It took but a moment of time for all these considerations to tear across Mrs. Nixon’s mind, and he added: —
“I think it is time now to speak of it.”
With haunting visions of card-games never played, she responded unsteadily: —
“Pray do.”
Mr. Derwent pressed his finger-tips lightly together.
“Before I engaged Helen,” he began, “she had engaged me.”
Mrs. Nixon leaned back in her chair under pressure of faintness.
“Her grandparents came to me as a well-known lawyer and engaged me to undertake her cause in a lawsuit regarding a large fortune. I have been working on it for a long time, and success is in sight. The girl was being sensibly educated, and so at last it came about that I took her into the office for the convenience of us both.”
Mrs. Nixon’s face was a study; but her mind was not yet relieved.
“Miss Maynard is an heiress?” she asked.
“There is no doubt of it now. The red tape has been all measured off, and only a few matters of form are left before she comes into her own.”
Mrs. Nixon sat in silence for a time.
“You know her so much better than I do, Henry,” she said at last, tentatively.
“Yes,” Mr. Derwent gave a quiet exclamation. “She is an excellent piece of mechanism. Her mind is as well ordered as her toilet. Not a hair out of place.”
The speaker’s manner and tone reassured his sister so far that she could give her thought to consideration of the girl in this new light, and to wondering what impression her own treatment had made upon her. Miss Maynard’s opinion would now be of importance. Mrs. Nixon was grateful that noblesse oblige, and that she could never be less than courteous to an inferior; a great convenience when one considers that an inferior sometimes surprises with as sudden a rise into prominence as is accomplished by a jack-in-the-box.
“And your idea, Henry – ” she asked again.
“Was simply,” he answered, “that in her changed circumstances Helen will require the guidance of some older woman. There will be no ‘back to the farm’ for her, and I suspect that the old people will not wish to change their manner of living.”
“Will she have very much?”
Mr. Derwent nodded. “Enough to make me glad her head is so level.”
“She must be exceedingly attached and very grateful to you,” said Mrs. Nixon, after a thoughtful pause, during which she tried to remember just how repressive her manner had been to her quiet companion.
“She doesn’t need to be grateful. She pays me. Helen is not impulsive.”
“You mean she has a cold nature,” returned Mrs. Nixon. “I do think, Henry, you might have told me all this when we started out on this trip.”
He shook his head. “It is because of a forwarded telegram which I received here this noon that I tell you now.”
Mrs. Nixon thought again.
“And you would like her to live with us,” she said thoughtfully.
“I only suggest it. I thought if you liked her – but Helen may have other views.”
“I see,” returned Mrs. Nixon slowly, “I see.” And she rocked in her chair with reflections wherein her lost waitress was forgotten.
CHAPTER XII
THE FAITHFUL GEYSER
While this conversation was going on, Mrs. Bruce was sitting on the veranda below, waiting for Irving. He had promised to meet her in time for the next performance of the Old Faithful Geyser.
While she sat there she observed Betsy and Rosalie returning to the hotel, and her eyes narrowed as she regarded the girl’s tall slender figure and free carriage.
“It is no wonder I was attracted,” she thought; and now that the case had come before her again, and she had time to consider that her beneficiary had inflicted upon her a disappointment, Rosalie’s proved incapacity took on the proportions of ingratitude. With Mrs. Bruce, even to suspect that her will was being thwarted was misery, and her gaze rested coldly on the girl now. At the same moment Irving and Robert came in sight; and Mrs. Bruce resented the fact that they hastened to approach Betsy, as she paused to say good-by to her companion.
The four stood a moment talking, and as Rosalie withdrew from the group Mrs. Bruce watched Irving follow her a few steps and then lift his hat as the girl shook her head and hurried away.
Robert, whistling loudly, ran up the steps of the hotel, and Mrs. Bruce scarcely nodded in response to his cheerful greeting as he went into the house.
