Читать книгу Buell Hampton - Emerson Willis George - Страница 11

HUGH STANTON was not only a successful, hard-working young man of affairs, but he possessed innate refinement and gentleness. Scrupulously honorable himself, he frequently gave others credit for higher and more manly attributes than they really possessed. His unusually dark hair and fair skin would cause the most casual observer to turn and look at him a second time. His small feet and hands and tapering fingers suggested effeminacy; but Hugh Stanton was not effeminate, for his heart was strong and manly. In appearance he was an ideal society man – a veritable Beau Brummel. As a matter of fact, however, he had scarcely any knowledge of society or of its ways.

His father had fought in the battle of Bull Run, and later at Bethel Church. Hugh was then an infant in his mother’s arms. The young mother was heartbroken when she learned that her husband was numbered among the missing. She died a year later. The son was christened with his father’s name and was given a home with his uncle and guardian. He possessed a studious turn of mind, and, even as a boy, had been noted for his success at school. Later, he led his classes with distinction at Princeton. Dr. Jack Redfield was Hugh’s ideal of true manliness, and, to the credit of Jack, his measure of sterling manhood was Hugh Stanton.

After their college days they had kept up, in an intermittent way, their social relations, but, as year after year went by, each became more and more absorbed in his own special pursuits, and gradually they drifted away from their old chum-day relations. Although Hugh had lived at Meade for a month, he had never thought of writing to Jack Redfield, and if Jack had been asked Hugh’s address, he could not have given it, for the very good reason that Hugh had neglected naming his objective point in the West.

One morning when Captain Osborn came to the bank he handed Hugh a daintily perfumed, monogrammed note. Opening it, Hugh found an invitation from Mrs. Osborn to drive with her that afternoon to the Hortons, where they were expected to dine.

Hugh offered the note to the captain, who asked, “Well, what is it?” looking at Hugh over his glasses.

“A letter from Mrs. Osborn,” replied Hugh.

“Well, is it not for you?” inquired the old captain.

“Certainly,” said Hugh, “but then – ”

“If it is for you, it is not for me,” said the captain, “and, Hugh, my boy, understand for now and for all time that I have no curiosity as to any arrangements my wife may make or any letters she may choose to write. I trust her without question.”

“I hardly know why,” said Hugh, “but some way your words chill me.” He waited a moment in silence, and then went on, “I wish I were nearer to you, Captain, for ever since I saw that tear fall on little Harry’s sleeping face I have longed to be as close to you as a son.” The captain noticeably softened, and said, huskily, “There, there, Hugh, my boy, sit down and let me tell you something. You know I am much older than Mrs. Osborn. We have been married twelve years. She was about to enter a convent when I met her pretty girlish face and fell desperately in love with it; and, notwithstanding my almost fifty years of life, it was my first and only love-affair. She finds pleasure in society, and I despise it most cordially – regard it as a hollow mockery. It is not right to object to that in which she finds innocent pleasure. I am a sort of turned-down back number, while she is in the zenith of life. I have thought it all over, and here are my deductions: Mrs. Osborn must have an opportunity of pursuing those innocent paths of amusement in which she finds her greatest pleasure. She has given to me our little Harry, God bless the boy! She is Harry’s mother, and therefore she can do no wrong. When you are older you will learn that love is a looking-glass sort of an affair, framed about with a gossamer network of illusions, easily broken and impossible to mend.”

There was a pathetic tenderness in the old captain’s words as he uttered the last sentences, and it struck Hugh, at the time, as being odd.

“Now, my boy,” continued the captain, as he looked kindly at Hugh, “I have spoken to you as to no other person on earth. If you were my own son I could not have spoken more freely.”

“Thank you,” said Hugh, as he took the captain’s outstretched hand, “I shall strive earnestly to prove myself worthy of your confidence.”

“Not only on account of your father, whose memory I certainly revere, but also on account of yourself, I shall try to be all that a father should be to such a son; and, Hugh, if anything should ever happen to me, do as much for little Harry, and the account will be more than balanced.”

