Читать книгу Son of a Hundred Kings - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 12

The Craven house, which was on Fife Avenue, had begun as a white brick structure with good lines and some pretensions to architectural style but had been undergoing enlargement from the moment Tanner Craven bought it. There had been so much adding of wings and running up of pillars, so much raising of roofs and building of tall chimneys, that it was now a sprawling clutter which did not fall into any known category, although its new owner spoke of it as Georgian. In one of the most extensive of the renovations the architect had found himself with a bit of unexpected space for which there did not seem to be any use. Finally he had given it a window and a door and had turned it into a room just large enough to hold a desk, a chair, and a wastebasket. It had become Mr. Craven’s office.

The head of the household was seated in the chair and at the desk when the butler appeared in the doorway with the customary “Yes, Mr. Craven, sir?”

“Twiller,” said his employer in a grumbling tone, handing him a list of names, “my secretary had to go and select today for a visit out of town. I’m calling a meeting of the board of directors of the Craven Carriage and Furniture Company for eleven o’clock tomorrow, and the notification must reach them without delay. Three will be here this afternoon and I’ll take care of them. The others must be spoken to on the telephone at once.”

“Yes, sir,” said the butler, taking the list.

Tanner Craven rose slowly to his feet. In spite of his quite spectacular success in business, he had not passed his middle thirties. He was rather liverish in appearance, with a neatly waxed mustache, and he was wearing thick glasses which pinched into the sides of a rather bulbous nose. The condition in which he kept his desk was an index to one phase, at least, of his character. Everything was tidy in the extreme, the papers in neat piles, the inkstand in the exact center, not a speck of dust; and in getting to his feet he had meticulously straightened the pen which had been misplaced by as much as an inch from its usual position. It was quite in line with this that his clothes should be modish, the coat beautifully tailored, the waistcoat of fawn cloth with braided pockets, the trousers showing no trace whatever of bagginess.

“Twiller,” he said, “I—I’m in need of a drink. Is there anything in the house?”

His manner had changed. He showed a disinclination to meet the butler’s eye and was, obviously, uncomfortable in the need to expose his weakness. He had always been somewhat in awe of his English servant and often regretted that the desire to stand in the social forefront (there was no other household in town which boasted a butler) had led him into this expensive and troublesome form of ostentation.

“There’s nothing in the house, sir.” The butler decided that the circumstances warranted his taking a bold course. “Some time ago, Mr. Craven. I pointed out the advisability of having a cellar. Permit me, sir, to say now that you should reconsider the emphatic negative with which you responded. I’ve been in a number of fine homes, sir, and I am compelled to say that it’s absurd——”

The eyeglasses of the head of the household had slipped down on the bridge of his nose. The glance he gave over them was an indication that his momentary hesitation had ended. He was angry.

“That matter was settled!” he snapped. Then he relented to the extent of making an explanation. “Mrs. Craven is a sincere leader in the temperance movement and she would be very much opposed. In any case, I can’t afford such a luxury. As you must be aware, Mrs. Craven gives a great deal to charity, especially at this time of year. She couldn’t be so generous if I didn’t exercise economy.” He nodded his head. “There are many things I can’t afford. People don’t understand what it means to give away so much.”

The butler’s face did not show any expression, but he was saying to himself, “The penny-pinching hog, he makes as much in a week as they give away in a year!”

There was a long pause. Tanner Craven straightened his bow tie. He nudged the pen with a careful forefinger into more perfect alignment.

“Are you sure there’s nothing in the house?” he asked.

“Well,” answered the butler, “there’s a finger or two of brandy left over from the Christmas cooking.” He shook his head. “I most definitely do not recommend it. It’s for cooking and not for drinking. You should know, sir, because you purchased it yourself.”

Tanner Craven gave a deep sigh of relief. “Bring it in,” he ordered.

In the renovating of the house a new entrance had been contrived at the cost of many interior changes. What had been the parlor had been converted into the hall, and the ceiling had been ripped out to give a commanding height. The stairway was at the back, branching out on each side from a central landing and curving up to a balcony which extended around three sides. The great expanse of wall space thus provided had been filled with some rather mediocre paintings, a gigantic moose head which had been bought at an auction (Tanner Craven had never had a gun in his hand), and one really fine appointment, a Mortlake tapestry.