She rose from her chair. “See the people going out there,” she said to Irving, as he and Betsy approached. “I thought you would never come!”
“Five minutes’ grace, Madama,” said Irving, looking at his watch. “Don’t get nervous.” Betsy started to go into the house. Irving caught her by the arm. “Not a bit of it,” he added. “You’re going with us.”
“Thank you, Mr. Irving. I meant to go out later,” returned Betsy, always conscious of “acquiring merit” by leaving these two by themselves.
“I wouldn’t trust you – I wouldn’t trust you around the corner,” returned Irving; and he kept his hold on the sleeve of Betsy’s brown silk shirt-waist, so the three moved together out to the point of interest.
The Old Faithful has been talked about, written about, and visited so much and so long, that there remains nothing fresh to be said; but it is like any other classic, – perennial, exhilarating, and satisfying.
Mrs. Bruce, despite the fly in her amber, approached the mound of geyserite with lively anticipation, and watched with absorption the first spasmodic spurts that were flung from the crater’s mouth.
Later, when the splendid volume of hot water sprang skyward, she and Betsy both forgot that there was a bone of contention between them. For minutes the rushing giant fountain, falling in a cloud of foam and spray, held itself against the azure sky; then, like a beautiful captive returning to its dungeon, fell back lower and lower, till only its tears coursed down the terraces they had formed, and lay in shallow basins, whose lovely tints they did not conceal.
Mrs. Bruce, feeling that she could suggest nothing that would improve this glorious ebullition, confined herself to exclamations.
“What a blessing there is a moon!” she said, as they turned back toward the hotel. “I can hardly wait for to-night. Where do you suppose the Nixons are? and that poor little Miss Maynard? If Mr. Derwent is making her write his letters instead of coming out here, I think it’s a perfect shame.”
“Sh! sh! Madama,” said Irving. “Let everybody be innocent until he’s proved guilty. Go into the house now and lie down, and let the world go wrong for a little while.”
“I can’t quite make Miss Maynard out, Irving. I tried to talk with her a number of times on our drive this afternoon, because I must say Mrs. Nixon is so very quiet I feel sorry for the girl; but she always was abstracted, and every time I spoke to her she seemed to have to bring her thoughts back from somewhere.”
“From him, perhaps,” suggested Irving.
“Well, perhaps so. I never thought of that.” Mrs. Bruce shook her head. “Deliver me from sightseeing with a girl who is in love!”
Irving smiled. “I know I’m never coming to a place like this unless she is here, too.”
“Oh, Irving, don’t! That awful time will have to come, I suppose, but don’t ruin this lucid interval by talking about it.”
The young man seldom indulged in any covert interchange with Betsy, but now his eyes sparkled with fun as he caught his old friend’s eye.
“Such a mother-in-law as you will make, Madama!” he exclaimed devoutly.
“That depends,” returned Mrs. Bruce complacently. “If you let me pass upon the girl before you commit yourself, I shall do my best.”
“What pretty hair you must have had when you were twenty,” said Irving irrelevantly, after a pause, regarding the fair head at his shoulder, for Mrs. Bruce was carrying her hat in her hand.
“I don’t care for that left-handed compliment at all,” she replied with spirit. “It’s pretty now.”
“It is, for a fact; but wasn’t it still lighter, more golden, when you were twenty?”
“Yes, it was perfectly lovely,” she returned. “The years play us all sorts of mean tricks, but one of the meanest is darkening one’s hair. It was lovely at the time I was married; but at that time I suppose you didn’t care whether I wore hair or corn-silk!”
“Corn-silk,” repeated Irving abstractedly. “That’s what it’s like. Corn-silk.”
“It isn’t, you flatterer,” returned Mrs. Bruce, with a little conscious laugh; and she gave a triumphant side-glance at Betsy, who kept eyes ahead, fearing every moment that her mistress’s complaisance would receive a shock in the comprehension of Irving’s drift.
