Читать книгу Wheels within Wheels - Carolyn Wells - Страница 5

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As one entered the wide and beautiful hall of Howlands, on the right was the living-room and on the left was the library, in which the master of the house spent most of his time. Back of the library was a billiard room and back of that the large and formal drawing-room.

On the other side, that is, back of the living-room, were the dining-room and kitchens.

Simple of plan, the rooms were so large and spacious and so well proportioned that there was an effect of long vistas, and the great staircase which rose from the center of the hall and branched to either side was an architectural triumph in itself.

On the second floor, the bedrooms were ample and luxurious. The Howlands’ own suite was over the living-room, while across the hall, above the library, were guest rooms now occupied by the Peterses.

Back of these was Leonard Swift’s room, and behind that the pretty room of Miss Mills.

Next back of the Howlands’ rooms was the room of Austin Magee, Ralph Howland’s secretary, and back of this, the room of Nurse Lane, who though classed among the servants was a most important member of the household,—indeed, almost a member of the family.

Magee was dressing for dinner and was thinking about the mining scheme in which Rob Peters was so determined to interest Howland.

The secretary had his employer’s interests deeply at heart, and though he never had presumed to advise, he was carefully considering whether it was not his duty to do so in this case.

Austin Magee had what is called a round head, but it was also a long head and a level head.

Moreover, it was well set and well carried on his shoulders, for the man, though not specially well born, had a poise that a statesman might envy. His very walk across a room gave an impression of dignity and importance, yet he was in no way bumptious or assertive and was absolutely devoid of any appearance of self-consciousness.

His self-respect and self-reliance were plainly written on his strong, unhandsome face, and determination was, quite evidently, his besetting sin or his chief virtue, according to the object of his will.

His industry was tireless, his will power indomitable and his energy inexhaustible; and though at times a daredevil spirit was manifest, yet when Magee smiled he had the effect of a lovable scamp.

Though he had little originality or creative ability he was adaptable and quick-witted, and through these traits he had achieved much.

Indeed, so adaptable was he to influence or atmosphere that he was almost chameleonic. He took color from his surroundings or his associations to such an extent that he seemed able to merge into any condition of life without effort, and also without detriment to his own imperturbable poise and his individual calm.

Yet he was saved from being a stone image by his sense of humor. A sudden radiant smile would light up his face at hearing a really happy quip or a quaint conceit, and his imagination was boundless when he gave it rein.

At thirty, Magee had achieved a position that pleased him. He was private secretary and general manager to Ralph Howland, a magnate of wide interests and various enterprises.

Or rather, Howland had been actively engaged in high finance, but now, nearly fifty, he was retiring from business life and was winding up and disposing of many matters with a view to a leisurely old age.

Though possessed of a city home, a forest camp and a seashore place, Ralph Howland liked best of all his New England country estate at Normandale and enjoyed most his summer months when spent there.

Yet the place breathed tragedy.

Built sixteen years ago, the first summer they lived there had brought terrible grief to Ralph and Mary Howland.

For in that first season, in the first happiness of their new home, an epidemic of sleeping sickness had claimed their only child, the little five-year-old Angela.

Change of scene, foreign travel, amusements of all sorts, failed to divert the distracted mother or cheer the saddened father.

And though for many years the Normandale place remained closed and empty, of late, Mary Howland had found that, after all, she came nearer to a quiet content there than at any other of their homes.

Save for her apathy and indifference, Mary Howland was a most attractive woman. Talented, cultured, of quick perceptions, she was fitted to grace her position as chatelaine of the great house. But entertaining bored her, and much of the time the family were alone.

Leonard Swift was looked upon as one of themselves, and both Magee and Edith Mills were also part of the family circle.

Nurse Amy Lane had been the nurse of baby Angela, and had remained with Mary ever since the loss of the child. Solicitous for the health and comfort of her mistress, Lane had been a bit spoiled and was, of late, growing domineering and dictatorial, as is the way with old family servants.

But, on the whole, her presence was valuable, even necessary to Mary’s well-being, and though disliked by the other servants, Lane was also feared and respected.

