“Then he is a philosopher,” said Eden, with a smile; and her father, smiling too, turned again to interview the night.
Thereafter Mr. Usselex was a frequent guest, and presently Eden discovered that her annoyance had disappeared.
The people whom we admire at first sight are rarely capable of prolonging that admiration, and when circumstances bring us into contact with those that have seemed antipathetic, it not infrequently happens that the antipathy is lost. It was much this way with Eden. Little by little, through channels unperceived, the early distaste departed. Hitherto the world had held for her but one class of individuals, the people whom she liked. All others belonged to the landscape. But this guest of her father’s suggested a new category; he aroused her curiosity. He left the landscape; he became a blur on it, but a blur on which she strained her eyes. The antipathy departed, and she discovered herself taking pleasure in the speech of one who had originally affected her as a scarabaeus must affect the rose.
She discerned in him unsuspected dimensions. He was at home in recondite matters, and yet capable of shedding new light on threadbare themes. During discussions between him and her father at which she assisted she gained an insight into bimetallism, free trade even, and subjects of like import, the which hitherto she had regarded as abstract diseases created for the affliction of politicians and editorial hacks. He was at home too in larger issues, in the cunning of Ottoman tactics and the beat of drums at Kandahar. Concerning King Arthur he was vague, but he had the power to startle her with new perspectives, the possibilities of dynamics, the abolition of time, the sequestration and conquest of space. And as he spoke easily, fluently, in the ungesticulatory fashion of those that know whereof they speak, more than once she fell to wondering as to the cause of that early dislike. In such wise was Desdemona won.
It so happened that one evening she chanced to dine with a friend of hers, Mrs. Nicholas Manhattan by name, a lady whose sources of social information were large. Among other guests was Alphabet Jones, the novelist.
“Did you ever hear of Mr. Usselex?” Eden asked, over the sweets.
Mrs. Manhattan visibly drew on the invisible cap of thought. “Never heard of him,” she presently exclaimed, as one who should say, “and for me not to have heard argues him unknown.”
But Jones was there, and he slipped his oar in at once. “I know him,” he answered. “He is the son of a shoemaker. No end of money! Some years ago a cashier of his did the embezzlement act, but Usselex declined to prosecute.”
“Yes, that is like him,” said Eden.
“Ah! you know him, then?” and Jones looked at her. “Well,” he continued, “the cashier was sent up all the same. He had a wife, it appeared, and children. Usselex gave them enough to live on, and more too, I believe.”
“He must have done it very simply.”
“Why, you must know him well!” Jones exclaimed; and the conversation changed.
Meanwhile winter dragged itself along, and abruptly, as is usual with our winters, disappeared. In its stead came a spring that was languider than summer. Fifth Avenue was bright with smart bonnets and gowns of conservatory hues. During the winter months Mr. Menemon’s face had been distressed as the pavements, but now it was entirely serene.
It was evident to Eden that Mr. Usselex was not a philosopher alone, but a prophet as well. Concerning him her store of information had increased.
Toward the end of May her father spoke to her about him and about his success with the mine. He seemed pleased, yet nervous. “I saw him this afternoon,” he said; “he is to be here shortly. H’m! I am obliged to go to the club for a moment. Will you—would you mind seeing him in my absence?” For a moment he moved uneasily about and then left the room. Eden looked after him in wonder, and took up the Post. And as her eyes loitered over the columns the bell rang; her face flushed, and presently she was aware of Usselex’ presence.
“What is this my father tells me?” she asked, by way of greeting.
“What is it?” he echoed; he had found a chair and sat like Thor in the court of Utgarda.
“About the mine and all that.”
The man eyed her enquiringly for an instant and picked at his cuff. “Let me ask you a question,” he said: “Did your father say nothing except about the mine?”
“No, not that I remember, except to imply that you—that he—no, he said nothing worth repeating.”
“In finding you alone I supposed he had told you that—”
“That the mine—”
“That I love you.”
In the corner of the room was a great colonial clock. Through the silence that followed it ticked sleepily, as though yawning at the avowal. Mr. Usselex had bent forward; he watched the girl. She was occupied in tearing little slips from the paper which lay in her lap. She did not seem to have heard him at all.
“Miss Menemon,” he continued, “I express myself badly. Do not even take the trouble to say that you do not care for me. It is impossible that you should. You know nothing of me; you—”
“Oh, but I do though,” the girl exclaimed. “The other day, a month or two ago, I have forgotten, someone said your father was a shoemaker, and whatnot about you beside. Oh, I know a great deal—”
“Then, Miss Menemon, you must know the penalty which is paid for success.” He straightened himself, the awkwardness had left him, and he seemed taller than when he entered the room. “Yes,” he continued, “the door to success is very
