CHAPTER XIX
BARNES LEARNS A GREAT TRUTH
If Barnes had tried to paint Eleanor as she looked that moment, he certainly would have had to dip his brush in damson preserves. She turned upon her aunt with a little cry.
“Aunty, you know, for father’s sake, we decided it was best not to say anything.”
“It’s high time,” she stormed back, “that some of us spoke out.”
Barnes leaned forward. He extended his hand to the girl.
“I congratulate—Carl,” he said.
She took his hand weakly and he rose. He stared about the room a second as though uncertain just what to do or say next. Aunt Philomela, who had assumed a very rigid pose, relaxed at the sight.
“I—I thought you suspected as much anyway,” she said.
“Why, yes—I did. Mr. Van Patten spoke of it—Carl spoke of it.”
The girl glanced up quickly.
“Carl said he had secured your consent,” she observed coolly.
“As a brother I advised him as best I could,” he answered. “But when—when did he see you?”
“He came over this morning—against the doctor’s advice,” put in Aunt Philomela.
“Well,” concluded Barnes, a bit inanely, “I must be going.”
Upon the words he started for the door.
“You still think that it—it is best for you to leave father?”
“I’m quite sure of that now,” he answered.
Barnes was not one to put off acting upon a resolution. He went down the hall at once, and finding Mr. Van Patten awake put the matter to him as gently as possible.
“Father,” he said, “I must go away for a little while—perhaps for a week or two.”
“Away?” gasped the old man. “Again?”
There was genuine emotion in the old man’s cry. It was a father’s cry and it created in Barnes an overwhelming desire for his own. In something of a vision he seemed to see the old proprietor of the Acme echoing this need for his son. The little comedy had turned serious. From acting the prodigal he found himself feeling the prodigal. He wanted to get back home—not as represented by the Waldemere, but as embodied in the flesh and blood of those whose name he bore. So it happened that the more this aged gentleman upon the bed expressed the need for a son, the more he stirred in Barnes the need of a father. Barnes turned away his head from the searching blind eyes.
“Only for a little while.”
“A little while? My son, I’m living now by only little whiles.”
“You’re getting stronger every day,” said Barnes. “I want to see you sitting up when I come back.”
The old gentleman shook his head.
“I don’t know. I don’t know,” he answered.
“Listen,” said Barnes, earnestly. “Life is beginning new, in more ways than one, for all of us here. Your happiest days are coming. If you’ll hold tight till I get back, I’ll prove it.”
“I’ll try,” he answered submissively.
“You must do more than that. You must fight. Will you promise?”
“Yes, boy, yes.”
“I’ll write to you every day. I’m only going as far as New York.”
“All right, Joe. Then—perhaps you had better start right off.”
“Two weeks; perhaps less. Good-by.”
The old man took his hand. Barnes bent over him and kissed his forehead. Then he went out of the room and back to Eleanor. Here again he saw no reason for delay. In reply to his knock she bade him come in. She was sitting alone in the same position as when he had left her.
“I’ve told your father,” he said without preamble, “and now I’ve come to say good-by to you.”
“You’ve told Daddy—already?”
“Yes. He bore it very well.”
“You’re so hasty,” she stammered. “You take away one’s breath.”
“Some things are best done hastily,” he answered.
“But this—why, Aunt Philomela is quite broken up at the idea of your leaving. She—she has had to lie down.”
“Then I’ll not disturb her.”
“But—you must. She would never forgive you.”
She looked as though about to call, but he checked her.
“I must tell you first my plan. If it’s possible to get a wire through to the boy, I shall do it. If, in the meanwhile, you yourself hear anything from him, you must let me know at once. I’ll leave my address.” He took a card from his pocket and handed it to her.
“You are so very kind,” she murmured, with a break in her voice.
“I shall write your father every day,” he went on, “so perhaps he will not ask many questions.”
“I will read the letters to him myself,” she said.
He caught his breath. It was a commonplace enough remark but he grasped at it like a compliment.
“Thank you,” he answered simply.
Certainly that in itself was a commonplace enough reply, and yet it turned her cheeks scarlet.
When he spoke again it was very deliberately, as though the words really had some profound meaning.
“If I’m able to get hold of Joe,” he said, “I myself shall come back with him.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “that would be so helpful.”
“It is my one hope,” he answered.
Then, because there was so much more that he wanted to say; then, because there was so much he mustn’t say, he turned his eyes towards Aunt Philomela’s room. The girl obeyed his unexpressed desire in some haste.
“Aunty,” she called.
She came in, a bit frightened. Certainly in appearance she bore out the girl’s statement. All the fight seemed to have gone from her. She was an Aunt Philomela he had never seen before. She was scarcely more than a sweet, lovable old lady who looked very dependent. She came forward uncertainly.
