This last named gentleman was Arthur’s godfather, and had been a classmate of Arthur’s father at Yale college. He was blessed with a wife, a couple of married daughters, and a swarm of grandchildren of both sexes; despite which, he had always taken a more than godfatherly interest in his namesake. For whatever business Arthur had to do, prior to his connection with Peixada, he was indebted to Mr. Flint. It was but natural, therefore, that he should have apprised Mr. Flint of his matrimonial projects as soon as they were distinctly formed. He had visited him one day at his office, and asked him to attend the wedding.
“The 25th of July?” cried Mr. Flint. “At such short notice? And my wife and Sue and Nellie away in Europe! It’s a pity I can’t call them home by the next steamer, to wish you joy. It’ll break their hearts not to be present at your marriage. However—however, where are you going on your wedding-journey?”
“I haven’t made up my mind. We were thinking of some place on the New Jersey coast.”
“The New Jersey coast is all sand and glare. It would spoil your bride’s complexion. I’ll tell you what you’d better do. You’d better go and pass your honeymoon at my cottage in New Hampshire—Beacon Rock. It’s shut up and doing no one any good—consequence of my wife’s trip to Europe. Say the word, and I’ll wire Perkins—my general factotum there—to open and air the house, start fires, and be ready to welcome you with a warm dinner on the 26th.”
“You’re too kind. I don’t know what to say,”
“Then say nothing. I’ll take yes for granted. You’ll find Beacon Rock just the place for a month’s billing and cooing. Eastward, the multitudinous sea; westward, the hardy New England landscape; and all around you, the sweetest air it will ever be your luck to breathe. Look here.”
Mr. Flint opened a drawer of his desk and extracted a pile of photographs.
“Here’s Beacon Rock taken from every available point of view. Here are some glimpses of the interior,” he said.
Divided between delight and gratitude, Arthur could only stammer forth broken phrases.
“Oh, by the way, what’s her address?” demanded Mr. Flint, as Arthur was on the point of bidding him good-by.