Chapter 7

On the following day, mother and son constituted themselves a committee of ways and means as to the best investment of the money in furtherance of Champney's interests. Her ambition was gratified in that she saw him anxious to take his place in the world of affairs, to "get on" and, as he said, make his mark early in the world of finance.

The fact that, during his college course, he had spent the five thousand received from the sale of the first quarry, plus the interest on the same without accounting for a penny of it, seemed to his mother perfectly legitimate; for she had sold the land and laid by the amount paid for it in order to put her son through college. Since he was twelve years old she had brought him up in the knowledge that it was to be his for that purpose. From the time he came, through her generosity, into possession of the property, she always replied to those who had the courage to criticise her course in placing so large a sum at the disposal of a youth:

"My son is a man. I realize I can suggest, but not dictate; moreover I have no desire to."

She drew the line there, and rarely had any one dared to expostulate further with her. When they ventured it, Aurora Googe turned upon them those dark eyes, in which at such times there burned a seemingly unquenchable light of self-feeding defiance, and gave them to understand, with a repelling dignity of manner that bordered hard on haughtiness, that what she and her son might or might not do was no one's concern but their own. This self-evident truth, when it struck home to her well-wishers, made her no friends. Nor did she regret this. She had dwelt, as it were, apart, since her marriage and early widowhood—her husband had died seven months before Champney was born—on the old Googe estate at The Gore. But she was a good neighbor, as Mrs. Caukins could testify; paid her taxes promptly, and minded her flocks, the source of her limited income, until wool-raising in New England became unprofitable. An opportunity was presented when her boy was ten years old to sell a portion of the barren sheep pastures for the first quarry. She counted herself fortunate in being able thus to provide for Champney's four college years.

In all the village, there were only three men, whom Aurora Googe named friend. These men, with the intimacy born of New England's community of interest, called her to her face by her Christian name; they were Octavius Buzzby, old Joel Quimber, and Colonel Caukins. There had been one other, Louis Champney, who during his lifetime promised to do much for her boy when he should have come of age; but as the promises were never committed to black and white, they were, after his death, as though they had never been.

"If only Aunt Meda would fork over some of hers!" Champney exclaimed with irritation. They were sitting on the porch after tea. "All I want is a seat in the Stock Exchange—and the chance to start in. I believe if I had the money Mr. Van Ostend would help me to that."

"You didn't say anything to him about your plans, did you?"

"Well, no; not exactly. But it isn't every fellow gets a chance to dine at such a man's table, and I thought the opportunity was too good to be wasted entirely. I let him know in a quiet way that I, like every other fellow, was looking for a job." Champney laughed aloud at the shocked look on his mother's face. He knew her independence of thought and action; it brooked no catering for favors.

"You see, mother, men have to do it, or go under. It's about one chance in ten thousand that a man gets what he wants, and it's downright criminal to throw away a good opportunity to get your foot on a round. Run the scaling ladder up or down, it doesn't much matter—there are hundreds of applicants for every round; and only one man can stand on each—and climb, as I mean to. You don't get this point of view up here, mother, but you will when you see the development of these great interests. Then it will be each for himself and the devil gets the hindermost. Shouldn't I take every legitimate means to forge ahead? You heard what the priest said about Mr. Van Ostend's mentioning me to him? Let me tell you such men don't waste one breath in mentioning anything that does not mean a big interest per cent, not one breath. They can't, literally, afford to; and I'm hoping, only hoping, you know—", he looked up at her from his favorite seat on the lowest step of the front porch with a keen hard expectancy in his eyes that belied his words, "—that what he said to Father Honore means something definite. Anyhow, we'll wait a while till we see how the syndicate takes hold of this quarry business before we decide on anything, won't we, mother?"

"I'm willing to wait as long as you like if you will only promise me one thing."

"What's that?" He rose and faced her; she saw that he was slightly on the defensive.

"That you will never, never, in any circumstances, apply to your Aunt Almeda for funds, no matter how much you may want them. I couldn't bear that!"

She spoke passionately in earnest, with such depth of feeling that she did not realize her son was not giving her the promise when he said abruptly, the somewhat hard blue eyes looking straight into hers:

"Mother, why are you so hard on Aunt Meda? She's a stingy old screw, I know, and led Uncle Louis round by the nose, so everybody says; but why are you so down on her?"

He was insistent, and his insistence was the one trait in his character which his mother had found hardest to deal with from his babyhood; from it, however, if it should develop happily into perseverance, she hoped the most. This trait he inherited from his father, Warren Googe, but in the latter it had deteriorated into obstinacy. She always feared for her self-control when she met it in her son, and just now she was under the influence of a powerful emotion that helped her to lose it.

"Because," she made answer, again passionately but the earnestness had given place to anger, "I am a woman and have borne from her what no woman bears and forgets, or forgives! Are you any the wiser now?" she demanded. "It is all that I shall tell you; so don't insist."

The two continued to look into each other's eyes, and something, it could hardly be called inimical, rather an aloofness from the tie of blood, was visible to each in the other's steadfast gaze. Aurora Googe shivered. Her eyes fell before the younger ones.

"Don't Champney! Don't let's get upon this subject again; I can't bear it."

"But, mother," he protested, "you mentioned it first."

"It was what you said about Almeda's furnishing you with money that started it. Don't say anything more about it; only promise me, won't you?"

She raised her eyes again to his, but this time in appeal. At forty-one Aurora Googe was still a very beautiful woman, and her appeal, made gently as if in apology for her former vehemence, rendered that beauty potent with her son's manhood.

"Let me think it over, mother, before I promise." He answered her as gently. "It's a hard thing to exact of a man, and I don't hold much with promises. What did Uncle Louis' amount to?"

The blood surged into his mother's face, and tears, rare ones, for she was not a weak woman neither was she a sentimental one, filled her eyes. Her son came up the steps and kissed her. They were seldom demonstrative to this extent save in his home-comings and leave-takings. He changed the subject abruptly.

"I'm going down to the village now. You know I have the serenade on my program, at eight. Afterwards I'll run down to The Greenbush for the mail and to see my old cronies. I haven't had a chance yet." He began to whistle for the puppy, but cut himself short, laughing. "I was going to take Rag, but he won't fit in with the serenade. Keep him tied up while I'm gone, please. Anything you want from the village, mother?"

"No, not to-night."

"Don't sit up for me; I may be late. Joel is long-winded and the Colonel is booming The Gore for all it is worth and more too; I want to hear the fun. Good night."