Part 25

"All right." He went out on the veranda to see if the Champ-au-Haut carriage was in sight. A moment later, when it drove up, he was at the door to open it.

"Here I am, Aunt Meda. Will this hold two and all those bundles?"

"Why, Champney, you here? Come in." She made room for him on the ample seat; he sprang in, and bent to kiss her before sitting down beside her.

"Now, I call this luck. This is as good as a confessional, small and dark, and 'fess I've got to, Aunt Meda, or there'll be trouble for somebody at Campo."

Had the space not been so "small and dark" he might have seen the face of the woman beside him quiver painfully at the sound of his cheery young voice and, when he kissed her, flush to her temples.

"What devilry now, Champney?"

"It's a girl, of course, Aunt Meda--your girl," he added laughing.

"So you've found her out, have you, you young rogue? Well, what do you think of her?"

"I think you'll have a whole vaudeville show at Champ-au-Haut for the rest of your days--and gratis."

"I've been coming to that conclusion myself," said Mrs. Champney, smiling in turn at the recollection of some of her experiences during the past three weeks. "She amuses me, and I've concluded to keep her. I'm going to have her with me a good part of the time. I've seen enough since she has been with me to convince me that my people will amount to nothing so long as she is with them." There was an edge to her words the sharpness of which was felt by Octavius on the front seat.

"I can't blame them; I couldn't. Why Tave here is threatened already with a quick decline--sheer worry of mind, isn't it Tave?" Octavius nodded shortly; "And as for Romanzo there's no telling where he will end; even Ann and Hannah are infected."

"What do you mean, Champney?" She was laughing now.

"Just wait till I run in and get the mail for us both, and I'll tell you; it's my confession."

He sprang out, ran up the steps and disappeared for a moment. He reappeared thrusting some letters into his pocket. Evidently he had not looked at them. He handed the other letters and papers to Octavius, and so soon as the carriage was on the way to The Bow he regaled his aunt with his evening's experience under the bay window.

"Serves you right," was her only comment; but her laugh told him she enjoyed the episode. He went into the house upon her invitation and sat with her till nearly eleven, giving an account of himself--at least all the account he cared to give which was intrinsically different from that which he gave his mother. Mrs. Champney was what he had once described to his mother as "a worldly woman with the rind on," and when he was with her, he involuntarily showed that side of his nature which was best calculated to make an impression on the "rind." He grew more worldly himself, and she rejoiced in what she saw.

While walking homewards up The Gore, he was wondering why his mother had shown such strength of feeling when he expressed the wish that his aunt would help him financially to further his plans. He knew the two women never had but little intercourse; but with him it was different. He was a man, the living representative of two families, and who had a better right than he to some of his Aunt Meda's money? A right of blood, although on the Champney side distant and collateral. He knew that the community as a whole, especially now that his mother had become a factor in its new industrial life, was looking to him, as once they had looked to his Uncle Louis, to "make good" with his inheritance of race. To this end his mother had equipped him with his university training. Why shouldn't his aunt be willing to help him? She liked him, that is, she liked to talk with him. Sometimes, it is true, it occurred to him that his room was better than his company; this was especially noticeable in his young days when he was much with his aunt's husband whom he called "Uncle Louis." Since his death he had never ceased to visit her at Champ-au-Haut--too much was at stake, for he was the rightful heir to her property at least, if not Louis Champney's. She, as well as his father, had inherited twenty thousand from the estate in The Gore. His father, so he was told, had squandered his patrimony some two years before his death. His aunt, on the contrary, had already doubled hers; and with skilful manipulation forty thousand in these days might be quadrupled easily. It was wise, whatever might happen, to keep on the right side of Aunt Meda; and as for giving that promise to his mother he neither could nor would. His mind was made up on this point when he reached The Gore. He told himself he dared not. Who could say what unmet necessity might handicap him at some critical time?--this was his justification.

In the midst of his wonderings, he suddenly remembered the evening's mail. He took it out and struck a match to look at the hand-writing. Among several letters from New York, he recognized one as having Mr. Van Ostend's address on the reverse of the envelope. He tore it open; struck another match and, the letter being type-written, hastily read it through with the aid of a third and fourth pocket-lucifer; read it in a tumult of expectancy, and finished it with an intense and irritating sense of disappointment. He vehemently voiced his vexation: "Oh, damn it all!"

He did not take the trouble to return the letter to its cover, but kept flirting it in his hand as he strode indignantly up the hill, his arms swinging like a young windmill's. When he came in sight of the house, he looked up at his mother's bedroom window. Her light was still burning; despite his admonition she was waiting for him as usual. He must tell her before he slept.

"Champney!" she called, when she heard him in the hall.

"Yes, mother; may I come up?"

"Of course." She opened wide her bedroom door and stood there, waiting for him, the lamp in her hand. Her beauty was enhanced by the loose-flowing cotton wrapper of pale pink. Her dark heavy hair was braided for the night and coiled again and again, crown fashion, on her head.

"Aunt Meda never could hold a candle to mother!" was Champney Googe's thought on entering. The two sat down for the usual before-turning-in-chat.

He was so full of his subject that it overflowed at once in abrupt speech.

"Mother, I've had a letter from Mr. Van Ostend--"

"Oh, Champney!" There was the joy of anticipation in her voice.

"Now, mother, don't--don't expect anything," he pleaded, "for you'll be no end cut up over the whole thing. Now, listen." He read the letter; the tone of his voice indicated both disgust and indignation.

"Now, look at that!" He burst forth eruptively when he had finished. "Here we've been banking on an offer for some position in the syndicate, at least, something that would help clear the road to Wall Street where I should be able to strike out for myself without being dependent on any one--I didn't mince matters that day of the dinner when I told him what I wanted, either! And here I get an offer to go to Europe for five years and study banking systems and the Lord knows what in London, Paris, and Berlin, and act as a sort of super in his branch offices. Great Scott! Does he think a man is going to waste five years of his life in Europe at a time when twenty-four hours here at home might make a man! He's a donkey if he thinks that, and I'd have given him credit for more common sense--"

"Now, Champney, stop right where you are. Don't boil over so." She repressed a smile. "Let's talk business and look at matters as they stand."