortable and simple home life. On three sides, a lawn swept down to the sea, barred by a low wall of rough stone. Huge elms and oaks overshadowed the house, and across the lawn were flung old cedars and pines, contorted and blown by the salt winds into fantastic shapes.
Armstrong slyly suggested decorators, then refrained from further intrusion. He had certain ideas of his own, but watched unobtrusively to see what would happen. Thus, thinking to please him, Dorothy called in a gentleman from Fifth Avenue, who made two very accurately beautiful paintings of her home-interior as it should be. Reese accompanied his wife to view the results, and blandly expressed himself as charmed. Dorothy eyed him, then turned to the decorator with her sweetest air.
"These pictures are exquisite. I should like to buy them from you."
"You flatter us, Mrs. Armstrong!" came the unctuous response, with the usual simper. "We try to express an individualistic taste, of course—this dining room, for example. You will notice that it is entirely correct; Jacobean throughout. People are doing these things so much this season, of course! This touch of color over the buffet is a splendid bit of tapestry that I have in mind; really quite good, don't you think? An excellent bit of still life—game—"
"I'm sure your ideas are excellent," said Dorothy. "What is the price of these?"
"Oh, say fifty dollars for both pictures; we do not make a practice of selling these things, you know, and if you decide to confide the work to us, as I am confident you will, we shall be very glad to deduct the amount from our fee."
Dorothy paid for the two pictures. Something in her air aroused the decorator to questions, to an unfortunate probing. So Dorothy gave him the truth which he sought.
"You see," she explained sweetly, "I want them because they are really very nice, and also in order to show what we've escaped. My taste in decorating is quite hopeless, you know, for I want a home and not an inane color effect—"
Armstrong exploded in a burst of laughter and hastened to escort Dorothy from the outraged precincts. Safely in the car, she turned dancing eyes to him.
"Then you don't insist on a decorator?"
"No!"
A sigh of relief, and she settled back comfortably.
"I'm so glad! Just think of that absurd man, actually intending to tear out all those beautiful old panels! Reese, I'm going to spend some money, but in three weeks we'll have a home—a real home, too! It was good of you to wait and let me do it, instead of trying to surprise me with everything done."
"Go ahead, the sky's the limit," said Armstrong, who was hugely delighted by the whole affair.
Three weeks, in fact, saw them settled in the finished portion of the house, while a small army of workmen still struggled with unfinished rooms and grounds and garden, under Dorothy's direction.
Lawrence Macgowan was the first guest to view the new home, or rather the completed portion of it. Armstrong brought him down from the city over a week-end, and eagerly displayed the grounds and house. He was delighted by his friend's unchecked enthusiasm and endorsement of everything that was being done.
At dinner, Macgowan heard the story about the decorators, and roared over it. When they had adjourned to the living room and were discussing Dorothy's choice of rugs, Macgowan stood with his back to the log fire, fingering his cigar; then he turned impulsively to Dorothy, and spoke.
"My dear Dorothy, may I make a frank confession?"
Dorothy's smile belied the flash of steel in her glance. "Certainly, if Reese may be a party to it!"
"Oh, he's a part of it." Macgowan chuckled, in his odd manner of being inwardly amused over something unspoken. "You see, like every confirmed bachelor who beholds his best friend embarking on the wine-dark sea of matrimony, I have hitherto, my dear Dorothy, been ungallant enough to congratulate you—quite irrespective of your charming qualities—upon the acquisition of your husband."
He paused, regarding Dorothy with his slightly aggressive, straightforward gaze. His air was half reflective, half admiring.
"Well, where's the crime in that?" she demanded brightly. "Don't you suppose that women ever think they are fortunate? We're not all stuck-up prigs, grandly convinced of the blessings we bestow—not a bit of it!"
Macgowan waved his cigar.
"Ah, but I confess my error! It is Reese who deserves the congratulations which I now tender with all my heart, not with the lips alone! Wives are easily found, my dear fellow," turning to Armstrong, "but home-makers are rare, I assure you. So rare, indeed, that I—"
He ended with a sigh and a gesture, as though the rarity of home-makers accounted for his own single state. Then, with a sudden thrust of his cigar, he indicated the rooms beyond.
"Look at this place! Look at that burnt-ivory woodwork, those rugs, these bits of polished wood that we call furniture! Look at those bright yellow valences, those blue curtains, that pinkish splendor of a Kirman on the floor! Why, the raw fighting colors are as sweetly harmonious, as delicately blended, as the vivid hues of some old Chinese embroidery! Only an artist can blend raw colors.
"Thank the lord, there's no formality about this house. Good things in plenty, but no useless frippery made for effect and expenditure. When one comes in here, it's to find a home that's lived in, used, created for comfort and enjoyment. Reese, old man, you're to be congratulated! With the cynical egotism of one who is too largely surrounded by a world of sham, I say that I myself could have done no better with this house. It is perfection."