The sudden death of the child, during the excitement and disaster of the fearful epidemic had been tragic in many ways.

There had been no funeral, and the tiny casket had been taken away from the house during a violent and terrifying thunderstorm.

This incident had so affected the nerves of the stricken mother, that ever since, she had been especially sensitive to weather conditions, and knew instinctively of the approach of the dreaded electric storms.

And now, even in October, she was right as to the coming of one.

Dressing for dinner, she continually and apprehensively glanced from her windows to watch the heavens.

Ralph Howland, through long experience, knew the futility of trying to soothe her fears, and the only thing to do was to have Nurse Lane in watchful readiness to care for her mistress when the storm broke.

But it held off and there were only distant rumblings and occasional faint flashes of lightning.

Mary, assisted by Etta, her maid, was getting into an evening gown of soft white that showed a bit of silver lace here and there.

A long sash end of silver ribbon hung at one side, and her silver slippers tapped impatiently as she was being hooked up.

“There now,” admonished Lane, “don’t you begin tapping your foot, Mrs. Howland. You’ll get all feezed up if you don’t hold on to yourself.”

“She won’t, if you’ll only let her alone,” Etta flashed back.

There was constant war between these two, for each scorned the other and each felt the other’s presence unnecessary.

Etta, trim, smart and capable, looked disdainfully at Amy Lane, whose red face and tawny gray hair were as unattractive as her blunt speech was annoying.

Yet both were devoted to Mary, and this kept both in attendance and kept their mutual antagonism fairly well under subjection.

For Mary Howland permitted no bickering in her presence. When by themselves the two satellites might wage battles royal, but when with their mistress at least outward peace was enjoined.

Sometimes an irrepressible flaunt broke forth, but a mere glance from Mary Howland prevented the obvious retort.

So now, Nurse Lane gave Etta only an indignant look and held her tongue.

She was a gaunt, ungraceful woman, with prominent elbows and knees, and had a bearing like a grenadier.

Yet every gesture or motion showed capability and efficiency and though aggressive of manner and unprepossessing of face, she yet inspired confidence and gained from most a begrudged, unwilling admiration.

Her face, of the equine type, was framed in straying wisps of yellowish gray hair, and what are known as scolding locks were always escaping from the invisible hairpins that visibly failed to confine them.

Her eyes were faded and colorless, with sandy brows and lashes, yet even this effect of weakness was offset by her large nose and firm, hard mouth. A martinet, a virago, she looked,—and was,—but toward her idolized mistress she was all gentleness and affection.

“There, there, dearie,” she would say, and taking Mary in her arms would wipe her tearful eyes as she would those of a child.

“Going to put it over, Bob?” Sally Peters asked, as she powdered her little round nose, and then proceeded to powder her expanse of white chest preparatory to decking it with a complicated arrangement of aquamarines chained together by tiny metal links.

“Doubtful,” responded her husband, retying an already overtied tie. “Yet it all depends. I’m to see him to-night, after the dinner is over and if he’s in genial mood, I do think I can persuade him. Oh, I must persuade him,—or entice him,—or,—force him! Why, Sally, he’s got to do it,—I tell you, he’s got to! I can’t lose this opportunity,—it means everything,—everything!”

“Of course it does, dear. He’ll do it,—I’m sure. How much do you want him to put in—”

“That isn’t it,—not entirely. I want him to back it,—to sanction it,—hang it all, why, I want him to buy it,—to buy the mine outright,—and then—”

“I believe after all, I’ll wear my amethysts,” and Sally held up another handful of glitter from her roomy jewel case. “What do you think, Bob?”

“I think you’re heavenly in anything,—but why string the junk on, anyway? Why not a simple string of pearls, like Mary wears?”

“Sell the mine to Ralph, and buy me such a string, and you’ll come out about even,” said Sally, smiling at him.

“Oh, I don’t mean real pearls—”

“And I don’t want any other kind. Can I do anything in the business?”

“No; unless you drop a hint to Mary that—”

“That wouldn’t do any good. A hint to Austin Magee might.”

