but though sometimes they were trying, they never involved such an amount of money as this.”
“But, Anne,” I went on, “you can’t mean that he’s going to give away all his money! How will he provide for you and his two children?”
“He says I’ve got to strike out for myself,” growled Morland, who had been listening moodily, as with his hands in his pockets he leaned against the terrace-rail.
“Well, he’s going to give nearly a million to the library,” said Anne despondently; “and that’s just about all he possesses. He says it’s right to practise philanthropy and give away one’s fortune while one’s alive.”
“Other good and great men have pursued that same plan,” said Beth Fordyce, with one of her exalted looks.
“Yes,” spoke up Barbara Van Wyck angrily; “but the other good and great men had many millions to start with. Father’s going to give away all he has, except just enough for us to live on in a very small way. It isn’t fair to us, and he has no right to do it, but he is simply immovable in the matter.”
“I feel as Anne does,” said Archer seriously. “If it were real, true philanthropy, it would be a noble deed; but I know Mr. Van Wyck, and he is always rushing suddenly and madly into some new project, which he as quickly abandons and regrets.”
“Ah, Connie,” said Anne, “if there were only a hope of his abandoning this! But when he regrets it, it will be too late.”
“Yes, the committee-men are coming to-night, for the final acceptance of the deed of gift, or whatever you call it,” said Barbara, in a tone of blended rage and despair.
I had thought Barbara Van Wyck was colorless, but in the intensity of her feelings her eyes flashed and the red rose to her pale cheeks until she looked like a veritable avenging angel. I hadn’t known she possessed so much energy, and I turned to her, saying hopefully, “Can’t you persuade your father, at least, to delay it?”
“No; I’ve tried every argument I know of, and so have Morland and Anne. If Anne can’t persuade him, nobody can.”
Though this praise was grudgingly given, it was unmistakably earnest; and it was clear to be seen that, though Anne and her step-children were not congenial, and not even friendly, they had common cause in this impending catastrophe.
And I could not blame them. Such ill-advised and misplaced generosity was absurd, and seemed to me to argue Mr. Van Wyck’s mind somewhat unbalanced. But as a comparative stranger, I didn’t like to offer suggestions, or even comment very emphatically.
Mrs. Stelton, however, felt no such restraint. “It’s outrageous!” she cried. “It’s contemptible! I never heard of such a performance! If I were you, Morland, I should have my father adjudged insane.”
“He is insane on that subject,” muttered Morland; “but what can I do about it? If you knew my father as I do, you’d know that, insane or not, he will have his own way.”
“Yes, he will,” said Anne, sighing, and looking so adorably pathetic that it didn’t seem possible any one could disappoint her as Van Wyck proposed to do.
“Won’t he listen to you, Anne?” I asked. “Doesn’t he care for your comfort and happiness?”
“No,” said Anne, and though she looked the picture of utter hopelessness, she showed also a cool reserve that warned me not to intrude too far upon her personal affairs.
“Of course he cares for Anne,” broke in Archer; “but I tell you, he’s out of his head! He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“He isn’t out of his head, Connie,” returned Anne gently, “and he does know what he’s doing. I’m going to try once more, before the committee comes, to make him change his mind, but I haven’t much hope. Come, people, we must go and dress for dinner.”
Archer threw discretion to the winds and gazed frankly at Anne, as he said, “How can he refuse you anything? No man could, I know!”
Anne, though her color rose a little, didn’t even glance at Archer, but, turning to me, walked by my side toward the house, chatting lightly on trivial subjects.
Later, as we gathered around the dinner-table, one could scarcely believe there was such an undercurrent of trouble among the Van Wycks. Our host was unusually bland and affable, Barbara was placid, and Morland was the debonair man of the world that society requires.
As to Anne, she was a marvel. In a dinner gown of pale yellow satin, which suited especially well her exquisite coloring, her wonderful hair coiled low, and her great eyes shining, she seemed animated by some unusual energy. She was roguish and dictatorial by turns. She was dignified one moment and softly pathetic the next. I couldn’t make her out. Either she had persuaded her husband to abandon his plan, or the matter was still undecided. At any rate, she could not have tried and failed, and still have shown this vivacity.
But I did not yet know my Anne. I sat next her, and dinner was not half over before she confided to me the news of her total failure.
“Not only did David refuse to listen to me,” she said, “but he forbade me to speak to him again on the subject; and he spoke to me in such a way and in such language that I can never forgive him.”
“Anne!” I exclaimed, for, though smiling, her smile was assumed for the others’ benefit; and her low tones, heard only by me, were full of bitterness and desperate grief.
“Anne,” I murmured involuntarily, “let me help you. What can I do?”
“Nothing,” she replied. “No one can help me.”
Perhaps it was the pathos of the situation, perhaps it was her marvellous beauty, enhanced by the dramatic moment, or perhaps it was inevitable, but I fell in love with Anne Van Wyck then and there. Or, rather, it was an awakening to the fact that I had always loved her, even when we were school time friends. Naturally, I had sufficient self-control not to disclose this secret even by a glance, but repeated in carefully modulated tones my desire and willingness to help her, if possible; and then, with an effort, I turned to talk to my neighbor on the other side. It proved to be Beth Fordyce, and her pale blue eyes lighted as she began to talk eagerly to me.
“Let us make a pact, Mr. Sturgis,” she said. “I, too, want to help Anne, and surely together we can do something.”
It was quite evident that she had overheard my words, and this annoyed me; and I answered that, with all the willingness in the world, I failed to see how Mrs. Van Wyck’s guests could do anything in this matter. She took the hint, and changed the subject, but almost immediately after Mrs. Stelton’s shrill voice was heard addressing the table at large.
“Well, I think you’re perfectly horrid, Mr. Van Wyck!” she exclaimed, shaking a beringed hand at him. “To give away all that lovely money that ought to belong to Anne and Barbie and Mr. Morland!” The last name was accompanied by a coquettish glance in Morland’s direction, but she went on, addressing her host: “Why, if a husband of mine did that, I’d—I’d shut him up on bread and water for a week!”
“Perhaps he would enjoy the rest, Mrs. Stelton,” said Van Wyck, gazing at her blandly. The man had a way of saying these things, which, though rude, was rather enjoyable to disinterested hearers.
Good-natured Mrs. Stelton laughed. “Oh, what waggery!” she cried. “But if it brought him to his senses, I shouldn’t mind. I’ve a notion to shut you up for a week, Mr. Van Wyck, and let you think this matter over!”
“Though I always enjoy your witty chat, my dear Mrs. Stelton, I must beg of you to drop this subject;” and this time Mr. Van Wyck’s air of finality brought us a respite from Mrs. Stelton’s silly observations. But Morland gave one parting shaft.
“If you do this thing, Dad,” he growled, “you’ll be mighty sorry!”
A silence fell. It was not so much what Morland said, but the quiet intensity of his tone, which