Vaughan nodded. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “I got the impression from his letters that he was doing far better in every way, and I’m awfully glad if it’s so. Well, I must go, Mr. Carleton. You’ve been very kind to take everything the way you have. I know, of course, in one way, at least, what a disappointment this must be for you. I don’t care such a lot myself. Family trees and all that never meant such a great deal to me, and money bags even less, but for Rose’s sake, why, I wish I were the wealthiest man in the world, and the most aristocratic; she ought to have everything that a girl can have. So you’re awfully good not to make a row.”
Again Henry Carleton smiled. “Nonsense,” he said heartily, “those things make no difference with me, either. You’ve chosen a great career, and all we must do now is to make success assured, so that you can come to me as I know you want to come, saying, ‘Mr. Carleton, I’m earning a fair living; I can keep your daughter from want; I wish to marry her.’ That’s the way you’ll be coming some day, and you’ll find no one more ready to congratulate you than I. Good-by again; good-by.”
As Vaughan left the office, Carleton slowly reseated himself. “Strange,” he murmured, “a prospective son-in-law in young Vaughan, and I never even dreamed of it. Very prospective, too; that’s one comfort; and he seems actually to believe he may succeed in a literary career. Odd, what a time youth is for such dreams. He seems rather an inoffensive young man, at least; plastic, I should imagine, and rather easy to influence, if one only goes about it in the right way. That, I judge, is his weak point; that, and too great a tendency to confide in others. Due, I suppose, to the lack of a sound business training.” He sat silently for some moments, then repeated thoughtfully, “The lack of a sound business training,” and reached for the telephone. And then, a moment later, “Is Mr. Cummings in? Oh, it’s you, is it, Jim? Want to run over for a moment? Important? Yes, I should call it so. Thank you. Good-by,” and restoring the receiver to its hook, he gave himself up to earnest thought.
CHAPTER X
THE BIRCHES AGAIN
“The ancient grudge I bear him.”
Shakespeare.
Opposite the gateway of the Eversley train, the three men stood grouped together, with growing impatience awaiting Jack Carleton’s arrival. The gilded hands of the big clock, embedded in the solid masonry of the station wall, now pointed to three minutes of five; the Eversley “flyer” left at five precisely; and the long train was filling more rapidly each instant. Henry Carleton’s tone plainly enough showed his displeasure. “Whatever else it may have done for him,” he observed, “I can’t see that a residence in Montana has improved Jack’s habits of punctuality. Perhaps, Vaughan, you wouldn’t mind waiting here for him and letting us go ahead and make sure of getting seats. What do you say, Cummings?”