CHAPTER X.
I cannot argue, I can only feel.—Goethe.
Grandon runs carelessly over his mail before the morning meeting at Mr. Sherburne's. Two letters interest him especially and he lays them aside. One is from Eugene. That improvident young man is out of money. He is tired of Lake George and desires to go to Newport. He is sorry that Floyd is getting himself into such a mess with the business, and is quite sure the best thing would be to sell out to Wilmarth. He has had a letter from him in which he, Wilmarth, confesses that matters are in a very serious strait unless Mr. Floyd Grandon is willing to risk his private fortune. "Don't do it," counsels the younger. "The new machinery is a confounded humbug, but if any one can make it work, Wilmarth is the man. If St. Vincent wants to get his daughter a husband, why does he not offer her to Wilmarth? If she is as pretty as you say, she ought not go begging for a mate, but when I marry for a fortune I want the money in hand, not locked up in a lot of useless trumpery."
A pang goes through Floyd's soul. If he never had offered her to Eugene! It seems almost as if he had stabbed her to the heart. He can see her soft, entreating, velvet eyes, and he covers his face with his hands to hide the blush of shame. He will make it all up to her a thousand times. Ah, can mere money ever take out such a sting?
The other letter is from a German professor and dear friend that he left behind in Egypt, who expects to reach America early in September, and find that Herr Grandon has improved his time and transcribed and arranged all the notes, as he has so many more. There will be little enough time, so the good comrade must not idle. They will have a good long vacation afterward, when they can climb mountains and shoot buffaloes, and explore the New World together, but now every day is of value!
Floyd Grandon gives a smile of dismay. The precious days are flying so rapidly. And everything has changed, the most important of all, his own life. How could he?
He is a little late at the lawyer's, and they are all assembled. He gives a quick glance toward Wilmarth. The impassible face has its usual half-sneer and the covert politeness so baffling. Lindmeyer has been explaining something, and stops short with an eager countenance.
The provisions of the will are gone over again. Floyd Grandon is now an interested party in behalf of his wife. There are the books with a very bad showing for the six months. They have not paid expenses, and there is no reserve capital to fall back upon. It looks wonderfully like a failure. Wilmarth watches Grandon closely. He is aware now that he has underrated the vigor of his opponent, who by a lucky turn of fate holds the trump cards. That Floyd Grandon could or would have married Miss St. Vincent passes him. He knows nothing, of course, of the episode with Cecil, and thinks the only motive is the chance to get back the money he has been advancing on every hand. If he only had signed a marriage contract there in Canada! He could almost subject himself to the tortures of the rack for his blunder.
"Gentlemen," says Lindmeyer, who is a frank, energetic man of about Grandon's age, with a keen eye and a resolute way of shutting his mouth, "I see no reason at present why this should not succeed. It has been badly handled, not understood. Mr. St. Vincent was not able to make the workmen see with his eyes, and in his state of health he was so excitable, confused, and worried that I don't wonder, indeed, I have this plan to propose. If either of you gentlemen," glancing at Wilmarth and Grandon, "will advance me sufficient means, and allow me to choose my own foreman, perhaps a head man in every department, I will prove to you in a month that the thing is a success, that there is a fortune in it."
The steady, confident ring in the man's voice inspires them all. He is no wild enthusiast. They glance at Wilmarth, as being in some sense head of the business.