He understood the meaning of a swift glance suddenly sent him by Miss Foster, and began to whistle, softly.
As they neared the hotel he spoke. “Come to my room for a minute, Betsy, please. I need some sewing up, and I’ll give it to you so you can take it over and sit by Mrs. Bruce to see that she obeys my order to take a nap.”
Mrs. Bruce regarded him affectionately and went with docility to the greenwood of her bedroom; and Betsy, with no change of feature, followed Irving to his. When they were inside, he closed the door, seated Betsy in a green rocker, and put himself astride a straight chair.
“You know very well,” said Betsy uneasily, “that if I stay, Mrs. Bruce will come over here.”
“No, she won’t,” returned Irving, “for the best of reasons. She doesn’t know which room I have.”
“Well, give me your things quick,” said Betsy.
“Why are you afraid, all of a sudden?”
“I – ” returned Betsy, hesitating, “I want to – to keep her happy.”
“Not for your own sake, I’ll bet.”
“No. Give me your things, Mr. Irving.”
The young man did not move. “Betsy,” he said, “she mustn’t stay here.”
“Who mustn’t stay where?” she returned, reddening.
“You heard Mr. Derwent say that they were related,” went on Irving.
“You think,” said Betsy, with rare sarcasm, “she’d be in better business writin’ stories for some fireside paper, or imposin’ on folks’ credulity?”
Her companion magnanimously overlooked the thrust.
“She’s too fine from head to foot, physically, and too fine in her innocence, to be touched with anything rough. She mustn’t stay here.”
“Who’s to prevent it?” asked Betsy quietly, though Irving was unconsciously rewarding her for much of her devotion.
“I am.”
“That ain’t possible.”
“Not only possible, but easy. Give her the money to go back to Portland to stay till we come. She’ll never know it’s mine.”
“No, sir! I won’t do that. She’d never take so much money as that from me, and I’d have to tell her the truth. She’s just possessed to pay Mrs. Bruce back, as it is. She’d rather work in their Park years than not do it.”
Irving made an impatient sound, and Betsy shook her head.
“Mrs. Bruce is awful down on her. You’ll find it out if you touch the subject any lower’n her hair. I know the symptoms.”
“Well, what are you going to do, then?” asked Irving, frowning impatiently.
Miss Foster looked back at him, full.
“That ain’t anything to any young man,” she said impressively.
“You’re going to do something, then?” he asked eagerly. “I don’t want to go into that dining-room to-night. Do you like to see her there?”
He rose, spurned his chair, and walked up and down the log cage.
Betsy followed him with her eyes. “Look here, Mr. Irving. I love Rosalie Vincent.”
The pedestrian stopped, and hugged the speaker’s thin shoulders.
“And I don’t want to have any feelin’ stirred up against her. If you take any interest in her, just follow my advice, and while we’re all together here, don’t notice her, and, above all, don’t speak about her.”
“She’s like the bit of porcelain going down the river among the earthen jugs,” burst forth Irving.
“Then don’t throw a rock at her,” returned Betsy. “She’s got a ticklish enough time without that. Where are your things, Mr. Irving?” Betsy started from her chair in a sudden panic.
“Then have you any plan, Clever Betsy?” he persisted. “’Tisn’t enough just to be fond of her and – and mope.”
“You sassy boy!” exclaimed Betsy, concealing her inward exultation that Rosalie had a friend at court, albeit a dangerous one. “You mind your business and I’ll mind mine; and it wasn’t ever to mope.”
“Good for you, you old dear! I know you’ll do something for that – that wood-nymph.”
“Irving Bruce, give me your mendin’. Do you suppose there’ll be any naps till I get back?”
“Tell her I had to hunt for it.”
“I won’t lie for you or anybody else.”
“I wouldn’t have you. It’s the absolute truth.” The speaker strode over to where his suit-case lay open on the floor.
Rummaging through its contents, he fished out a white silk negligée shirt and quickly tore it down the back.
