David hastened on. “Yes — well, I saw the spot he meant, it’s very fine, but I found another nearer the river and it seems to me even better. There’s already a road to the railroad station, only about two miles, I walked it and it wasn’t bad. There’s a house on the spot already, it’s for sale, a mansion I ought to call it, twenty rooms, pillared porch, you know the sort of thing—”
“Come, come, catch your breath,” MacArd commanded.
Enderby took the soup plates away and the second man brought in a fish filet and steamed potatoes. Enderby put down fresh plates and served the second course.
“Now,” MacArd said, “go back and tell me exactly what you found.”
David, between bites, told him, dwelling upon the magnificence of the house set upon a leveled hill above the sweeping curve of the Hudson. He described the rooms, the plenteous lands about it, space enough to build a dozen dormitories and halls, the great oak trees and maples, the view across the river for a hundred miles.
“And who did you say owns the house?” MacArd asked.
He had eaten his fish in silence and now Enderby took the plates away and the second man brought in roast beef and vegetables in covered silver dishes.
“A Mrs. Dessard and her daughter,” David said. “Mrs. Dessard said she had met Mother at Mrs. Astor’s house.”
“Dessard — Dessard,” MacArd said, reflecting. “Where have I heard that name?” But he could not remember.
“The family was originally French, though of course now they are American,” David said. “Mr. Dessard failed in the panic, and then he died, and they have struggled along ever since. They have a small house in Paris but Olivia—”
MacArd frowned. “Olivia?”
“I should have said Miss Dessard,” David said hastily.
MacArd ate for a while without speaking and David devoted himself to his plate. He ate slowly and fastidiously and his father ate quickly, and disliked to be kept waiting.
“I suppose,” MacArd said at last, “I had better have Barton go and see the place.”
“Perhaps I should have told Dr. Barton about it first,” David said.
“Nonsense,” MacArd retorted. “He can come over tonight.”
Enderby took away the dinner plates, replaced them with service plates and then sent for the dessert. It was strawberry shortcake with whipped cream and he served it tenderly.
“Will you have coffee now or later, sir?” he asked MacArd.
“Later,” MacArd ordered. “Serve it in the library. I shall ask Dr. Barton to join us.”
“Yes, sir,” Enderby murmured.
David did not speak. They ate their dessert and then MacArd got up abruptly and David followed. They had not taken coffee in the drawing room since his mother died. The doors of the room were closed, and they passed it and went on into the library. The second man had already put the tray on the table and Enderby served the coffee. MacArd took up the telephone and in a few minutes had reached Dr. Barton.
“Come along over now if you can,” he suggested in so forcible a tone that it was a command.
Dr. Barton agreed, David supposed, for in a moment his father replied, “Good — we aren’t waiting, but there will be a cup of hot coffee for you.” He hung up.
“Did you say anything about the price of this place?” he inquired.
“No,” David said, “I didn’t think that was proper. You may not like the idea at all, or Dr. Barton may not.”
“Dessard,” MacArd murmured, “Dessard? I have heard it somewhere.”
They sipped their coffee in silence. Whatever MacArd was thinking he did not tell his son, and David sat relaxed, his mind roving over the day. He felt rested and weary together, weary in body and rested in spirit from the day of sunshine and air and widespread views. He had not been in the country since they left India, and this was different country indeed. He had a comforting sense of richness and plenty, of confidence and security. It was good to be American, he was glad to be born what he was. And then he thought of Olivia and her lovely troubled face. She had such a pretty mouth, though too small, and magnificent hair. Very likely such hair would come far below her waist if she allowed it to hang. His mother’s hair had been long like that, dark, too, but not coal black as Olivia’s was. They were not alike, except that both of them had an intrepid air, a natural daring. Olivia had no laughter, and laughter had been his mother’s golden gift. Olivia had not once laughed while he was there, though it was not to be expected perhaps, when they had talked of so somber a matter as selling the house she loved.
“Dr. Barton, sir,” Enderby said.
The handsome grey-haired minister came in, smiling and cordial. David sprang to his feet, but MacArd did not rise as they shook hands.
“Good of you to come on a moment’s notice, Barton.”
“I always come if I can when you send for me, Mr. MacArd.”
Enderby poured fresh coffee and MacArd turned his head.
“Leave us now, Enderby. Nobody need stay. David can let Dr. Barton out.”
“Yes, sir, good night sir.”
“Good night,” David said because his father did not answer, and the door closed.
“Well, dear boy,” Dr. Barton said cheerfully to David, “you are quite sunburned.”
David smiled agreeably and looked at his father and MacArd began to talk.
“David has found an interesting place—”
David watched Dr. Barton’s neatly bearded face. It was impossible to tell whether he was displeased. The light blue eyes did not flicker, the ministerial calm did not change.
“Splendid — splendid,” Dr. Barton murmured now and then.
He was pleased, David decided, perhaps because if the School opened earlier, so much earlier would his place be set in it. Then he despised himself for his readiness to suspect a man perhaps innocent and when his father finished he said somewhat impatiently,
“Father, shall I write Miss Dessard that we will come next week?”
“If you wish,” MacArd said, surprised. “I was going to have Barton write to the mother.”
“On the contrary,” the minister said gracefully, “it will make it more informal if we allow the young people to be in charge.”
David changed the subject abruptly. “There are the most awful tenements on the way. One expects them in India but not here.”
“Not at all,” MacArd said. “That is where men like Parkhurst make such a mistake.”
Dr. Barton did not speak. Parkhurst, the minister of a fashionable uptown Presbyterian church, had chosen to ruin himself by attempting to clean up New York. Other ministers observing his predicament had prudently refused to endorse his accusations.
MacArd went on, “It is impractical idealism to think that we can do away with the weaknesses in human nature which produce misery. Nothing is further from my purpose. I intend to bring to the MacArd School of Theology the finest and strongest young men we can find and fit them to go out and preach and practice a virile gospel that will attract men like themselves. I purpose to offer an opportunity to all alike, but I know perfectly well, whether this be done in our own country or in India or anywhere in the world, that only a few will respond.”
“Many will be called, but few chosen,” Dr. Barton murmured.
“Exactly,” MacArd said, “but those are the few who count. They are the men who change the world.”
David lifted his bead sharply, but his father’s eyes were not upon him.
A week later MacArd stood on the terrace of the Dessard house overlooking the river. He was pleased with his son’s imagination. The place was beautiful, the house was sound. He liked having a great mansion at the heart of his memorial to Leila. New buildings could be grouped about it, but the center would be here in these lofty rooms.