It was very easy to chat with Hegan; and yet underneath,
in the other’s mind, there lurked a vague feeling
of trepidation, as he realized that he was chatting
with a hundred millions of dollars. Montague
was new enough at the game to imagine that there ought
to be something strange, some atmosphere of awe and
mystery, about a man who was master of a dozen railroads
and of the politics of half a dozen States. He
was simple and very kindly in his manner, a plain
man, interested in plain things. There was about
him, as he talked, a trace of timidity, almost of
apology, which Montague noticed and wondered at.
It was only later, when he had time to think about
it, that he realized that Hegan had begun as a farmer’s
boy in Texas, a “poor white”; and could
it be that after all these years an instinct remained
in him, so that whenever he met a gentleman of the
old South he stood by with a little deference, seeming
to beg pardon for his hundred millions of dollars?
And yet there was the power of the man. Even
chatting about horses, you felt it; you felt that
there was a part of him which did not chat, but which
sat behind and watched. And strangest of all,
Montague found himself fancying that behind the face
that smiled was another face, that did not smile,
but that was grim and set. It was a strange face,
with its broad, sweeping eyebrows and its drooping
mouth; it haunted Montague and made him feel ill at
ease.
There came Laura Hegan, who greeted them in her stately
way; and Mrs. Hegan, bustling and vivacious, costumed
en grande dame. “Come and see me some time,”
said the man. “You won’t be apt to
meet me otherwise, for I don’t go about much.”
And so they took their departure; and Montague sat
alone and smoked and thought. The face still
stayed with him; and now suddenly, in a burst of light,
it came to him what it was: the face of a bird
of prey—of the great wild, lonely eagle!
You have seen it, perhaps, in a menagerie; sitting
high up, submitting patiently, biding its time.
But all the while the soul of the eagle is far away,
ranging the wide spaces, ready for the lightning swoop,
and the clutch with the cruel talons!
CHAPTER X
The next week was a busy one for the Montagues.
The Robbie Wallings had come to town and opened their
house, and the time drew near for the wonderful debutante
dance at which Alice was to be formally presented
to Society. And of course Alice must have a new
dress for the occasion, and it must be absolutely
the most beautiful dress ever known. In an idle
moment her cousin figured out that it was to cost
her about five dollars a minute to be entertained by
the Wallings!
What it would cost the Wallings, one scarcely dared
to think. Their ballroom would be turned into
a flower-garden; and there would be a supper for a
hundred guests, and still another supper after the
dance, and costly favours for every figure. The
purchasing of these latter had been entrusted to Oliver,
and Montague heard with dismay what they were to cost.
“Robbie couldn’t afford to do anything
second-rate,” was the younger brother’s
only reply to his exclamations.