"And that's a huge compliment, Dot, for Lawrence Macgowan to pay!" exclaimed the beaming Armstrong. "He's a famous critic of the arts. Everybody up and down the Avenue looks to Mac to pass on worthy furniture, Serbian sculpture and all the professional forms of art! On the strength of this compliment, you can go into the house-decorating business and become rich in a month."
"Nonsense, I mean it!" protested Macgowan earnestly. "Absolutely."
"And I do thank you." Dorothy's eyes were dancing under the praise, yet the blue-steel gleam still lingered in their depths. "You make amends very pleasantly."
"Amends?" Macgowan's brows lifted. "For what, pray?"
"For a remark you made in Evansville, the day we were married. You remember?"
Macgowan regarded her, frowning slightly in puzzled retrospection.
"I'm afraid not," he said. "Surely, it was nothing to require amends?"
As he said this, his eyelids lowered the barest trifle. The movement was entirely involuntary. So trivial was it, so subtly evanescent, as to be almost imperceptible; only one watching him keenly would have observed this slight muscular reflex.
Dorothy observed it. If she knew it for the sign of a lie, she made no comment.
"Oh, not in the least!" she responded, a smile on her lips. "And I dare Reese to try dragging business into this home and spoiling it! Just to show that I'm not a bit afraid of the consequences, I want to ask you two men something about business."
Armstrong settled deeper into his chair and lighted his cigar.
"Fire away, Dot! Any time I don't drop business the minute I leave the office, just you jump on me. Want to invest some surplus cash, or what?"
She laughed. "No, thank you! You can play with other people's money all you like. I want to ask about Food Products, that's all—what you're doing with it. And do sit down, Lawrence. You make me nervous, handling that cigar like a baton; besides, you cut off all the beauty of the fire."
"Cruel lady!" sighed Macgowan. "Can you not appreciate the magnificence of such a fire-screen? Well, I obey. Reese, tell the lady all about Food Products."
He sat down, gazing at the ceiling, and puffed reflectively at his cigar. He appeared to be rather thoughtful about something.
"Well, Dot?" inquired Armstrong. "What do you want to know?"
"Oh, everything in general! Is that stock issue on the market?"
"We start the campaign in a couple of weeks; one thing and another has held us up. Our investors will eat it up, too. Consolidated is going to do big things for them—"
"Food Products, please!" Dorothy stuck to her point. "Is the plant at work?"
"Full capacity; it has never ceased work. Within the next month or two the reorganization will begin to show big results. We're going to work with a real advertising campaign. If you could see the difference between our operating cost-sheet and that of the old organization, you'd realize what one trouble back there has been."
"With father's company?" asked Dorothy, a little doubtfully.
"Exactly. By the way, Dot, I wrote your father to-day asking him to reconsider his resignation and come back into the company. I think he's been out of the harness long enough to realize that he'll rust out unless he keeps busy. I hope he'll accept."
"Good, good!" put in Macgowan heartily. "Glad to hear that, Reese! His name is worth a good deal to the company, as is his active interest. I don't imagine he'll accept, though, unless he's given real powers. This figurehead business may not appeal to him any more now than it did before—"
"Figurehead?" Dorothy glanced from one man to the other. "Just what does that mean? If he came back as president, wouldn't he have all the powers he always had?"
Macgowan started to speak, but was forestalled. Armstrong suddenly sensed what was in his wife's mind, and was startled. He leaned forward, giving a decisive thrust to his words.
"Dorothy, we want your father as president. Not with full powers, but to guide the company from a consultant position. I've pulled some of the best men in this country from their jobs, to work for Food Products. I've guaranteed these men a free hand, no interference. Your father can help them tremendously with his advice, his knowledge of the whole business; he would be an invaluable asset to us!"
"I see," murmured Dorothy, with a nod of comprehension. Her eyes rested for a moment on Macgowan, then returned to Armstrong. "Have you any idea when the sale of this stock issue will be completed?"
"Yes." Armstrong leaned back, relaxed, satisfied that she understood matters beyond any miscomprehension. "Within three or four months. The old directors failed to accomplish anything; they could not even start the ball rolling. With our investors to work on, nearly sixteen thousand of 'em, we'll put Food Products over."
"By the first of the year, eh?" Dorothy studied him a moment. "Why, I thought such things took a lot of time and work—a long campaign!"
Armstrong smiled. "Ordinarily they do. In this case, our organization is all ready to fall to work when the word comes. Besides, your father's company had the foundations laid; they got the blue sky licenses and so forth. We simply step in and sell."
"I see." Dorothy glanced again at Macgowan. "By the way, Lawrence, isn't Ried Williams some relation of yours? I think Pete Slosson spoke of it to me one day—"
Macgowan's gaze dwelt upon her for a moment. Undoubtedly, he recognized in the casualness of this question something beneath the surface. Perhaps he sensed attack.