“Dubious. Sit next him at table, though, can’t you, and then, if there’s a good chance just remark on the surety of the scheme.”

“Austin Magee is pretty hard-headed—”

“But not hard-hearted,—and,—you’re a very pretty woman, my dear.”

“To you, my best beloved,—but not to the world at large,” and Sally smiled.

“Then the world is blind,” and her husband spoke with a sincere conviction that delighted his wife.

But Austin Magee, carefully and skillfully tying his own tie at that moment, was about as far from being influenced by Sally Peters’ charm as a granite obelisk would be.

His notion of the mining scheme was to let it alone, quietly, if possible,—insistently, if necessary.

Yet he feared that Howland would be drawn into it.

A smaller deal Magee would have ignored, but this was enormous; it might wreck Howland’s whole fortune. Something must be done, and at risk of incurring his employer’s deep displeasure, Magee decided he must interfere.

Many times had Ralph Howland quoted to his secretary a favorite line, “Interference is the very hind hoof of the devil,” and Magee had taken the hint and up to now had never given unasked advice or suggested any change of plan or procedure.

But now,—this fool mine! It would be too dreadful if a great man like Howland should fall for such a questionable enterprise! Yet, of late, Magee had realized that Ralph Howland’s judgment was not quite what it had been. A few times and in minor matters, the secretary had been amazed at his superior’s decisions.

That was why he feared for the result of the conference with Peters on the mine matter.

Peters was a persuasive talker, was a long-time friend of Howland’s, was, though honest, so far as Magee knew, not of flawless impeccability in his business standards.

Moreover, there was that other matter opening up. That great matter, which, if it came about would revolutionize life at Howlands, and would need and want all the wealth Ralph Howland had amassed. No, that great fortune, that pile of riches must not be even jeopardized just at this critical moment!

Shaking his head obstinately, Magee went downstairs and joined the others in the drawing-room.

Edith Mills, that invaluable member of the household, stood near Mary helping her receive and entertain the dinner guests.

Though only stenographer to Ralph Howland, Miss Mills also acted as his wife’s social secretary, and she was both clever and useful in that capacity. Too, she was by way of being assistant hostess, and Mary had grown to depend on her for moral strength and support whenever she entertained.

In a small, plain frock of jade green chiffon, Miss Mills’ pale blonde beauty showed at its best. Her cheeks were faintly pink, and her big gray eyes had a cordial look of greeting, though her manner was subordinate, and she in no way usurped any prominence.

As usual, her gown was low, short and scant. Untrimmed, and with no decoration of flowers or jewels, this left Miss Mills’ wholesome soundness very much in evidence. But her air was unselfconscious, her manner simple and charming, and one would be over-meticulous to cavil at the details of her costume.

Magee made his way straight to the side of Edith Mills and, standing close, said in a low voice:

“Peters is dangerous. He’s out for blood, and he’s going to tackle the old man to-night.”

“What can I do?” and though the girl’s tone was a bit pert, she looked earnestly at Magee.

“Not much,—but you can do this. Sit next Peters at dinner and sound him. Just get all the information you can,—not about the mine, but general information of the man,—his habits, doings of late,—and—”

“I know,” and the ash-blonde head nodded. “Go away now,—they’ll notice you,—don’t come near me again.”

She turned away from him and resumed her pretty tasks of entertainment.

“How attractive that girl is,” somebody remarked to Sally Peters. “Too attractive to be a man’s secretary, I should say!”

“Oh, no,” Sally explained, “she’s a dear, and Mrs. Howland is devoted to her. Sometimes I wish she would adopt Edith and let her take the place of the daughter she lost.”

“What an idea!” and the guest stared.

“Not at all a bad one,” Sally returned; “Edith Mills is a fine girl, and a household favorite. She isn’t secretary to Mr. Howland,—Mr. Magee is that,—but she is stenographer when needed, and she helps Mary socially at other times.”

“She’s a vamp,—that’s what she is!” and the speaker glared at the short and narrow jade green chiffon.

