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Page 6
"Can't see why the governor's so keen against Colonel Preston, anyway.
He's lost his money and made a mess of his life, and I rather fancy he
drinks too much. But he's the sort of man you can't help being proud
of--bad clothes and vices and all--handsome and charming and
thorough-bred--and father must know it. His children love him--he can't
be such a brute as the governor says. Anyway, I don't want to marry the
Colonel--what's the use of rowing about the Colonel?" inquired Dick,
desperately.
The Bishop asked a question now: "How many children are there?"
"Only Madge and Eleanor. They're here with their cousins, the Vails,
summers. Two or three died between those two, I believe. Lucky, perhaps,
for the family has been awfully hard up. Lived on in their big old
place, in Maryland, with no money at all. I've an idea Madge's mother
wasn't so sorry to die--had a hard life of it with the fascinating
Colonel." The Bishop's hand dropped from the boy's shoulder, and shut
tightly. "But that has nothing to do with my marrying Madge," Dick went
on.
"No," said the Bishop, shortly.
"And you see," said Dick, slipping to another tangent, "it's not the
money I'm keenest about, though of course I want that too, but it's
father. You believe I think more of my father than of his money, don't
you? We've been good friends all my life, and he's such a crackerjack
old fellow. I'd hate to get along without him." Dick sighed, from his
boots up--almost six feet. "Couldn't you give him a dressing down,
Bishop? Make him see reason?" He looked anxiously up the three inches
that the Bishop towered above him.
At ten o'clock the next morning Richard Fielding, owner of the great
Fielding Foundries, strolled out on his wide piazza, which, luxurious in
deep wicker chairs and Japanese rugs and light, cool furniture, looked
under scarlet and white awnings, across long boxes of geraniums and
vines, out to the sparkling Atlantic. The Bishop, a friendly light
coming into his thoughtful eyes, took his cigar from his lips and
glanced up at his friend. Mr. Fielding kicked a hassock aside, moved a
table between them, and settled himself in another chair, and with the
scratch of a match, but without a word spoken, they entered into the
companionship which had been a life-long joy to both.
"Father and the Bishop are having a song and dance without words," Dick
was pleased sometimes to say, and felt that he hit it off. The breeze
carried the scent of the tobacco in intermittent waves of fragrance, and
on the air floated delicately that subtle message of peace, prosperity,
and leisure which is part of the mission of a good cigar. The
pleasantness of the wide, cool piazza, with its flowers and vines and
gay awnings; the charm of the summer morning, not yet dulled by wear and
tear of the day; the steady, deliberate dash of the waves on the beach
below; the play and shimmer of the big, quiet water, stretching out to
the edge of the world; all this filled their minds, rested their souls.
There was no need for words. The Bishop sighed comfortably as he pushed
his great shoulders back against the cool wicker of the chair and swung
one long leg across the other. Fielding, chin up and lips rounded to let
out a cloud of smoke, rested his hand, cigar between the fingers, on the
table, and gazed at him satisfied. This was the man, after Dick, dearest
to him in the world. Into which peaceful Eden stole at this point the
serpent, and, as is usual, in the shape of woman. Little Eleanor,
long-legged, slim, fresh as a flower in her crisp, faded pink dress,
came around the corner. In one hot hand she carried, by their heads, a
bunch of lilac and pink and white sweet peas. It cost her no trouble at
all, and about half a minute of time, to charge the atmosphere, so full
of sweet peace and rest, with a saturated solution of bitterness and
disquiet. Her presence alone was a bombshell, and with a sentence or two
in her clear, innocent voice, the fell deed was done. Fielding stopped
smoking, his cigar in mid-air, and stared with a scowl at the child; but
Eleanor, delighted to have found the Bishop, saw only him. A shower of
crushed blossoms fell over his knees.
"I ran away from Aunt Basha. I brought you a posy for 'Good-mornin','"
she said. The Bishop, collecting the plunder, expressed gratitude. "Dick
picked a whole lot for Madge, and then they went walkin' and forgot 'em.
Isn't Dick funny?" she went on.
Mr. Fielding looked as if Dick's drollness did not appeal to him, but
the Bishop laughed, and put his arm around her.
"Will you give me a kiss, too, for 'Good-morning,'" he said; and then,
"That's better than the flowers. You had better run back to Aunt Basha
now, Eleanor--she'll be frightened."
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