"I suppose it is useless to ask you to wait until Helen is twenty-one,"

he said, peering at me over his gla.s.ses.

"Quite," I answered firmly, for I began to feel it was time we spoke for ourselves and ceased to play children to please the family.

"I suppose you know that in this state a minor has to have the consent of her parents before she can be married?" he said, still looking steadily at me.

"Yes." I spoke rather impudently. "Helen and I looked up the law for ourselves. But there is another state not far away where eighteen is the legal age."

"You will do me a favour if you do not speak in that tone." It was not often that he spoke sharply.

"I beg your pardon," I apologized. "Helen and I intend to get married--that's all I meant to imply."

"Ted"--he relaxed just a little--"when I gave my consent to your engagement, I did so with the understanding that you two children loved each other and intended to marry. I am sorry, more sorry than I can tell you or than either of you would understand, that it has happened when Helen is so young. Only last year she was at school," and he looked out the window at the dusty street. "I want my daughter to be happy--" he paused. "There isn't a great deal of happiness to be found in this world, Ted. I want her to have her share--that's all." Once more he paused. "As for the date of the wedding, you must settle that with Helen's mother. Your father expects you in August?"

"Yes, sir," I replied, getting to my feet.

"I suppose that means it will have to be the end of July. Ted, you are asking a great deal of me--she's all the happiness I have." He looked around at his office. "I've never refused her anything she's asked--if I could give it her. I shan't now," and he held out his hand. I could think, of nothing to say, except silly-sounding words, so I said nothing, but took his hand.

"I think I can trust her to you, Ted--that's all I'll say about you, and I could hardly say more," he added. "I've got to clear up the morning's mail. And Ted, when you come out to dinner tonight--be as nice as you know how to Helen's mother. Tell Helen, too. It will pay."

"Mr. Claybourne--," I stammered, turning at the door.

"Don't try to say it, Ted," he called cheerily from his desk. "I guess I know. I love Helen, too." He pretended to write as if a matter of urgency were before him. I watched him for a moment more, cursing words for their feebleness, and went.

I called Helen up from the nearest telephone pay-station to give her a summary of her father's talk, but again I had been forestalled. He had talked to his daughter direct from his desk, as soon as I left. A few words only, but he had told her it was "all right." Meanwhile, it seemed, "mother" had issued an ultimatum that I was not to be admitted to the house again. It would be necessary for me to come in through the kitchen, Helen giggled over the telephone, or else to climb over the railing of the side porch. There was no use in my coming at all until her father returned at dinner-time. We agreed to make the best of out temporary separation.

I went next to Knowlton's office.

"Have you set the day?" he grinned, as I entered.

"Don't be an a.s.s, Knowlton," I answered, taking the visitor's chair.

"How's 'mother'?" he went on, ignoring my admonition. "Did she raise the roof?"

I laughed, for Knowlton had an annoyingly successful way of disarming one's dignity by hitting upon the exact truth. We went into a minute examination of the company's affairs, after this preliminary. Or rather Knowlton explained while I listened. The stock was held by a small group of men, of whom my father was the princ.i.p.al and the majority stockholder. Selling the company was, therefore, a simple matter of the transfer of the stock to a new owner. We had neither bonds nor mortgages, and we had paid off our indebtedness to the bank in March.

Our business was showing a healthy growth, and the ultimate value of our chemical patents would be considerable, if additional capital were put up for development work. As Knowlton said: "At any price within reason, this outfit is a d.a.m.ned good buy."

Until further letters and papers arrived, we had, of course, no knowledge of who the new owners were to be.

"Well," remarked Knowlton, at the end of his summary, "our little job in Deep Harbor is nearly over. Remember how you hated to come out here? It isn't such a bad place, is it? Old Helene, Prospero's gymnastic friend, wasn't so far wrong when she said 'Home is where you find it,' eh, Ted?"

I nodded in agreement. I couldn't talk about things I felt the way he could. Once more he grinned. "Now, Ted. What did you cable your father yesterday?"

Briefly I told him of my talk with Mr. Claybourne and the latter's suggestion that, as Knowlton had no interest in the business, he might leave us. Knowlton's face clouded when I had ended my story.