Betsy sprang forward and cried out, but the deed was done. He pressed the garment into her arms and opened the door.
“That was sinful!” she exclaimed, regarding the rent.
“Not half so bad as hurting your immortal soul?” He laughed at her long face and pushed her gently out the door. “Remember now,” threateningly, “if you don’t do something, I will. I’m trusting you, Betsy.”
“That’s wicked. That’s just wicked,” said Miss Foster to herself, holding up to view the fine garment as she moved down the deserted hall.
CHAPTER XIII
THE HEIRESS
When Robert Nixon ran whistling into the hotel and took the stairs two at a time up to his room, he met his mother just coming in from the upper veranda, where she had had the interview with her brother.
“I want to see you, Robert,” she said, so solemnly that he looked amused.
“Your tone takes me back to childhood’s unhappy hour,” he returned. “Which is it to be, a spanking or the closet?”
“Come into my room a minute,” went on Mrs. Nixon.
“I do believe it’s the spanking. Say, mamma, forget it. The geyser’s just going to spout.”
“I must speak to you first.”
“’Tisn’t fair,” objected the youth, “because you do spout more than once an hour, you know.” But he followed his stately mother into her room, for she looked more imposing than usual, and his curiosity was roused.
As soon as she had closed the door she turned to him.
“Where is Miss Maynard?” she asked.
Her son’s eyebrows and shoulders both jerked upwards.
“You can search me,” he responded.
“Sit down, Robert.”
He obeyed the impressive order, and his mother seated herself opposite.
“What has that sleek, quiet little mouse been doing?” he asked. “I haven’t seen her since we left the Riverside.”
“Robert, I want you to think, and I want you to be serious.”
“I’ll do my best, but I’m rusty in both lines.”
“I want you to tell me how my treatment of Miss Maynard has impressed you.”
Robert whistled softly. “Offended, is she? Well, she ought to know that you’re never effusive. I’ve tried to flirt with her a bit, and strike an average.”
“Strike an average, Robert?” Mrs. Nixon spoke anxiously. “Tell me directly what you mean. Did my behavior make you feel that to be necessary?”
“Well,” the son puffed out his lips, “what with Uncle Henry’s deafness, and your Vere-de-Vere repose, it has seemed to me at times that it was rather dull for a maiden stowed there in the stage beside you. I made a few essays, as I say, to jolly her, but – well, I can’t say they were successful. One doesn’t care to have one’s sweet and cheery conversation treated like the tunefulness of a string of sleigh-bells. Miss Maynard invariably makes me feel the drifting snow when I try to chirk her up.”
“She’ll be a success then,” responded Mrs. Nixon, with conviction; and while her son stared at this comment, she went on: “I am glad of all the civility you have shown her, Robert. It is not natural to me, as you say, to be talkative or – or gushing, and yet I’ve always been perfectly civil to Miss Maynard. I’m sure of that. You never noticed anything else, did you?”
Robert looked as he felt, increasingly puzzled.
“No, mother. What’s up? Has Miss Maynard been complaining to Uncle Henry?”
“No. I complain of your Uncle Henry that he has not been frank with me. When he suggested the convenience to him of taking his stenographer on this trip, and said she could hook my gowns, he should have told me that the very presentable, quiet girl I had so often seen in his office was a probable heiress.”
“What?” Robert sat up and his voice broke into the high register. “You don’t say so! I don’t blame him. There’s too many a slip about that sort of possibility.”
“It’s settled,” said Mrs. Nixon solemnly. “It was settled to-day. She is one; and from what your uncle says, the fortune is large.”
Robert clasped his hands and lifted his eyes. “I’ve always admired her nose. How much straighter it will be now!” he ejaculated devoutly.
