Читать книгу The Wall Street Girl - Bartlett Frederick Orin - Страница 3

Stuyvesant was proud of his daughter–proud of her beauty, proud of her ability to dress, proud of her ability to spend money. She gave him about the only excuse he now had for continuing to hold his seat on the Stock Exchange. The girl was tall and dark and slender, and had an instinct for clothes that permitted her to follow the vagaries of fashion to their extremes with the assurance of a Parisienne, plus a certain Stuyvesant daring that was American. At dinner that night she wore, for Don’s benefit, a new French gown that made even him catch his breath. It was beautiful, but without her it would not have been beautiful. Undoubtedly its designer took that into account when he designed the gown.

The dinner was in every way a success, and a credit to the Stuyvesant chef–who, however, it must be said, seldom had the advantage of catering to a guest that had not lunched. Stuyvesant was in a good humor, Mrs. Stuyvesant pleasantly negative as usual, and Frances radiant. Early in the evening Stuyvesant went off to his club for a game of bridge, and Mrs. Stuyvesant excused herself to write notes.

“I met Reggie Howland at the tea this afternoon,” said Frances. “He was very nice to me.”

“Why shouldn’t he be?” inquired Don.

“I rather thought you would come. Really, when one goes to all the bother of allowing one’s self to be engaged, the least one expects is a certain amount of attention from one’s fiancée.”

She was standing by the piano, and he went to her side and took her hand–the hand wearing the solitaire that had been his mother’s.

“You’re right,” he nodded; “but I was all tied up with business this afternoon.”

She raised her dark brows a trifle.

“Business?”

“Lots of it,” he nodded. “Come over here and sit down; I want to tell you about it.”

He led her to a chair before the open fire. He himself continued to stand with his back to the flames. He was not serious. The situation struck him now as even funnier than it had in Barton’s office. He had in his pocket just thirteen cents, and yet here he was in Stuyvesant’s house, engaged to Stuyvesant’s daughter.

“It seems,” he began–“it seems that Dad would have his little joke before he died.”

“Yes?” she responded indifferently. She was bored by business of any sort.

“I had a talk to-day with Barton–his lawyer. Queer old codger, Barton. Seems he’s been made my guardian. Dad left him to me in his will. He left me Barton, the house, and twelve dollars and sixty-three cents.”

“Yes, Don.”

She did not quite understand why he was going into details. They did not seem to concern her, even as his fiancée.

“Of that patrimony I now have thirteen cents left,” Don continued. “See, here it is.”

He removed from his pocket two nickels and three coppers.

“It doesn’t look like much, does it?”

“Oh, Don,” she laughed, “do be serious!”

“I am serious,” he assured her. “I’ve been serious ever since I went to Sherry’s for lunch, and found I did not have enough for even a club sandwich.”

“But, Don!” she gasped.

“It’s a fact. I had to leave.”

“Then where did you lunch?”

“I didn’t lunch.”

“You mean you did not have enough change to buy something to eat?”

“I had thirteen cents. You can’t buy anything with that, can you?”

“I–I don’t know.”

Suddenly she remembered how, once on her way home from Chicago, she lost her purse and did not have sufficient change left even to wire her father to meet her. She was forced to walk from the station to the house. The experience had always been like a nightmare to her. She rose and stood before him.

“But, Don–what are you going to do?”

“I telephoned Barton, and he suggested I take some sort of position with a business house. He’s going to find something for me. I’m not worrying about that; but what I want to know is what I ought to do about you.”

“I don’t understand, Don.”

“I mean about our engagement.”

She looked puzzled.

“I’m afraid I’m very stupid.”

“We can’t be married on thirteen cents, can we?”

“But we needn’t be married until you have more, need we?”

“That’s so. And you’re willing to wait?”

“You know I’ve told you I didn’t wish to be married before spring, anyway. I think it’s much pleasanter staying just as we are.”

“We can’t be engaged all our lives,” he protested.

“We can be engaged as long as we wish, can’t we?”

“I want to marry you as soon as I can.”

Her eyes brightened and she placed a soft hand upon his arm.

“That’s nice of you, Don,” she said. “But you don’t know what a frightfully expensive burden I’ll be as a wife.”

“If I earned, to start with, say fifty dollars a week–would you marry me on that?”

“If I did, what would we live on?” she inquired.

“Well, I have the house. That’s provided for–all except the table.”

“But if I spent the fifty dollars for a new hat, then what would we have left for provisions?”

“You mustn’t spend it all on a new hat,” he warned.

“Then, there are gowns and–oh, lots of things you don’t know anything about.”

“Couldn’t you get along with a little less?”

She thought a moment.

“I don’t see how,” she decided. “I never get anything I don’t want.”

“That’s something,” he nodded approvingly. “Then you think I must earn more than fifty a week?”

“I only know that Dad gives me an allowance of ten thousand a year, and there’s never anything left,” she answered.

“Ten thousand a year!” he exclaimed.

“Everything is so expensive to-day, Don. All this talk sounds frightfully vulgar, but–there’s no use pretending, is there?”

“Not a bit,” he answered. “If ten thousand a year is what you need, ten thousand a year is what I must earn.”

“I don’t believe it’s very hard, because Dad does it so easily,” she declared.

“I’ll get it,” he nodded confidently. “And, now that it’s all settled, let’s forget it. Come over to the piano and sing for me.”

He sat down before the keys and played her accompaniments, selecting his own songs. They ran through some of the latest opera successes, and then swung off to the simpler and older things. It was after “Annie Laurie” that he rose and looked deep into her eyes.

“I’ll get it for you,” he said soberly.

“Oh, Don!” she whispered. “Sometimes nothing seems important but just you.”