THE SUMMONS
When Wayland caught the startled look on Berrie’s face he knew that she had learned from her father the contents of his telegram, and that she would require an explanation.
“Are you going away?” she asked.
“Yes. At least, I must go down to Denver to see my father. I shall be gone only over night.”
“And will you tell him about our trip?” she pursued, with unflinching directness. “And about—me?”
He gave her a chair, and took a seat himself before replying. “Yes, I shall tell him all about it, and about you and your father and mother. He shall know how kind you’ve all been to me.”
He said this bravely, and at the moment he meant it; but as his father’s big, impassive face and cold, keen eyes came back to him his courage sank, and in spite of his firm resolution some part of his secret anxiety communicated itself to the girl, who asked many questions, with intent to find out more particularly what kind of man the elder Norcross was.
Wayland’s replies did not entirely reassure her. He admitted that his father was harsh and domineering in character, and that he was ambitious to have his son take up and carry forward his work. “He was willing enough to have me go to college till he found I was specializing on wrong lines. Then I had to fight in order to keep my place. He’s glad I’m out here, for he thinks I’m regaining my strength. But just as soon as I’m well enough he expects me to go to Chicago and take charge of the Western office. Of course, I don’t want to do that. I’d rather work out some problem in chemistry that interests me; but I may have to give in, for a time at least.”
“Will your mother and sisters be with your father?”
“No, indeed! You couldn’t get any one of them west of the Hudson River with a log-chain. My sisters were both born in Michigan, but they want to forget it—they pretend they have forgotten it. They both have New-Yorkitis. Nothing but the Plaza will do them now.”