“I insist, Robert,” said Mrs. Nixon, “I must insist for once on your being serious. I’m very much pleased with you, and with what you tell me, because – Well, my son, I do not need to remind you that a vulgar person with money is a creature of no interest to me; but Miss Maynard is a lady. I have always granted it; and now she will need advice and directing. Her relatives live in the country, and are too elderly to be available in any case. I should wish her to feel that she might turn to me; and I hope nothing in my behavior on this trip has had a – a tendency to estrange her.”
“Your conduct has been to a stranger,” returned Robert.
Mrs. Nixon lifted her head with a regal air in which there was nevertheless anxiety.
“I suppose for the sake of making a foolish pun you would say that, and make me uncomfortable.”
Her son laughed, and going over to where she sat, put his arms around her unyielding form.
“Don’t worry, mother. You may be a bit cool in your methods, but you arrive, just like a fireless cooker. How long has the heiress known of her good fortune?”
“Just to-day. Just since noon.”
“Noon, eh? Did you see me escorting her at the Riverside show?”
“No,” replied Mrs. Nixon lugubriously. “I was too much engaged in taking care of your Uncle Henry.”
Robert straightened up and threw his head back for a hearty laugh.
“The Yellowstone is growing exciting,” he said. “Heavers to right of us, heiresses to left of us. Wayward brothers, and,” striking his breast triumphantly, “wise sons!”
“Yes, Robert. You’ve done very well, I must say.”
“Miss Maynard, – you observe that I speak the name with new and due reverence, – the heiress, I say, went to school with Hebe the heaver.”
“Is it possible?” returned Mrs. Nixon coldly. “Did – did the waitress claim acquaintance?”
“Not a bit of it,” rejoined Robert cheerfully. “Cousin turned the heiress down.”
“Robert, what are you talking about?”
“Why, you heard Uncle Henry say we were related.”
Mrs. Nixon made an exclamation. “Why must men of all ages lose their wits at sight of a pretty face?” she inquired of the ceiling.
“The conundrum of the ages, mamma, and I’m young yet, so I can’t tell you; but if you hadn’t been more of a sister than a mother you’d have watched my foresighted behavior. To tell the truth, when you glared at Hebe there by the river, I thought she was going to cry; so when Brute’s mother buttonholed him and you took Uncle Henry by the ear, I sought refuge with the stenographer, though the heaver looked pretty enough to eat. I knew Betsy would look after her.”
“They were at school together?” repeated Mrs. Nixon, wondering.
“Sure as you’re a foot high; and when the now valuable Miss Maynard accosted Hebe at the Fountain House, the lovely heaver begged her to forget it. There’s a story attached to her. Brute told me – ”
“Yes,” interrupted Mrs. Nixon impatiently. “Mrs. Bruce told me what she had done for her. I dare say she has found her right place. There is no need of making a fuss over her.”
Robert shook his finger at the speaker. “Careful, careful, mother. Supposing you should waken to-morrow morning and find that the heaver’s uncle in India had passed to his fathers, and that Miss Vincent was likely to require the advice of an experienced chaperon.”
Mrs. Nixon waved this nonsense aside with a gesture, and returned to the subject in hand.
“I think the thing for me to do is to find Miss Maynard now, tell her that Mr. Derwent has informed me of her good fortune, and congratulate her.”
Robert rubbed his hands together with a malevolent and gleeful laugh. “Can’t you hide me behind the screen and send for her?” he begged.
Mrs. Nixon had risen and now drew herself up.
“What, pray, do you think would be so amusing about it? Do you think your mother would be less than dignified?”
“No, no, honey,” rejoined her irreverent son, forcibly taking her reluctant hands. “I was only thinking of witnessing a friendly interview between an icicle and a stalactite.” He chuckled again and clapped the maternal hands together, totally against the maternal will.
“You may go now, Robert, and – and, go on as you have begun.” She pushed him toward the door. “You say the geyser is playing?”
“Was playing.”
“Well, we must all see it the next time. Good-by, dear.”
Closing the door behind him, the lady returned to her mirror and gave her hair some touches.
Then she started again to the door with intent to seek her “companion.”