“Oh, well, who isn’t these days?” and Sally’s merry laugh rang out. “I’d like to be,—if I were a bit more slender. Come, now, Mrs. Ogilvy, don’t be over-critical of youth and beauty. All young people nowadays are full of the vamp complex,—and to frown on it stamps one a bit old-fashioned.”

“I’d rather be old-fashioned, then, than to have that flibbertigibbet in my house!”

“You’re lucky not to have to have her, then. Oh, my heavens and earth!”

The sudden exclamation, not entirely inappropriate, was called forth by a terrific clap of thunder, with an almost simultaneous lightning flash that was evident even in the electric-lighted room.

Edith Mills, close at Mary’s side, slipped an arm round the trembling woman, while Etta hovered in a doorway, and Nurse Lane’s anxious face peeped over her shoulder.

But Mary Howland held herself well in hand and as the bolt was not repeated she summoned all her will power and led the way to the dining-room.

The serene smiles and gay banter of those at the table gave no evidence of the deep and perturbing thoughts beneath the urbane exterior of many.

Leonard Swift, himself of a reputation for repartee, made good at it, while his quick eyes and good ears took in all that was possible of anything said by his cousin or Rob Peters.

Magee watched everybody, without being noticed; but Edith Mills, who was possessed of truly abnormal hearing, listened adroitly to every one, and stored up several important bits of knowledge voiced by those at the far end of the boards.

When at last the whole affair was over, Sally Peters, in whose honor it had all been given, declared it had been a lovely party, but she was dead tired and was going straight to bed.

Without saying anything at all, Rob Peters made for the library,—where he was joined by Ralph Howland.

These two held confab, until Magee, in the billiard room next adjoining, overheard parts of the conversation, and unable to stand it longer, walked into the library.—

“This is a private session, Mr. Magee,” Peters said.

A quick glance at Howland made Austin Magee drop into a chair, with the easy remark, “All right, Mr. Peters, go ahead with it.”

Instead of which, Rob Peters rose, and with a muttered word about coming back later, went angrily from the room.

The two men looked at each other.

“I’ve had news,” said Magee, glancing about, warily. “I can’t go into details to-night,—but there is a hope—”

“Lord, man, there’s long been a hope,—can’t you say more than that?”

“Not to-night, Mr. Howland; and, besides, I want to speak to you now about this mine matter.”

Ralph Howland stared at his secretary as if he had voiced some terrible treason.

Then he said, coldly, “Magee, I have not asked you to do that.”

“I know it, Mr. Howland, but—”

“You know it,—then you have nothing to say. I thought you must have mistakenly imagined I wished you to discuss it with me.”

“I did not, nor do I wish to discuss it,—but I do want to warn you—”

“You warn me! Austin, have you taken leave of your senses? You never spoke like that before! I will overlook it this time,—but not a second!”

“There will be no second,” and very quietly Magee rose and walked toward the door.

“Wait, Magee, a moment. What about the—the other matter?”

The secretary hesitated a moment, for he was angry beyond all bounds. But an instant of reflection made him turn and sit down again.

Drawing a memorandum book from his desk near-by, he began a low-toned conversation which was steadily and continuously carried on by the two men for a quarter of an hour or more.

Then Leonard Swift strolled in from the billiard room.

“I want to know about this,” he said; “I overheard a part, and I think I should be told all.”

“Tell him, Mr. Howland,” and Magee got up suddenly, and this time left the room and went straight upstairs to his own room.

At the top of the stairs he met Rob Peters.

“Howland at leisure?” he asked; “I’d like a few words with him.”

“Mr. Swift is with Mr. Howland,” Magee returned, a trifle curtly, and passed on.

It was not long after this that the thunder, which had subsided to mere rumblings, began to grow louder. Another storm, doubtless, following the earlier disturbance.

Mary Howland, in kimono and slippers, came from her room, with intent of seeking her husband’s presence, but Edith Mills, coming out quickly, intercepted her in the hall.

“Come into my room, dear,” she said.

“No,” said Mary, “I want Ralph,” and she went on downstairs.