“You’re going?” she exclaimed, in as much astonishment as though this were the first she had heard of it.
He nodded.
“I must start at once. I’m going to walk to Chester to catch the noon train.”
“I—I’ll send John with you,” she stammered.
He smiled at the recollection this suggested.
“Thanks,” he answered, “but I still prefer to walk. I shall not forget—this time.”
Miss Van Patten glanced at him with a queer little smile about her mouth.
“Why—what are we going to do?” asked Aunt Philomela turning to her niece.
“We must do the best we can,” answered Miss Van Patten.
“But I don’t know, I’m sure. It will leave us quite alone.”
“There is Carl,” suggested Barnes.
“Oh, yes,” answered Aunt Philomela, “I forgot. There is Carl.”
“If I find Joe I may come back for a few days,” explained Barnes.
“You’ll come back for a visit anyway, won’t you?” asked Aunt Philomela, brightening.
“If I find Joe,” answered Barnes.
Here again the girl caught an almost formidable note.
The little old lady moved uneasily.
“I must thank you for all you’ve done,” she faltered, almost as though this were an apology.
“Please don’t thank me,” he insisted.
At this opportune moment John entered with a cup of broth for Miss Van Patten.
“John,” requested Barnes, as the man put down the cup and was upon the point of leaving, “will you be good enough to pack my bag?”
John looked surprised.
“Yes, sir,” he answered.
He paused, coughed, and then blurted out,
“Could I have a moment with you, sir, before you leave?”
It was Barnes’ turn to look surprised.
Barnes turned again to Aunt Philomela.
“You have lost some of your color,” he said unexpectedly. “Would you mind if I gave you some good advice?”
She looked bewildered but she shook her head.
“It’s just this,” he continued, “don’t worry over your accounts.”
“No,” she answered.
She spoke so mildly that the girl smiled.
“For,” he went on didactically, “there’s nothing so bad for the nerves as modern business methods.”
The little old lady glanced up to see if he were smiling. He was not. He never was when she suspected him of it.
“I’m afraid I’ll never get them straightened out again,” she sighed.
“So much the better for you,” he assured her. “What you really ought to do, Aunt Philomela, is to take up gambling.”
“What?” she demanded sharply.
He nodded blandly.
“If I ever have the opportunity I’ll teach you draw poker.”
“The least anyone can do at my age is to refrain from acquiring bad habits,” she answered.
“On the contrary, your age is the only safe age in which to indulge in them,” he argued. “Nothing keeps one so young as the element of uncertainty. That is why I recommend gambling. But you can gamble a little, even with your accounts; you can let them run so that you will never quite know where you stand. Some such excitement would brace you up wonderfully.”
“Bah!” she observed, with something of her old-time scorn.
“You made a good beginning,” he suggested, “when you bought into ‘The Lucky Find.’ Mining stocks are always a good gamble.”
“‘The Lucky Find’ wasn’t even a good gamble,” she declared.
John entered with the dress-suit case. Barnes extended his hand to the little old lady. He was a believer in abrupt departures. He disliked the inclined plane of inanities usually accompanying a farewell.
“Au revoir, Aunt Philomela,” he said simply.
The little old lady took his hand. Her fingers were trembling.
“You—you have been very kind,” she faltered.
“Good-by, Eleanor.”
“Good-by,” she said.
He turned, and John followed him to the Dutch door.
“I thought,” began John, “I’d just like to ask you once more about ‘The Lucky Find.’ You are still interested in it, sir?”
“Extremely.”
“Would you advise me to hold the stock, sir?”
“I’d advise you to hold it for two weeks,” answered Barnes.
“Very well, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“I think there’ll be at least one more dividend,” he assured him.
“That’s very good, sir. Good luck to you, sir.”
“Thank you,” Barnes answered earnestly. “I need everyone to wish me Good Luck.”
He hurried down the path and turned into the road. It had drunk of the sun so long that it was more saffron than ever. And yet what a groveling creature it was! It licked the feet of the houses by its side. What, after all, were the houses? Mere shelters for men. What of these men with their strong legs and the arrogant pose of their heads? The eyes of the women bade them stay and they stayed; bade them go, and they went. Neither the road nor the houses nor the strong-rayed sun could countermand that order. Men went to wars, they went to sea, they pushed through forests, they dared the icy mountains of the North—for what? Gold? Bah! Where did the gold go, murmured the women who remained behind smiling to themselves? For fame? Who gave them fame questioned the deep eyes of the women? For selfish pleasure? Wherein lay the pleasure until it shone in the eyes of these same women? The road, then, was no worse than the men, and both were a convenience for the women who lived in the houses.
That was all. Barnes saw it clearly enough now.