As she reached it, she was met by a knock.
She opened and came face to face with the object of her thoughts.
“Come in, come in, Miss Maynard,” she said, and there was a noticeable cordiality in her voice.
The trim girl, with her symmetrical little face and smooth brown hair, stepped just inside the door.
“I came to see if you wished to change your gown before tea.”
“I am not going to change it to-day. Come in. I wished to see you. Mr. Derwent has been telling me of your good fortune. I wish to congratulate you.”
There was no elation or change of manner in the quiet girl as she replied: —
“Thank you. Mr. Derwent has done fine work for me. You don’t wish my help, then?”
Mrs. Nixon hesitated. She knew that yesterday she would have said no, and closed the door, and she knew that Helen Maynard knew it; so though she desired to beg her to be seated for a chat, she indulged in no such stupidity.
“Did you see the geyser play?” she asked. “The Old Faithful?”
“No.” Helen Maynard had indeed been in her own room, careless of scenery, absorbed in the considerations that had held her captive since Mr. Derwent had shown his telegram.
“My son says it has just played. Let us not miss the next show.”
“Do you wish me to come for you?”
The question was put in precisely the same tone and manner that Helen would have used yesterday, and Mrs. Nixon admired her poise.
“Thank you. I am going down into the office. I shall be glad to see the geyser with you when the time comes.”
Helen Maynard turned away, and a cynical little smile grew on her lips. Mrs. Nixon had tried nobly to keep her usual manner unchanged; but despite herself there was a warmth there unknown before, and Helen was alert to perceive it.
The girl hummed an air from “Faust” as she ran down the stairs of the gigantic log-cabin. It was the “Calf of Gold” that she sang.
She was, as Mr. Derwent had said, a very level-headed young woman, and under the present circumstances kept her joyous excitement under control; but she was alive in every fibre to the change in her life which these six figures to her credit were about to make.
She had faced all that failure would mean; faced the prospect of a narrow life on the farm, or a struggling life in the city. In either case a life of early-to-bed and early-to-rise routine, against which all her tastes rebelled.
With the relaxation from strain had come a certain intoxication; but pride kept the girl externally calm. The patronizing Mrs. Bruce would scrutinize her now through those eye-glasses. She should never have a chance to say, “Set a beggar on horseback!” Irving Bruce would, perhaps, become aware of her existence. She exulted in the steadiness with which she had held Robert Nixon at a distance with his amiable raillery. She had done this from politic motives, knowing that if she were to remain in Mrs. Nixon’s good graces, only so could it be accomplished; but now it increased her satisfaction in the consideration of the subtle change in that lady’s manner toward her.
What a gulf now between herself and her acquaintance of Lambeth days! Mr. Derwent’s interest in Rosalie had merely served to get her into trouble.
Years ago on the farm Miss Maynard’s grandmother had said to her husband: —
“Helen’s dreadfully high-headed. I don’t know whatever’ll become of her if she gets all that money.”
More than a slight mixture of contempt pervaded her thoughts of Rosalie now. No combination of circumstances would ever have forced her to wait on tourists in the Yellowstone. It did not raise the poor young waitress in Miss Maynard’s regard that Mr. Derwent had been attracted by her, and even claimed relationship. In that particular she shared Mrs. Nixon’s annoyance. Helen thought she might herself do something for Rosalie some day if the girl were really helpless, or had some sad reason for not desiring recognition.
In a few short hours Miss Maynard had floated up from the stratum occupied by the under-dog to the vantage-ground of the powerful, and her heart exulted.
As soon as she saw the Bruces she knew that they had heard the news. Mrs. Bruce approached her with an alert manner.
“I’m delighted to hear of your good fortune, Miss Maynard,” she said briskly; and Helen thanked her demurely.
“Do you hurry back to Boston?” added the lady.
“Oh, no,” returned Helen quietly. “Mr. Derwent needs his stenographer as much as ever. I am not his only client.”
