CHAPTER XVIII
REPARATION
“Whoever fights, whoever falls,
Justice conquers evermore.”
Emerson.
The butler had withdrawn to superintend the bringing in of the dinner’s final course. Helmar, with his hand outstretched toward his wine glass, for a moment hesitated, and looking first at Rose and then at Vaughan, came to a puzzled, half-humorous pause. “I realize,” he said, “that this is the proper time for a toast, yet my tongue is tied. Not through diffidence, either. I never have stage fright, and I know exactly what I’m going to say. In fact, I’ve been working all day on it, and if anything should happen now to prevent me from inflicting it on you, it would be the bitterest of disappointments—to me, I mean. But the question of proper precedence is what I can’t make up my mind about. For the life of me, I don’t know whether I ought to drink first to Rose, and reserve a separate glass for our rising author here, or whether my first duty is to drink to you both, in celebration of your engagement’s being formally made public to-morrow. By the latter plan, you see, I’m forced to drink alone, which is always bad; by the former, I manage to be in good company each time. And on the whole, I believe that’s the proper way. So here goes. Arthur, I propose the health of Miss Rose Carleton. In order not to embarrass her, I intend to refrain from any fulsome praise, merely observing that the fact that she is herself, suffices for everything. Youth, beauty, virtue; Arthur, you’re a fortunate man, and the only drawback to the whole affair is the horde of envious enemies you’re going to make for yourself. But that you’ll have to stand for; and the reward is certainly worth it.”
He bowed with exaggerated deference as he concluded, and the girl, laughing, softly clapped her hands. “Oh, beautiful, beautiful, Franz,” she cried, “I’m overcome. I suppose I ought to respond, but in the presence of two such distinguished beings, I’m actually dumb. But, believe me, Mr. Toastmaster, I deeply appreciate your effort. It’s fully worth all the time you must have spent on it.”
Vaughan, touching his glass to Helmar’s, laughed also. “There, Franz,” he cried, “isn’t that a fitting reward? And as for your enemies, and their envy, let them come, all of them. I’m safe; nothing matters now,” and the look in Rose Carleton’s eyes, as their glances met, was more eloquent than any response could have been.
The toast drunk, Helmar turned to the girl. “And now, Rose,” he said, “actually words fail. Here comes the really difficult part. How shall we try to describe such greatness? The literary man; the author fairly launched; the coming all-around novelist of the century, who has shown himself a romanticist by aspiring to the hand of Miss Carleton and a realist by winning it. There, how does that suit you? Will that do?”