“I can’t imagine your son doing such a thing,” Jeremy retorted.
He fell silent at this mention of William’s son, for inevitably a son must have a mother, and he knew by now that William wanted to marry Candace. He was in the puzzling place of being the confidant of both his sister and his friend and of being unable to betray to either what the other told him. Each was equally unsure. William had said frankly, only a few days ago, “I don’t know if I am doing wisely in letting myself fall in love with Candy. I like her being your sister, I like the notion of being your brother-in-law, you son-of-a-gun! But she’s used to everything and I shall have a hard row to hoe. I shan’t want her running home to papa, either. When I marry I’ll be the boss. If I have to eat cornpone, she’ll have to eat it and like it.”
William had looked particularly handsome at the moment when he had so spoken. They had come back to their rooms from a stag dinner at their club, and he was wearing new evening clothes presented somehow by his mother. He had gone down to New York to have them fitted.
Jeremy had laughed. “I’ll guarantee you won’t eat cornpone twice yourself,” he had replied. William’s taste in food was fastidious and expensive, shaped, Jeremy always said, by his early years of feeding upon shark’s fins and bird’s-nest soup in Peking.
When Candace had last mused upon marriage in his presence he had warned her that William was hardhearted.
“He has to be the master,” he had told Candace.
“Has he been that with you?” she demanded.
“No, because he has not got all he wants from me yet.”
“What does he want?”
“He wants power more than anything,” Jeremy said thoughtfully.
“That’s because he feels inferior,” Candace said at once. “He is afraid, in his heart. That’s so pitiful, Jeremy. He doesn’t know that he needn’t be afraid of anything or anybody, because actually he’s wonderful. He doesn’t know how wonderful he is.”
Jeremy grinned in brotherly fashion. “Doubtless he’d like to have you tell him so. But I warn you, Candy! You’ll have to give up to him, once he’s got you.” Then, after an instant’s silence, “It makes my flesh crawl.”
This startled her. “Why?” she demanded.
He shook his head. “There’s no love in him anywhere, for anybody.”
“Maybe he’s had nobody to love,” she said simply.
Fragments of such conversations came back to him as he lay watching William dress.
“You’re going to be late,” William said, throwing him a sharp look. His light eyes under the dark and heavy brows had a strange metallic quality.
“My family is used to me. They’ll wait. Maybe we’ll do the waiting. I wish my father had bought an Apperson instead of a Maxwell.”
“The Maxwell is bigger,” William said.
Mr. Cameron had surprised them all by buying an automobile after Easter, and had chosen the Maxwell for touring. It ran by steam, an idea already old-fashioned, but Mr. Cameron was afraid of the new-fangled gasoline cars.
A gooselike honking rose through the open window, followed by a hissing of steam. Jeremy leaped out of bed, put his head out of the window and shouted to the chauffeur, “Cool her off, Jackson!” He disappeared into the bathroom, snatching towels as he went, soft silky towels embroidered in Ireland with a large and intricate initial.
Left alone, William thought of Candace while he finished his toilet. His fingernails perfected, his coat adjusted, his tie correct, his hair smooth, he examined himself in the mirror. The dark oval of his face did not displease him, although he did not like the faint resemblance he saw there to Henrietta.
He looked at his watch. It was later than he had thought and he wondered if the florist had delivered the pink rosebuds and blue forget-me-nots he had ordered for Candace. His thoughts played pleasantly about her for a moment. He had made up his mind to marry her, and thinking of it he felt a hitherto vague excitement suddenly focus itself. Why should he not ask her tonight? A warm, fine night, the romantic setting of an opulent house, his own sense of success to be crowned soon with summa cum laude—what else did he lack? He was not impulsive, emotion had waxed slowly to this moment, and he would complete this first era of his history by settling the matter of his marriage.
He was so silent and even solemn that Jeremy watched him thoughtfully while dressing. In the car they were compelled to silence, muffled in caps and dusters, while Jackson speeded at more than ten miles an hour across the darkening countryside. There was a rising wind, and when in Boston the door of the huge house opened to them, sustained by a footman, both young men went at once to a dressing room to wash the gray dust from their faces.
William was separated from Jeremy immediately by Martin, come to find him.
“William — I say!” Martin cried in a low voice of excitement. “My old Aunt Rosamond is here and she’s interested in the newspaper!” He had pulled William into a corner under the vast oaken darkness of the stairs.
“I can’t ask people for money,” William muttered.
“Don’t be silly,” Martin said. He took William by the elbow and pushed toward the ballroom, where an old lady in black lace and diamonds sat in a high-backed chair against some palms.
“Auntie, this is William Lane,” Martin said.
William bowed.
“So you’re the young man,” Aunt Rosamond said in a loud voice. “Come from China, my grandson tells me. It’s an awful country, from all I hear, tying up women’s feet and killing missionaries!”
“I hope that is over, Miss Rosvaine,” William said gracefully.
“Don’t talk about China, Auntie,” Martin said impatiently. “Talk about our newspaper!” Over the plumed white head, Martin’s eye met William’s and winked.
“Why should she care about a picture paper for people who can scarcely read?” William asked.
“Aunt Rosamond is a shrewd woman,” Martin replied. “Aren’t you, Auntie? Why, she tells her own investment men what to buy and what to sell.”
Aunt Rosamond giggled. “I’m old enough to be their mother,” she said in her harsh, loud voice. “I’m old enough to be anybody’s mother. I could be your great-grandmother, only I’m glad I’m not. Young men are so ribald these days. Is your newspaper goin’ to make money?”
“Piles of it,” William said. “That’s why we’re starting it.”
“I hope its not for any nonsense of doin’ good to the masses,” Aunt Rosamond said still more loudly.
“Only good to ourselves.” William said. “I want to be a millionaire before I am thirty.” He knew now that the only way to interest the rich was to suggest more riches.
“You come and see me,” Aunt Rosamond commanded with quick interest. She turned large black eyes to his face, and he saw with surprise that once she must have been beautiful.
“Thank you,” William said. He turned to Martin. “There is Candace. Do excuse me, Miss Rosvaine.” He bowed and left them because he did not want to seem eager before a rich old woman, and he saw in Martin’s face the unwilling admiration which he loved.
Walking across the carpeted floor he stopped to shake hands with Mrs. Rosvaine, a gray-haired, handsome woman in a silver gown, and then with Mr. Rosvaine, who looked like the portrait of his French great-grandfather hanging over the mantelpiece. Then he went to the Camerons and, pretending that he saw Candace last, he shook hands with the two elders before he turned to her. She wore a long filmy white dress and carried the roses and forget-me-nots. She looked as a beautiful girl should look and as he wanted his wife to look, and the deep and secret jealousy of his nature rolled up out of his heart. It was intolerable that anyone except himself should possess this precious creature with all her gifts and graces. He might look the world over and not find a woman so suited to him, who was at the same time attainable.