“I suppose not. Ha, ha, pretty good! Well, my dear Miss Maynard, I wish you all prosperity. I’ve always been attracted to you.”
“I do think, Irving,” said Mrs. Bruce to her son as they sat at supper, “it’s the strangest thing in the world to see so young a person absolutely stoical at such a time. If it had happened to me at her age I should have called upon everybody to rejoice with me!”
“Probably she is to the manner born,” returned Irving absent-mindedly. His thoughts were with the fair-haired girl whose round slender arms were bearing a tray across the dining-room.
“That is no work for Miss Vincent,” he observed tentatively.
“I don’t think we know,” returned Mrs. Bruce coolly.
“You said once,” remarked Betsy quietly, “that Rosalie was an artist; that you always knew ’em when you saw ’em. It does seem queer work for an artist.”
Mrs. Bruce stared at her companion in surprise.
“Well, whose fault is it, I should like to know. She did have some talent. I tried to have it cultivated, but evidently she was too superficial. People find their level. You can’t help it.”
Betsy gave Irving such a repressive look that he swallowed some remark which had reached the end of his tongue. Then, again opening his lips, he gave Mrs. Bruce a résumé of what had happened to her protégée since her befriending of the girl.
“Well, why shouldn’t she have married Mrs. Pogram’s brother?” she returned carelessly.
“He is a cad, I tell you,” returned Irving, manfully repressing his rising wrath.
“Well,” Mrs. Bruce shrugged her shoulders, “the girl is a beggar. She can’t choose.”
The light that suddenly sparkled in Irving’s eyes made Betsy hasten to speak.
“You said when we were talkin’ about it that time, that it was a pity for girls who had those talents to get married. I guess Rosalie feels herself she has some talent.”
“Yes,” returned Mrs. Bruce, busily eating, and unconscious of the storm brewing beside her, “a talent for,” she laughed, – “heaving. She’s just a pretty doll, and it is amazing what fools a pretty face will make of men of all types and ages.” Mrs. Bruce laughed gleefully. “I shan’t forget Mrs. Nixon’s eyes when she saw her brother sitting on the grass and apparently making love to the girl. Now, take Miss Maynard, there’s strength and poise in the very lift of her head.” Mrs. Bruce looked across at the Nixon table approvingly. “I do hope, Irving, you will take a little pains to become acquainted with Miss Maynard. I understand the girl’s reserve now and her abstraction. I asked Robert if he and his mother had known about it, and he said they had not; but I’m not so sure about him;” – the speaker shook her head astutely; – “he has been very civil to the girl ever since we started.”
“Heavens! is that a sign?” exclaimed Irving testily.
Mrs. Bruce looked around at him and raised her eyebrows. “Why not, cross-patch? He is his mother’s son, and she has nearly refrigerated her poor companion. I’ve been quite nice to her.” Mrs. Bruce returned to her omelet complacently. “It will make things pleasant now. Everybody is looking forward so to seeing the colored lights thrown on the geyser to-night. I think it would be nice of you, Irving, to take Miss Maynard out to see it. There’s a moon, too.”
“It would be very nice of me,” returned the young man savagely. “Colored lights on the geyser! I wonder if they paint lilies out here!”
He pushed his chair back from the table. “Will you and Betsy excuse me, Madama;” and without further apology Irving left the table and went out to the office, where on four sides of the great chimney were blazing generous open fires, that could roast an ox.
Mrs. Bruce turned to her companion.
“What has put Mr. Irving out of sorts?” she asked.
Betsy ate very busily. “’Tain’t best to notice his moods, Mrs. Bruce. You know that was always the best way to treat him.”
Mrs. Bruce looked across again at the Nixon table and laughed maliciously. “This isn’t Mrs. Nixon’s lucky day,” she said. “First her brother has to be lured from a siren, and then she has the shock of discovering that she has been entertaining an heiress unawares! Poor Mrs. Nixon! It will be sport to watch her now.”