“Certainly—certainly,” Mr. Van Norden cried, with the impatience of one battling against a stream. “But even granting that your father wrote to Mrs. Raritan, which I doubt—although, to be sure, he was capable of anything—don’t you see that you are in a very different position today than you would have been had you not—had you not—”
“You mean about the money?”
“Why, most assuredly I mean about the money,” the old gentleman cried, aroused to new indignation by the wantonness of the question.
At this Tristrem, with the blithe confidence of a lover, shook his head. “You don’t know Viola,” he answered. “Besides, I can work. Other men do—why shouldn’t I?”
“And be able to marry when you are ready for the grave. That’s nonsense. Unless the young lady is a simpleton, and her mother a fit subject for Bedlam, don’t tell them that you are going to work. And what would you work at, pray? No, no—that won’t do. You are as fitted to go into business as I am to open a bakeshop.”
“I might try stocks,” said Tristrem, bravely.
“So you might, if you had the St. Nicholas money to start with. And even then you would have to lose two fortunes before you could learn how to make one. No, if you have not six or seven millions, you will, one of these days—and the later the day the better for me—you will have a few hundred thousand. It is paltry enough in comparison to the property which you threw out of the window, but, paltry or not, it’s more than you deserve. Meanwhile, I will—There, don’t begin your nonsense again, sir. For the last three months you have done nothing but bother the soul out of me. Meanwhile, if you don’t accept what I care to give, and accept it, what’s more, with a devilish good grace, I’ll—I’ll disinherit you myself—begad I will. I’ll leave everything I have to the St. Nicholas. It’s a game that two can play at. You have set the fashion, and you can abide by it. And now I would be very much indebted if you would let me get some rest.”
Therewith the fierce old gentleman looked Tristrem in the eyes, and grasping him by the shoulder, he held him to him for a second’s space.
XI
When Tristrem reached Narragansett he had himself driven to an hotel, where he removed the incidental traces of travel before venturing to present himself at the villa. It was a glorious forenoon, and as he dressed, the tonic that was blown to him through the open window affected his spirits like wine. The breeze promised victory. He had been idle and dilatory, he told himself; but he was older, the present was his, and he felt the strength to make it wholly to his use. The past would be forgotten and put aside; no, but utterly, as Nature forgets—and in the future, what things might be!
“O Magali, ma bien aimée,
Fuyons tous deux, tous de—ux—”
The old song came back to him, and as he set out for the villa he hummed it gayly to himself. The villa was but the throw of a stone from the hotel, and in a moment he would be there. He was just a little bit nervous, and he walked rapidly. As he reached the gate his excitement increased. In his breast was a tightening sensation. And then at once he stopped short. On the door of the cottage hung a sign, bearing for legend, “To Let—Furnished.”
“But it is impossible,” he exclaimed, “they were to be here till October.”
He went up and rang the bell. The front windows were closed and barred. The porch on which he stood was chairless. He listened, and heard no sound. He tried the door—it was locked.
“But it is impossible,” he kept repeating. “H’m! ‘To let—furnished; for particulars apply to J. F. Brown, at the Casino.’ Most certainly, I will—most certainly,” and monologuing in the fashion that was peculiar to him, he went down the road again, mindful only of his own perplexity.
On reaching the Casino he found that he would have no difficulty in seeing the agent. Mr. Brown, the doorkeeper told him, was “right in there,” and as he gave this information he pointed to a cramped little office which stood to the left of the entrance.
“Is this Mr. Brown?” Tristrem began. “Mr. Brown, I am sorry to trouble you. Would you be good enough to tell me about Mrs. Raritan’s cottage. I—”
“For next summer? Nine hundred, payable in advance.”
“I didn’t mean about the price. I meant—I was told that Mrs. Raritan had taken it until October—”
“So she did. You can sublet for the balance of the season.”
“Thank you—yes—but Mrs. Raritan hasn’t gone away, has she?”
“She went weeks ago. There’s nothing the matter with the cottage, however. Drainage excellent.”
“I have no doubt. But can you tell me where Mrs. Raritan went to?”
“I haven’t the remotest idea. Lenox, perhaps. If you want to look at the cottage I’ll give you the key.”
“I should think—Really, I must apologize for troubling you. Didn’t Mrs. Raritan leave her address?”
“If she did, it wasn’t with me. When do you want the cottage for?”
Tristrem had not the courage to question more. He turned despondently from Mr. Brown, and passing on through the vestibule, reached the veranda that fronts the sea. In an angle a group of violinists were strumming an inanity of Strauss with perfect independence of one another. Beyond, on the narrow piazza, and on a division of the lawn that leaned to the road, were a number of small tables close-packed with girls in bright costumes and men in loose flannels and coats of diverting hues. At the open windows of the restaurant other groups were seated, dividing their attention between the food before them