"A distant cousin or something of the sort," he responded easily. "Nothing to be proud of in any case; eh, Reese? The relationship is so vague that it's only a matter of family mention. By the way, what has become of those two chaps, Williams and Slosson? They were rather bitter over our getting control and throwing them out. Do you ever hear from Pete Slosson, Dorothy?"
So nonchalant was the air of Macgowan that to Armstrong the words conveyed nothing. But to Dorothy they conveyed a declaration of war. From her wedding day, she had sensed Lawrence Macgowan as an enemy. She had ceased to grope in bewilderment for the cause, and accepted the fact itself; yet the fact did not cease to hurt.
"I can't possibly keep up with all my old flames," and she laughed. Then, rising, she dismissed the matter. "Thank you for the business information, gentlemen. Now, shall we have some music? Reese, kindly tune up that harp—you've hardly touched it since we were married!"
Macgowan heartily acclaimed the suggestion. With Dorothy at the piano, Armstrong got his harp in shape and they settled down for an hour of music, while Macgowan smoked and listened with critical appreciation, or discussed the vicissitudes of that harp.
"A man can never be known for what he really is," he exclaimed during a pause, "until he can be observed either at the height of fortune, or at the lowest point of disaster. Observing you, Reese, at the summit of success, I find you exactly the same person you were the first day you entered my office. Feel any different inside?"
"Not a bit."
Armstrong laughed. Nor was he ashamed of past days, for there was no petty snobbery in him. He spoke gayly of old times when his harp had boasted strings of cord or baling-wire, faute d'argent; or of how he had read Blackstone by day and troubadoured by night with his college friends. Far away were those days, but as he recalled them one could see that the memory was sweet within him.
Later, when they were alone in their own room, Dorothy came to her husband, arms out to his, and met his kiss with gravely serious gaze.
"Reese, dear, there's one thing I want you to promise me. Only one; but it means more to me than I can tell you."
"Anything in the world, dear lady," he promised, looking into her eyes and wondering what had caused their deep violet glow. "Speak! Your slave is ready."
"I'm serious. Am I really to be your partner in everything?"
"Not to be, but are."
"Well, I don't want you to drag business home with you. I want you to leave business behind and come to me and to your home. I don't want you to think that you have to retail to me every bit of business complexity that turns up. But—dear! I want to have a part in your dreams. I want you to come first to me, always, when you conceive some great ambition. Will you?"
"Always, dear lady! I promise—"
"Wait!" She checked him, finger on lips. "That's not what I want you to promise. I want something far more important to both of us! I want you to promise me just this one thing: That when some real business trouble comes to worry you, you will bring it to me. First to me, ahead of your friends, ahead of your lawyers, ahead of your business men. Not for my poor advice, perhaps, but just to let me share it with you first."
Armstrong, as he smiled at her, wondered why her face was so strained and anxious.
"I promise, lady. Why, dear—you don't think I'd take my troubles to Mac in preference to you?"
"Oh, I'm jealous of course, but that has nothing to do with it. There's a deeper reason that I'm not going to tell now." Her fingers tightened on his arms, tensely earnest. "It's a promise, now?"
"Surely, sweetheart," he said gravely. "Why—lady! You're crying—"
"Because I love you, that's all. Kiss me!"
Armstrong, rendered more than a little uneasy by her manner, was relieved to find that she said no more on the subject. He would not have been so relieved had he known how she lay awake that night, staring into the darkness, her brain struggling with the problem of Macgowan.
Intuition told her that the man was an enemy; she could not forget those words of his on her wedding-day. Against all this balanced his friendship and help for Armstrong, and weighed down the scales with fact. Yet she could not dismiss her fear of him; that it was baseless and apparently unfounded, only served to increase her hurt and anxiety. Still, she knew that she dare not so much as hint such a thing to her husband.
And to Armstrong himself, who was very sensitive to Dorothy's mental reactions, this incident recurred more than once. He was quite aware that marriage will seldom endure old comradeships. It was natural that Dorothy should feel a twinge of jealousy; had she not frankly admitted the fact? Down there in the city, it was Macgowan who was Armstrong's alter ego, who handled all Armstrong's affairs, who was friend and practically business partner as well. So far as the city was concerned, that was all very well.
"But I'll have to leave Mac in the city," thought Armstrong. "Dot is going to resent it if I bring him home too often. I'll bring Jimmy Wren down one of these days—he's pure boy and hasn't any of Mac's cynical loftiness. Dot has too many ideals to be enthralled by Mac's attitude, maybe."
Which was all very nice, and all entirely wrong. Like most men, Armstrong was blind to the inner motivations of the woman he loved.
Dorothy, seeing this, prayed that he might continue blind—for a time.