Flicking a perfumed handkerchief across his mouth to remove the hint of alcohol from his breath, Mr. Craven crossed this imposing entrance and climbed the stairs to a room which was in reality no more than an alcove off the open space of the upper hall. With the installation of a sewing machine, a frame for yarn, and a small cabinet for spools of thread, it had been converted into a nook for the mistress of the house. It was designed for utility and not for charm, the intention being, clearly, that here needle and thread would be kept busy and little of the usual afternoon relaxation and gossip would be indulged in. The geraniums in the window stood up as straight and stiff as grenadiers. The window itself, instead of looking out over the gardens, was blocked off by one of the great round pillars of the front porch, leaving the suggestion that any idle staring at the outside would go unrewarded.

Mrs. Craven had seated herself in a chair beside the sewing machine in readiness for the summons when the first guests arrived. She was almost tiny, with small hands and feet, and she had a small and inconspicuous nose and, behind steel-rimmed glasses, eyes of a mild light blue.

She was dressed, not too happily, in a heliotrope gown of crépon (heliotrope was the favorite color of the season, but it tended to make her look dowdy) with a long Watteau pleat and very full sleeves. It had the usual high tucked collar.

“Well, Tanner, what is it?”

“I’ve called a meeting of the directors for eleven o’clock tomorrow,” he said. “My mind is made up, Effie. I’m going ahead with the plan to enlarge the plant and get into the manufacture of bicycles.”

She did not say, as most wives would under the circumstances, “I’m glad you’re going on with my plan,” nor remind him that she had been striving for several months to bring him to the point of a decision. The only remark she made, and in a quiet tone, was, “I think you are being very sensible, Tanner.”

“It will mean taking in the Homestead as well as the grounds. There’s no other way to get the space for expansion. The house can be converted into offices. The new wing will be built across the back yard, and the old offices will be part of it.”

“Do you think the directors will approve?”

Tanner Craven snorted. “I am the board of directors,” he declared. “What I want, the others want. When I say no, they can’t wait to back me up. Oh yes, they’ll approve. Some of them realize the chance there is for big profits in this bicycle craze. Some of them are already talking about a name for our machine. The Balfour Beauty. The Balfour Breeze. The Craven Comet.” He seemed to be talking to cover up what was behind the plan. “Do you care for any of them?”

His wife did not answer at once. She was gazing out of the window and turning the plain gold wedding ring on her finger. “Tanner,” she asked finally, “don’t you think it might be wiser to call the meeting later? Say in a week or so?”

“Why?”

“Because people are likely to think that your decision has something to do with—with what happened today.”

The mottled sallowness of Tanner Craven’s face turned to an angry red. “Let them think what they like! It’s the truth, Effie. When you told me our son got the worst of it, I didn’t say anything, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to rest until I had forced Langley and his family to leave town. I would have called the meeting for this afternoon if we hadn’t had this reception on our hands.”

His wife turned and gave him a steady look. There was a tinge of color in her cheeks, but her manner had not changed and she spoke as quietly as before.

“I want to be rid of them as much as you do, Tanner,” she said. “Perhaps more. That woman——” For a moment it seemed that her composure would desert her and that her real feelings would be allowed to show. She controlled herself, however, and went on speaking in the same low tone. “You must do what you think best. After all, it concerns you and your family, and you must decide for yourself. I’ve always felt some reluctance because it’s your own old home and you are naturally not anxious to put it to this use. But, Tanner, I always knew that in a matter like this, which promises to do so much good and make money for so many people, you would never let personal considerations stand in the way.” She paused. “You’ve looked into all the legal sides?”

He nodded. “We’re on safe ground,” he said. “Even if Father did assume that Langley would always be the head and stipulated that he was to live there, the Homestead belongs to the company. We can do what we like with it. Langley’s no longer connected with the company and has no right to be there.”

“There’s a still stronger reason,” said his wife. “Public welfare. We’ll give employment to at least twenty more men by doing this. If it comes to a fight, that is what will win for us.”

“I fully expect it will come to a fight.” Tanner Craven nodded with sudden gloom, realizing that contests of the kind he anticipated were certain to be costly. “Whenever Langley gets angry he rushes to a lawyer. He’s dribbling away his share of the estate fighting me. And it’s cost me a pretty penny too.” He nodded with a quick lifting of mood. “This time we have a clear case, and it’s the company will have to pay the costs.”

A few moments of silence followed. Then Mrs. Tanner began to speak with a deprecatory gesture of her hands. “I’m going to be very inconsistent. After saying it’s no concern of mine, I still can’t stop myself from asking—Tanner, what about all the furnishings?”

