foolishness in the beginning may lead to wisdom in the end—There is a solution, but I haven’t quite—No, I don’t know what we’ll do—not yet! When I know, I’ll tell you.”
He hung up and turned to Kate. “Damned efficient idiot—”
She was not there. She had slipped away into the twilight as though she were made of mist. He strode from the room through the door where she had stood and went down a wide stone corridor into the far end of a passageway. The place was empty and his footsteps echoed as though he were alone in the castle. He looked about the vast spaces now sinking into the shadows of approaching night. By what outer door had she escaped and how could she have gone so far? He listened and imagined that he heard voices too distant to be recognized, a man’s voice and then a soft answering voice. He went to the far end of the hall and opened a small wooden door bound in iron. It gave onto a short passage and there another door stood open, this one wide and heavy, and facing a wall. He went out and found himself in a dim street of cobblestone, stretching in both directions. At one end he saw a winding staircase of huge blocks of wood leading to an upper floor in one of the towers. Near the foot of the staircase two figures were silhouetted against the light of an old iron lantern swaying from a beam, the thin bent figure of Wells and near him Kate, leaning against a gnarled oak tree, her arms folded across her breast.
He stood for a moment, seeing them like ghosts in the setting of history. This narrow cobbled street between low stone buildings—here, he supposed, the servants of kings had lived, the maids surrounding queens and carrying on their secret hidden life in the vicinity of the great. Wells could have lived in any age, a thousand years ago as today, and Kate, who so short a time ago in the library had seemed miraculously near and real—it took no reach of the imagination to see her long ago in this very spot. He felt suddenly chilled and alien and was about to return to the great hall when she saw him. She nodded to Wells, who left her and went up the stairs while she walked surefooted on the cobbles now growing damp with dew.
“Can I help you, Mr. Blayne?” she inquired as she drew near.
“No, thank you, Miss Wells,” he replied.
“Then we had better go in. There’s rain in the air.”
She led the way and he could only follow until in the great hall they hesitated, she not knowing what to say, he determined not to speak. She moved to light the tall candles on the table. Her face was lovely in the flaring candlelight, a girl’s face, very young and intent. … Twenty-four candles in all, he counted, and she was now on the fourth.
“And do you love Louise?” she asked, in a cool voice as controlled as the hand that held the long wax taper.
“That, Miss Wells, is not for me to say now, but what I shall say is that I am just beginning to know something about the difference between a merger and a marriage.”
“I don’t know what a merger is, at all,” Kate said honestly.
Thirteen more candles to go. … She was lighting them slowly, taking pains to see that the wicks were cleaned of ash and that the flames burned bright.
“A merger,” he said absently, his eyes upon the slender white hand that tended the candle, “a merger is the union of two firms. It has nothing to do with marriage, except in such cases as my own, where it happens there is a son in one firm and a daughter in the other. My father has the biggest steel company in—oh, hell, never mind. Her father has the biggest coal company. I told you all this, didn’t I? And coal and steel—they go together like—love and marriage, as the song goes. Now you know what a merger is. Understand it?”
She lit the eighteenth candle. “Yes.”
He stood up and leaned both hands on the table. “I’m glad you understand, for suddenly I don’t. None of it makes any sense to me at this moment. Does it to you,
He hung up and turned to Kate. “Damned efficient idiot—”
She was not there. She had slipped away into the twilight as though she were made of mist. He strode from the room through the door where she had stood and went down a wide stone corridor into the far end of a passageway. The place was empty and his footsteps echoed as though he were alone in the castle. He looked about the vast spaces now sinking into the shadows of approaching night. By what outer door had she escaped and how could she have gone so far? He listened and imagined that he heard voices too distant to be recognized, a man’s voice and then a soft answering voice. He went to the far end of the hall and opened a small wooden door bound in iron. It gave onto a short passage and there another door stood open, this one wide and heavy, and facing a wall. He went out and found himself in a dim street of cobblestone, stretching in both directions. At one end he saw a winding staircase of huge blocks of wood leading to an upper floor in one of the towers. Near the foot of the staircase two figures were silhouetted against the light of an old iron lantern swaying from a beam, the thin bent figure of Wells and near him Kate, leaning against a gnarled oak tree, her arms folded across her breast.
He stood for a moment, seeing them like ghosts in the setting of history. This narrow cobbled street between low stone buildings—here, he supposed, the servants of kings had lived, the maids surrounding queens and carrying on their secret hidden life in the vicinity of the great. Wells could have lived in any age, a thousand years ago as today, and Kate, who so short a time ago in the library had seemed miraculously near and real—it took no reach of the imagination to see her long ago in this very spot. He felt suddenly chilled and alien and was about to return to the great hall when she saw him. She nodded to Wells, who left her and went up the stairs while she walked surefooted on the cobbles now growing damp with dew.
“Can I help you, Mr. Blayne?” she inquired as she drew near.
“No, thank you, Miss Wells,” he replied.
“Then we had better go in. There’s rain in the air.”
She led the way and he could only follow until in the great hall they hesitated, she not knowing what to say, he determined not to speak. She moved to light the tall candles on the table. Her face was lovely in the flaring candlelight, a girl’s face, very young and intent. … Twenty-four candles in all, he counted, and she was now on the fourth.
“And do you love Louise?” she asked, in a cool voice as controlled as the hand that held the long wax taper.
“That, Miss Wells, is not for me to say now, but what I shall say is that I am just beginning to know something about the difference between a merger and a marriage.”
“I don’t know what a merger is, at all,” Kate said honestly.
Thirteen more candles to go. … She was lighting them slowly, taking pains to see that the wicks were cleaned of ash and that the flames burned bright.
“A merger,” he said absently, his eyes upon the slender white hand that tended the candle, “a merger is the union of two firms. It has nothing to do with marriage, except in such cases as my own, where it happens there is a son in one firm and a daughter in the other. My father has the biggest steel company in—oh, hell, never mind. Her father has the biggest coal company. I told you all this, didn’t I? And coal and steel—they go together like—love and marriage, as the song goes. Now you know what a merger is. Understand it?”
She lit the eighteenth candle. “Yes.”
He stood up and leaned both hands on the table. “I’m glad you understand, for suddenly I don’t. None of it makes any sense to me at this moment. Does it to you,
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