Hugh gave his promise, and soon after he turned to his desk, but the captain’s words kept ringing in his ears. The promise that he had made impressed him strangely, and he was conscious of a disturbed, rather than an uncomfortable, feeling. He sent a reply to Mrs. Osborn, accepting her invitation, but was not at all sure that he had acted wisely. During the afternoon, Mrs. Osborn called at the bank, and Hugh was driven away in her elegant carriage. It was a lovely Indian summer afternoon, with scarcely a breath of air stirring. As they turned from the street into the country road, Mrs. Osborn, who had kept up an animated yet light conversation, said:

“For one afternoon, Mr. Stanton, you are my captive.”

“A most willing one, I assure you,” replied Hugh, laughingly. She threw herself gracefully back among the soft upholsterings of the carriage seat, and jestingly replied:

“Indeed, is that so? Had I known your willingness, I certainly would have called you away from the bank counter long before this.”

“We have been very busy of late,” replied Hugh. “It is not often we can get away.”

“You must not serve the god of business too faithfully,” said Mrs. Osborn, “but rather make him serve you.”

“Very well expressed,” replied Hugh, as he looked at Mrs. Osborn, and realized more than ever before that she was, indeed, a most beautiful woman. Her azure eyes were bewitching in their languid softness. Her shapely mouth and full red lips might have suggested danger, yet, withal, there seemed something sincere in her fascinating ways and in the sweetness of her smiles.

“For my part,” said she, “I think travel affords a recreation that is doubly enjoyable, because there is no such thing as business to disturb one. Have you ever been in England, Mr. Stanton?” she asked, sweetly.

“Never,” replied Hugh, “but I have promised myself a thorough European tour when some convenient opportunity presents itself.”

“Oh, how lovely that will be, and how laudable the ambition. It would be so pleasant if you could get away next year and go with us – I mean Mrs. Horton and myself. Our practical husbands stay at home, you know,” said she, laughingly, “and we do the traveling for our families.”

“Still, it would be more pleasant,” replied Hugh, “if your husbands could arrange their business affairs and accompany you.”

“I am not so sure about that,” said Mrs. Osborn, and she gave her pretty shoulders a shrug and looked at Hugh so intently that, in sheer embarrassment, he looked away. It began to dawn upon him that she loved adoration and adorers alike. Presently Mrs. Osborn laughed softly, and said:

“Why, what a silly one! You are either the most ingeniously clever man or else the most intensely innocent one I ever met.”

“I fear,” said Hugh, confusedly, “that I am not very clever, and I am quite sure that I am not worthy to be called innocent.”

“You are a contradiction,” went on Mrs. Osborn, as if Hugh had not spoken, “and yet – well, really you interest me. We must see more of each other – but here we are at the Grove, and there is my dear friend, Mrs. Horton, on the veranda.”

Hugh was soon presented to Mrs. J. Bruce-Horton, who received him with unfeigned cordiality. “My husband,” said she, “has spoken so much of you since your chance meeting the other day, that I have been quite impatient to meet you.”

“Well, I like that,” said Mrs. Osborn, with a haughty air and elevated eyebrows, addressing her hostess. “Indeed, have you only heard of Mr. Stanton through your husband? Does all I have said go for nothing?”

“Oh, I beg your pardon, my dear Lucy,” replied Mrs. Horton. “Of course you were the first to tell us about him.” Then, addressing Hugh, she continued, “My friend Mrs. Osborn, I assure you, has been most profuse in complimentary remarks.”

“I am powerless to express my gratitude,” said Hugh, gallantly.

“Mr. Stanton,” said stately Mrs. Horton, bowing, “my daughter, Miss Ethel.” With true frontier hospitality Ethel advanced and, extending both her hands to Hugh, said:

“You are, indeed, most welcome, Mr. Stanton. It was daddy’s wish that we make you feel at home when you called, and it will not be my fault if we fail in doing so.”

Hugh stammered out his thanks, as he accepted a chair. Ethel was a revelation to him. She was the same girl on her father’s ranch that she had been at Lake Geneva, when she completely captivated Jack Redfield. To Hugh she seemed a budding rose just opening into a greater beauty; and yet, what could add to her loveliness! She seemed a queen just stepping from a canvas. Her eyes, her mouth, her nose, her hair, her smile, her voice – these were among the entrancing glories of Ethel Horton.

Hugh Stanton did not believe that he loved her – no, not that – he simply longed to know her better, to give her his confidence and to receive hers in return – a generous, platonic regard, actuated by, well – only respect, he told himself.

The day marked an epoch in Hugh Stanton’s life. The seeds of a mysterious ambition had been planted – what of the harvest?