Craven sucked in his lips. “Something must be done, Effie. I don’t care what people will say. I won’t stand by any longer and let Langley have everything.” He had become excited and angry. “It was all very well for Father to want his collection kept intact, but I have some rights. And so has Lish. Do you realize, Effie, that there’s more really fine stuff in the Homestead than in all the rest of the town put together? I know people who would give their eyeteeth for some of the Georgian silver and the French hangings and the oriental rugs.” His cheeks had become a mottled red with the intensity of his feelings. “I would myself. I swear, Effie, there are some things I want so much that I would give almost everything else for them. There’s the Barbudo-Sanchez. I like it better than any painting I’ve ever laid eyes on. There’s those beautiful Waterford glass decanters. And the old drum table! When Father first got it I climbed under it one day and found that other boys had been scratching their initials on the inside. With dates. Some of them went back one hundred and fifty years! I scratched mine, too, though I knew Father would whale me if he ever found out. I think I crave that drum table more than anything else.”

His wife said in a low tone: “When you want things as much as that. Tanner, I believe you’re certain to get them. Especially when it’s your right.”

Husband and wife were completely at one on this point. They sat and stared at each other in silence for several moments, the husband’s eyes openly covetous, the wife’s suddenly very intent. Then Tanner Craven said decisively, “I’ll go to any lengths, Effie!” And she nodded her head in agreement. “I think you should.”

He glanced abruptly at his wrist. In spite of his fastidiousness about dress he wore muffetees during the winter and, attached to the one on the right, a small wrist watch. “They’ll be starting to arrive any minute now.”

His wife patted her hair anxiously. “How do I look, Tanner?”

He glanced at her briefly over the top of his glasses. “You look very well.”

It would have been evident to anyone else that she was disappointed at the casual tone in which he had spoken. Her eyes clouded. “I know I’m not beautiful,” she said, “like—like some other women I could mention. But I’ve been most particular about my hair and I thought I was looking rather well. I’m sure this is a becoming dress. You think so, don’t you, Tanner?”

He nodded absently. “Yes, it’s becoming.” Then he seemed to become conscious for the first time of what she was wearing. He frowned. “It looks expensive.”

“It is. It’s very expensive. I bought it in Toronto. But I feel I should look right today and I’m still within the limits I set myself for my clothes.” She gave a sudden turn to the conversation. “Have you seen Norman?”

“No!” He sat up angrily in his chair and pounded one knee with his fist. “Effie, he’s going to need a different kind of bringing up. This fight has opened my eyes. We were doing our best to make a mollycoddle out of the boy. From now on there’s to be no more of that. He’s not going to private school, for one thing. He’s going to public school with the rest of the boys.”

There was a sound of carriage wheels turning into the circular drive and biting sharply into the icy surface. “Here they come,” said Mrs. Craven, getting to her feet with a relieved air. “We’ll talk about this tonight, Tanner.”

“There’s nothing more to talk about. It’s settled. Norman joins the Y.M.C.A. as soon as he’s old enough. I may even hire a physical instructor to get him into good trim.” His eyes, staring at her over the top of his glasses, were filled with angry determination. “Someday Norman is going to fight Langley’s cub again. And he’s going to win! I’m not taking any chances.”

Mrs. Craven stared as though unwilling to believe in such a possibility. “Tanner, you don’t mean it! You mustn’t let yourself be so upset by this. Norman isn’t a strong boy. I’m afraid he’ll always be a little delicate.”

“I can’t see anything delicate about him. And another thing!” The head of the household leveled an accusing forefinger at her. “That monkey suit you bought him with its silly lace collar. I’m not going to have him wear it.”

“Why, Tanner, it’s a Fauntleroy suit. All little boys whose parents can afford it are wearing them.”

“It goes back to the McGregor store in the morning. As he hasn’t worn it, I can just turn it back and get credit for the full amount.”

“But—but he has worn it. He wore it to the party today.”

Tanner Craven looked apprehensive at once. “Did he get it damaged in the scrap?”

His wife dabbed at her eyes with a small handkerchief. “I must go down at once. Tanner, this is all very upsetting. Why must you keep on about it now? The Fauntleroy suit was slightly damaged. They broke a mucilage bottle, you know.”

A red flush spread over the face of the richest man in Balfour. “Mucilage! Then it’s badly damaged. We’ll have to see that it’s thoroughly sponged, if it takes all night to do it.”

The butler appeared at the head of the stairs. “Mr. and Mrs. Beeding are here.” His mind, as he bowed and spoke, was filled with acid disapproval. He was thinking: “Why are they skulking up here when they should be downstairs to receive their guests? There’s been a to-do, I can tell by her eyes. Has Madame Easy-Does-It been getting the worst of it for once? Pinch-and-Save is ruddy well worked up over something. And what friends they have! These Beedings!”