They prattled on at teas and dinners apropos of his “ridiculous engagement,” of the shock to his family, though the only near relative left to the boy was his uncle, both his father and mother having died when he was little. They discussed his good looks, which he still possessed; his brilliant career, which in fact had only just begun, though it bid fair to lead him to the foremost rank as an architect. They remembered his breezy good nature, which he still gave out as easily as he laughed or breathed to every one he came in contact with—all these society discussed, argued, and gossiped over at their leisure—all save the fact that they loved each other.
“I should not have been at all surprised, my dear,” declared Mrs. Gulliver Jones, whose diamonds trembled in unison with her years, and who rouged at sixty, “had he chosen a dancer—some low person of the stage,” she confided, wrinkling her beak. “Why, my dear, his family comes from the bluest of the blue. Of course you know his mother was a Pierrefont, a noted beauty, my dear, in my day. We were girls at school together. I can see her now at her first Charity Ball. Why, I’ll tell you who her sister married—Johnny Selwyn—why, my dear, Mrs. Selwyn Rivers’s own first cousin. The Selwyns were great swells in my day. As I told Gulliver yesterday, what are our young men coming to! Who is this young person, anyway? This Miss What’s-her-name? Preston, you say? They tell me she goes about giving lessons; that she can be actually hired for performances—paid in the hand—paid in the hand, my dear, like a mountebank, or a minstrel. You say she sang at Mrs. Van Cortlandt’s,” she cackled on. “I am not surprised. Do tell me what has become of that wretched woman! That extravagant creature! That she drove her poor husband to suicide does not at all amaze me. Vanity, my dear. What a fool Joe Grimsby has made of himself. Have I seen her? Certainly not. Neither has any one met the mother as far as I am able to discover. They tell me that both mother and daughter live in the same house as the young man—engaged and under the same roof—shocking state of affairs—and that if I am to believe my ears, her stepfather, who lives with them, takes in washing—or is in the laundry business?—or something of the sort as equally impossible. Suppose he does marry her—who will receive them? Certainly not I. Not a door will be open to them, mark my word. For heaven’s sake, my dear Elizabeth, if you have the slightest influence over him, do go and tell him he is making a fool of himself. I almost feel it is my duty to go myself, if it were not that I dreaded meeting those wretched people.”
Much of this tittle-tattle reached Emma Ford’s ears, who received it with resignation. She nevertheless suffered keenly from a sort of disappointment of what might have been, and which she was thoroughly incapable of defining. Having given her consent, she had begun to prepare herself for the inevitable, and become as satisfactory a mother-in-law as circumstances permitted. So much had happened in the past few months to shatter her hopes and ambitions. Her dream had been to see Sue placed upon the pinnacle of her social aspirations, surrounded by luxury, living in a continual reception, the centre of admiration, the daily recipient of armfuls of American beauty roses, bonbons, and applause. Never once had she thought seriously of her some day marrying—all that was in the vague, comforting future, if that were really to happen—but it had. Sue with her usual frankness had gone straight to her mother on her return from the woods, and had told her everything. Mrs. Ford was at first overwhelmed. Then she burst into tears. Then she sent for Joe. The usual scene had ensued, during which his gentleness and his courtesy had touched her. There is no gainsaying that it had its effect. Even she could not deny his sincerity or his love for Sue. She had embraced him in the end, and under the stress of emotion and her fast-returning tears (for she had a tender heart, poor soul) had patted him affectionately on the shoulder, declaring that she was sure he would make Sue a good husband. Ebner Ford standing by, ready with his best deportment and his long hand for the fifth time during the interview to congratulate him.
What worried the promoter most was what the new building for the Lawyers’ Consolidated Trust Company would cost. He already began to compute the Atwater-Grimsby percentage as being more or less of a personal asset to himself. All things reflected upon, he considered “girlie’s latest move” in a promising light. The only thing he regretted was that the award had not been for a colossal hotel as big as the Fifth Avenue. In that case he felt that his prerogative as a father-in-law would entitle him to supplying its subterraneous portion with a steam-mangle plant, and give him a ten-year contract for the entire wash of the establishment, from guests to barber-shop.
There was one gentleman, however, who lived on the top floor, whose heart beat with entire approval. If any one had been instrumental in bringing about this happy state of affairs it was he. Had he not at the first inkling from Sue that her friends, the Jacksons, were thinking seriously of going to the woods and had begged her to be their guest in camp, somewhere—their own in Canada being too far for a short vacation—had not Enoch immediately invited the three to dine at Delmonico’s?—an excellent and exceedingly diplomatic little dinner, during which he convinced the Jacksons that the most sensible thing they could do was to join Mr. Grimsby—eulogizing on that young man’s charm, character, and knowledge of the woods in such glowing terms that the trip was decided upon then and there.
Even before they had risen from the table he had sent Joe the telegram by a trusted waiter, who had served him for years. Three days later, at a meeting of the board of directors of the Lawyers’ Consolidated Trust Company, his deciding vote had given Joe and Atwater the building.
“You seem happy, Crane,” remarked his old friend Gresham at the club that night. “Look as if Wall Street had handed you a million.”
Enoch gripped his hands behind him and looked sharply up at his questioner.
“Millions do not make happiness, Gresham,” he returned curtly. “Why the devil are you fellows always thinking about money?”
One thing he could rub his hands over with satisfaction. He had nothing more to fear from Lamont’s attentions to Sue. He had checkmated that gentleman for all time and had wiped him off the board.