CHAPTER XXII.

AN UNWELCOME VISITOR.

It was not until spring that James Elwell and his bride returned to her father’s home. They had spent the fall and winter in Europe, part of the time rambling through Italy and southern Spain, and, of course, going up the valley of the Rhine, and skimming over the other places made famous by history or art. But it was society Fanny wanted. She was not greatly interested in the picturesque; so they spent the greater part of the time in the French capital, where they had entered into the American colony, and also into all the dissipations of that city.

Elwell had not intended to make such a long stay; but Morain had written him that he could not be of much service in the business during the winter, and that he had better have as long a play spell as possible, so that he would be able to work the harder for it when he returned. And inasmuch as Pat took it for granted that his son-in-law was to enter the firm on his return, and as he seemed perfectly willing to pay all the bills they incurred, heavy though they were, Elwell had been satisfied to enjoy himself after the French fashion, being wise enough to enjoy the sunshine while it lasted.

It had been a very pleasant winter for them both, and Fanny had been immensely pleased with the society of Paris. She imagined she had seen all there was to see; and as she numbered several titled reprobates among her acquaintances, she was convinced that she had been in very grand society indeed.

Very clever fellows those society adventurers are in all countries, and especially so in France. It was not at all hard for them to find out what this wealthy, frivolous American woman expected to find, and very little harder to furnish it for her; so Fanny gloried in the list of titled visitors at her weekly receptions, without the least idea that they were merely the scum of the elegant Parisian society that she fondly imagined herself a member of.

Of course, Elwell had a separate existence, after the French model, and knew as little about his wife’s pleasures as she did about his, and both were content.

It was a rainy, disagreeable day in March when they arrived at the city of sand and sawdust, and received the hearty greetings of old Pat Morain. Perhaps it was merely the effect of the disagreeable weather that caused Fanny to evince so much disgust at the appearance of everything. Certainly she was in a very discontented humor, and submitted to her father’s hearty caress with rather less than a daughter’s affection.

“There, father,” she cried pettishly, “don’t spoil my hat, for goodness’ sake!” And Pat retreated after one frosty kiss in rather a crestfallen manner.

“Ye’ve not changed much anyway,” he muttered to himself, looking at his daughter reproachfully; but he recovered his usual good nature directly, and shook hands with his son-in-law with hearty kindness.

“We have had a splendid time, father,” said Elwell gracefully, “and we thank you for it. You must not mind Fanny now. She is a little tired and out of spirits.”

“Mind it, me boy? Not a bit!” exclaimed Pat heartily. “You’re as welcome as a freshet on the river, and I’m mighty glad to think that you’ve enjoyed yourselves.”

“La, James!” cried Fanny shrilly--perhaps for the benefit of the bystanders--“who would have thought the old place could look so intensely disagreeable? Goodness knows, I’m glad I shall not be here long!”

Perhaps her husband had his own ideas as to the probable length of her stay; but he remained discreetly silent, and they got into the carriage that was waiting to take them home.

It took Fanny some days to recover her temper, if she could be said to have recovered it at all. But by the time her trunks arrived, she had recovered so far as to unpack and gloat over the numerous expensive dresses and other articles of feminine wear that she had brought from beloved Paris. But even in this her pleasure was marred by the thought that there was no one to exhibit them to, and absolutely no place in the neighborhood of this city of sand and sawdust that she could appropriately wear any of her exquisite toilets; so, perforce, she hung them away to wait as patiently as possible her hoped-for removal to a more enlightened place.

In the meantime, Elwell was very busy. He had been admitted to an equal partnership with his father-in-law, and was striving to master the many details of the business. Morain, like many other self-made men, had a peculiar method of keeping his accounts.

He understood them perfectly himself, but I doubt if any one else could. So Elwell, as a first move, was obliged to inventory the vast business that his partner had built up from nothing, and then proceed, with the aid of an experienced accountant, to systemize it.

Pat, instead of objecting to all this, allowed the younger man full swing, and even encouraged him in his innovations.

“Go it, young ’un,” he would say, grinning complacently. “Get a fair start, and then we will make ’em all stand from under.”

And really, Elwell proved himself a valuable acquisition to the firm; and his energy and tact, aided by Morain’s native shrewdness and knowledge of the business, soon began to make itself felt. Then, too, he was very popular with his fellow townsmen, and rapidly increasing in popularity. He was certainly a rising young man. His very audacity compelled success.

He had been a member of the firm of Morain & Elwell two or three months before there came a ripple over the placid stream of his contentment. This was caused by a letter from Mr. Peter Coleman, notifying him that he--Coleman--expected to reach the town of sand and sawdust shortly, with a view, possibly, of entering into the practice of his profession at that point, and he desired his friend and former client to give him as clear an idea as possible of the chances he might have for accumulating a remunerative practice.

This did not suit Elwell at all. It was well enough that he should make use of Mr. Peter Coleman, but he had no idea in the world of allowing Mr. Peter Coleman to use _him_.

“Of course he wants my help,” Elwell thought. “And if I give way to him, I shall be to a certain extent in his power.”

So he wrote a very short, terse letter, saying that there was not the slightest chance for a lawyer of Mr. Coleman’s abilities--he understood that word--in their little town, and strongly advised him not to come, intimating very plainly that if Mr. Coleman did come, he could expect neither advice nor assistance from him.

He felt a little uneasy for some time after this, for he dreaded an open rupture with Peter; but, as the time went on, and he heard no more about it, he concluded that Mr. Coleman had taken the advice given him without complaint, and he began to feel easier.

Coleman was the one link between him and his past life--the one being who had knowledge of things that he wanted buried out of sight forever; and I think that, if he did not actually wish any harm to befall his quondam friend, he would have received the news of his death with patient resignation.

Therefore, when he found that gentleman’s card on his desk one morning after he had concluded that he had heard the last of it all, he was not exactly pleased; and his greeting, when Mr. Coleman entered, was far from being as cordial as could be expected between such old friends.

But Peter did not appear to notice it, and only stayed a few moments.

“I’ll just go up and look over your town,” he said, “and this evening, if you are at liberty, we will talk things over.”

And from something in his tone and expression, Mr. Elwell concluded that he had better be at liberty.