"So Claybourne told you I might play the skunk and leave you flat, eh?"

I tried to soften this epitome of Mr. Claybourne's remarks. After a second or two, Knowlton's grin returned.

"It would be plain murder to leave you in Deep Harbor with a factory on your hands. No, sir, you can always count on six months' notice from me, if you need it. And under the circ.u.mstances I won't touch a cent of your father's bonus. He's sending it under false pretences."

I had much argument to convince Knowlton that we were not doubting his good faith. It was simple justice, I explained. The company owed everything to his ability and good service, from the time he discovered that Norwood had sold us a rather prettily plated gold brick to the success which out of all difficulties had since been achieved. We ended with a compromise: he would himself send my father a complete statement of the matter from his point of view, and if, after that, my father thought the bonus earned, then it would be accepted.

"I'm not going to push good money out into the yard, Ted," he concluded.

"All I want to know first is whether or not it's mine. You meant well, but you may have given your father the idea I'm trying to hold you people up."

That evening Mr. Claybourne himself opened the door for me when I rang.

"Come right in, Ted," he greeted me cheerfully. "Don't worry if mother doesn't act very pleased to see you. We'll bring her around in time."

Once inside, I found Mrs. Claybourne sitting red-eyed upon the sofa, flanked by Miss Hershey on one side and Helen on the other. The air was slightly electrical; I walked gingerly for fear of touching something off. From Helen's eyes mischief gleamed as she sent a welcoming smile in my direction.

At dinner the vext subject was not mentioned. Mrs. Claybourne steadily refused food; otherwise we all tried to act as if nothing unusual was toward. Helen sat next me, and her foot played a silent and sympathetic tattoo upon mine all through the meal. Mr. Claybourne read the evening paper, or pretended to. Miss Hershey gave an occasional sigh to indicate that her sympathies were entirely with Mrs. Claybourne. Helen and I ate with splendid appet.i.tes.

After dinner we seated ourselves in a solemn circle in the drawing room--a disposition of the household that revealed a careful plan on Mr.

Claybourne's part.

"Now, mother," he began to his wife when we were all seated, "these two young people want to get married."

At this simple statement of fact Mrs. Claybourne collapsed. Through many sobs Miss Hershey at last inserted a bottle of smelling salts. Mr.

Claybourne waited patiently for the first paroxysm to pa.s.s. I held Helen's hand.

"It will have to be some time in July," Mr. Claybourne resumed, "as Ted's father has ordered him to sail for England on August first."

"I--I--didn't expect you to turn against me too," sobbed and choked Mrs.

Claybourne, "and stand by while our only da--daughter was ca--carried off to--to England."

Mr. Claybourne returned gently and patiently to the attack. "Now, mother, we went all through this before when they were engaged. It is natural for two engaged people to get married."

"N--not when one of them is a ch--child," she wailed. "I'll never consent--never--not until Helen is twenty-one."

There was a lot more of this, but it was repet.i.tion of the same statements and objections. By some mysterious process of feminine tact, Helen inserted the date of July 30th into the discussion, and to my intense and overwhelming amazement, Mrs. Claybourne suddenly sat up and announced that there wasn't a moment to lose. True, this was at the end of about two hours' futile struggle; nevertheless it was the unexpectedness of the surrender that left me speechless. Mrs. Claybourne at once launched into the subject next nearest her heart--clothes; her own imaginary ailments were number one.

Helen entered the debate in earnest at this point, and once more I was surprised, this time at Helen's powers of argument.

In the middle of this new controversy, which was after all but guerilla fighting now the main action had been won, Mr. Claybourne arose and announced his departure for the club. As I seemed to have no share in what was going on, I likewise deemed it prudent to go.

"Poor Ted," whispered Helen to me at the door, "I feel awfully sorry for you. You've been a lamb."

With this enigmatic compliment and a kiss, I was thrust into the night at Mr. Claybourne's side.

"Thank you," I said lamely, as we parted at the corner of State Street.

"Good-night, Ted. It's been quite a day's work."

Mine wasn't over. I sat up half the night writing a letter to my father.

That was hard, too.